Title: Nicholas Nickleby
Author: Dickens, Charles
Language: English
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THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY,

containing a Faithful Account of the Fortunes, Misfortunes,

Uprisings, Downfallings and Complete Career of the Nickelby Family


by Charles Dickens



AUTHOR’S PREFACE


This story was begun, within a few months after the publication of
the completed “Pickwick Papers.” There were, then, a good many cheap
Yorkshire schools in existence. There are very few now.

Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard
of it by the State as a means of forming good or bad citizens, and
miserable or happy men, private schools long afforded a notable example.
Although any man who had proved his unfitness for any other occupation
in life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a
school anywhere; although preparation for the functions he undertook,
was required in the surgeon who assisted to bring a boy into the world,
or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out of it; in the chemist,
the attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; the whole
round of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although
schoolmasters, as a race, were the blockheads and impostors who might
naturally be expected to spring from such a state of things, and to
flourish in it; these Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most
rotten round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, indifference,
or imbecility of parents, and the helplessness of children; ignorant,
sordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have entrusted
the board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they formed the worthy
cornerstone of a structure, which, for absurdity and a magnificent
high-minded LAISSEZ-ALLER neglect, has rarely been exceeded in the
world.

We hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified
medical practitioner, who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to
heal it. But, what of the hundreds of thousands of minds that have been
deformed for ever by the incapable pettifoggers who have pretended to
form them!

I make mention of the race, as of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, in the
past tense. Though it has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling
daily. A long day’s work remains to be done about us in the way of
education, Heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities towards
the attainment of a good one, have been furnished, of late years.

I cannot call to mind, now, how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools
when I was a not very robust child, sitting in bye-places near Rochester
Castle, with a head full of PARTRIDGE, STRAP, TOM PIPES, and SANCHO
PANZA; but I know that my first impressions of them were picked up
at that time, and that they were somehow or other connected with a
suppurated abscess that some boy had come home with, in consequence of
his Yorkshire guide, philosopher, and friend, having ripped it open with
an inky pen-knife. The impression made upon me, however made, never left
me. I was always curious about Yorkshire schools--fell, long afterwards
and at sundry times, into the way of hearing more about them--at last,
having an audience, resolved to write about them.

With that intent I went down into Yorkshire before I began this book, in
very severe winter time which is pretty faithfully described herein.
As I wanted to see a schoolmaster or two, and was forewarned that those
gentlemen might, in their modesty, be shy of receiving a visit from the
author of the “Pickwick Papers,” I consulted with a professional friend
who had a Yorkshire connexion, and with whom I concerted a pious fraud.
He gave me some letters of introduction, in the name, I think, of my
travelling companion; they bore reference to a supposititious little boy
who had been left with a widowed mother who didn’t know what to do
with him; the poor lady had thought, as a means of thawing the tardy
compassion of her relations in his behalf, of sending him to a Yorkshire
school; I was the poor lady’s friend, travelling that way; and if
the recipient of the letter could inform me of a school in his
neighbourhood, the writer would be very much obliged.

I went to several places in that part of the country where I understood
the schools to be most plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to
deliver a letter until I came to a certain town which shall be nameless.
The person to whom it was addressed, was not at home; but he came down
at night, through the snow, to the inn where I was staying. It was after
dinner; and he needed little persuasion to sit down by the fire in a
warm corner, and take his share of the wine that was on the table.

I am afraid he is dead now. I recollect he was a jovial, ruddy,
broad-faced man; that we got acquainted directly; and that we talked
on all kinds of subjects, except the school, which he showed a great
anxiety to avoid. “Was there any large school near?” I asked him, in
reference to the letter. “Oh yes,” he said; “there was a pratty big
‘un.” “Was it a good one?” I asked. “Ey!” he said, “it was as good as
anoother; that was a’ a matther of opinion”; and fell to looking at the
fire, staring round the room, and whistling a little. On my reverting to
some other topic that we had been discussing, he recovered immediately;
but, though I tried him again and again, I never approached the question
of the school, even if he were in the middle of a laugh, without
observing that his countenance fell, and that he became uncomfortable.
At last, when we had passed a couple of hours or so, very agreeably, he
suddenly took up his hat, and leaning over the table and looking me
full in the face, said, in a low voice: “Weel, Misther, we’ve been vara
pleasant toogather, and ar’ll spak’ my moind tiv’ee. Dinnot let the
weedur send her lattle boy to yan o’ our school-measthers, while there’s
a harse to hoold in a’ Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in. Ar
wouldn’t mak’ ill words amang my neeburs, and ar speak tiv’ee quiet
loike. But I’m dom’d if ar can gang to bed and not tellee, for weedur’s
sak’, to keep the lattle boy from a’ sike scoondrels while there’s a
harse to hoold in a’ Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in!” Repeating
these words with great heartiness, and with a solemnity on his jolly
face that made it look twice as large as before, he shook hands and went
away. I never saw him afterwards, but I sometimes imagine that I descry
a faint reflection of him in John Browdie.

In reference to these gentry, I may here quote a few words from the
original preface to this book.

“It has afforded the Author great amusement and satisfaction, during the
progress of this work, to learn, from country friends and from a variety
of ludicrous statements concerning himself in provincial newspapers,
that more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster lays claim to being the
original of Mr. Squeers. One worthy, he has reason to believe, has
actually consulted authorities learned in the law, as to his having good
grounds on which to rest an action for libel; another, has meditated a
journey to London, for the express purpose of committing an assault and
battery on his traducer; a third, perfectly remembers being waited on,
last January twelve-month, by two gentlemen, one of whom held him
in conversation while the other took his likeness; and, although Mr.
Squeers has but one eye, and he has two, and the published sketch does
not resemble him (whoever he may be) in any other respect, still he
and all his friends and neighbours know at once for whom it is meant,
because--the character is SO like him.

“While the Author cannot but feel the full force of the compliment thus
conveyed to him, he ventures to suggest that these contentions may arise
from the fact, that Mr. Squeers is the representative of a class, and
not of an individual. Where imposture, ignorance, and brutal cupidity,
are the stock in trade of a small body of men, and one is described
by these characteristics, all his fellows will recognise something
belonging to themselves, and each will have a misgiving that the
portrait is his own.

“The Author’s object in calling public attention to the system would be
very imperfectly fulfilled, if he did not state now, in his own person,
emphatically and earnestly, that Mr. Squeers and his school are faint
and feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued and kept
down lest they should be deemed impossible. That there are, upon record,
trials at law in which damages have been sought as a poor recompense
for lasting agonies and disfigurements inflicted upon children by the
treatment of the master in these places, involving such offensive and
foul details of neglect, cruelty, and disease, as no writer of fiction
would have the boldness to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged
upon these Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond
the reach of suspicion or distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the
perpetration of which upon neglected or repudiated children, these
schools have been the main instruments, very far exceeding any that
appear in these pages.”

This comprises all I need say on the subject; except that if I had seen
occasion, I had resolved to reprint a few of these details of legal
proceedings, from certain old newspapers.

One other quotation from the same Preface may serve to introduce a fact
that my readers may think curious.

“To turn to a more pleasant subject, it may be right to say, that
there ARE two characters in this book which are drawn from life. It is
remarkable that what we call the world, which is so very credulous in
what professes to be true, is most incredulous in what professes to be
imaginary; and that, while, every day in real life, it will allow in one
man no blemishes, and in another no virtues, it will seldom admit a
very strongly-marked character, either good or bad, in a fictitious
narrative, to be within the limits of probability. But those who take an
interest in this tale, will be glad to learn that the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE
live; that their liberal charity, their singleness of heart, their
noble nature, and their unbounded benevolence, are no creations of the
Author’s brain; but are prompting every day (and oftenest by stealth)
some munificent and generous deed in that town of which they are the
pride and honour.”

If I were to attempt to sum up the thousands of letters, from all sorts
of people in all sorts of latitudes and climates, which this unlucky
paragraph brought down upon me, I should get into an arithmetical
difficulty from which I could not easily extricate myself. Suffice it
to say, that I believe the applications for loans, gifts, and offices
of profit that I have been requested to forward to the originals of the
BROTHERS CHEERYBLE (with whom I never interchanged any communication
in my life) would have exhausted the combined patronage of all the Lord
Chancellors since the accession of the House of Brunswick, and would
have broken the Rest of the Bank of England.

The Brothers are now dead.

There is only one other point, on which I would desire to offer a
remark. If Nicholas be not always found to be blameless or agreeable, he
is not always intended to appear so. He is a young man of an impetuous
temper and of little or no experience; and I saw no reason why such a
hero should be lifted out of nature.



CHAPTER 1

Introduces all the Rest


There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one
Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head
rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough
or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an
old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the
same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money,
sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.

Some ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the life-matrimonial, may
perhaps suggest, in this place, that the good couple would be better
likened to two principals in a sparring match, who, when fortune is low
and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure
of the buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold
good; for, as the adventurous pair of the Fives’ Court will afterwards
send round a hat, and trust to the bounty of the lookers-on for the
means of regaling themselves, so Mr. Godfrey Nickleby and HIS partner,
the honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying
in no inconsiderable degree upon chance for the improvement of their
means. Mr. Nickleby’s income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated
between sixty and eighty pounds PER ANNUM.

There are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and even in London
(where Mr. Nickleby dwelt in those days) but few complaints prevail, of
the population being scanty. It is extraordinary how long a man may look
among the crowd without discovering the face of a friend, but it is no
less true. Mr. Nickleby looked, and looked, till his eyes became sore
as his heart, but no friend appeared; and when, growing tired of the
search, he turned his eyes homeward, he saw very little there to relieve
his weary vision. A painter who has gazed too long upon some glaring
colour, refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and more
sombre tint; but everything that met Mr. Nickleby’s gaze wore so black
and gloomy a hue, that he would have been beyond description refreshed
by the very reverse of the contrast.

At length, after five years, when Mrs. Nickleby had presented her husband
with a couple of sons, and that embarrassed gentleman, impressed with
the necessity of making some provision for his family, was seriously
revolving in his mind a little commercial speculation of insuring his
life next quarter-day, and then falling from the top of the Monument by
accident, there came, one morning, by the general post, a black-bordered
letter to inform him how his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and
had left him the bulk of his little property, amounting in all to five
thousand pounds sterling.

As the deceased had taken no further notice of his nephew in his
lifetime, than sending to his eldest boy (who had been christened after
him, on desperate speculation) a silver spoon in a morocco case, which,
as he had not too much to eat with it, seemed a kind of satire upon his
having been born without that useful article of plate in his mouth,
Mr. Godfrey Nickleby could, at first, scarcely believe the tidings thus
conveyed to him. On examination, however, they turned out to be strictly
correct. The amiable old gentleman, it seemed, had intended to leave
the whole to the Royal Humane Society, and had indeed executed a will to
that effect; but the Institution, having been unfortunate enough, a few
months before, to save the life of a poor relation to whom he paid a
weekly allowance of three shillings and sixpence, he had, in a fit of
very natural exasperation, revoked the bequest in a codicil, and left it
all to Mr. Godfrey Nickleby; with a special mention of his indignation,
not only against the society for saving the poor relation’s life, but
against the poor relation also, for allowing himself to be saved.

With a portion of this property Mr. Godfrey Nickleby purchased a small
farm, near Dawlish in Devonshire, whither he retired with his wife and
two children, to live upon the best interest he could get for the rest
of his money, and the little produce he could raise from his land. The
two prospered so well together that, when he died, some fifteen years
after this period, and some five after his wife, he was enabled to
leave, to his eldest son, Ralph, three thousand pounds in cash, and
to his youngest son, Nicholas, one thousand and the farm, which was as
small a landed estate as one would desire to see.

These two brothers had been brought up together in a school at Exeter;
and, being accustomed to go home once a week, had often heard, from
their mother’s lips, long accounts of their father’s sufferings in his
days of poverty, and of their deceased uncle’s importance in his days
of affluence: which recitals produced a very different impression on
the two: for, while the younger, who was of a timid and retiring
disposition, gleaned from thence nothing but forewarnings to shun the
great world and attach himself to the quiet routine of a country life,
Ralph, the elder, deduced from the often-repeated tale the two great
morals that riches are the only true source of happiness and power, and
that it is lawful and just to compass their acquisition by all means
short of felony. ‘And,’ reasoned Ralph with himself, ‘if no good came
of my uncle’s money when he was alive, a great deal of good came of it
after he was dead, inasmuch as my father has got it now, and is saving
it up for me, which is a highly virtuous purpose; and, going back to the
old gentleman, good DID come of it to him too, for he had the pleasure
of thinking of it all his life long, and of being envied and courted
by all his family besides.’ And Ralph always wound up these mental
soliloquies by arriving at the conclusion, that there was nothing like
money.

Not confining himself to theory, or permitting his faculties to rust,
even at that early age, in mere abstract speculations, this promising
lad commenced usurer on a limited scale at school; putting out at good
interest a small capital of slate-pencil and marbles, and gradually
extending his operations until they aspired to the copper coinage of
this realm, in which he speculated to considerable advantage. Nor did
he trouble his borrowers with abstract calculations of figures, or
references to ready-reckoners; his simple rule of interest being all
comprised in the one golden sentence, ‘two-pence for every half-penny,’
which greatly simplified the accounts, and which, as a familiar precept,
more easily acquired and retained in the memory than any known rule
of arithmetic, cannot be too strongly recommended to the notice of
capitalists, both large and small, and more especially of money-brokers
and bill-discounters. Indeed, to do these gentlemen justice, many of
them are to this day in the frequent habit of adopting it, with eminent
success.

In like manner, did young Ralph Nickleby avoid all those minute and
intricate calculations of odd days, which nobody who has worked sums
in simple-interest can fail to have found most embarrassing, by
establishing the one general rule that all sums of principal and
interest should be paid on pocket-money day, that is to say, on
Saturday: and that whether a loan were contracted on the Monday, or on
the Friday, the amount of interest should be, in both cases, the same.
Indeed he argued, and with great show of reason, that it ought to be
rather more for one day than for five, inasmuch as the borrower might
in the former case be very fairly presumed to be in great extremity,
otherwise he would not borrow at all with such odds against him. This
fact is interesting, as illustrating the secret connection and sympathy
which always exist between great minds. Though Master Ralph Nickleby was
not at that time aware of it, the class of gentlemen before alluded to,
proceed on just the same principle in all their transactions.

From what we have said of this young gentleman, and the natural
admiration the reader will immediately conceive of his character, it may
perhaps be inferred that he is to be the hero of the work which we shall
presently begin. To set this point at rest, for once and for ever, we
hasten to undeceive them, and stride to its commencement.

On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, who had been some time
before placed in a mercantile house in London, applied himself
passionately to his old pursuit of money-getting, in which he speedily
became so buried and absorbed, that he quite forgot his brother for many
years; and if, at times, a recollection of his old playfellow broke
upon him through the haze in which he lived--for gold conjures up a mist
about a man, more destructive of all his old senses and lulling to
his feelings than the fumes of charcoal--it brought along with it a
companion thought, that if they were intimate he would want to borrow
money of him. So, Mr. Ralph Nickleby shrugged his shoulders, and said
things were better as they were.

As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estate until
he grew tired of living alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of
a neighbouring gentleman with a dower of one thousand pounds. This good
lady bore him two children, a son and a daughter, and when the son
was about nineteen, and the daughter fourteen, as near as we can
guess--impartial records of young ladies’ ages being, before the passing
of the new act, nowhere preserved in the registries of this country--Mr
Nickleby looked about him for the means of repairing his capital, now
sadly reduced by this increase in his family, and the expenses of their
education.

‘Speculate with it,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Spec--u--late, my dear?’ said Mr. Nickleby, as though in doubt.

‘Why not?’ asked Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Because, my dear, if we SHOULD lose it,’ rejoined Mr. Nickleby, who
was a slow and time-taking speaker, ‘if we SHOULD lose it, we shall no
longer be able to live, my dear.’

‘Fiddle,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,’ said Mr. Nickleby.

‘There’s Nicholas,’ pursued the lady, ‘quite a young man--it’s time he
was in the way of doing something for himself; and Kate too, poor girl,
without a penny in the world. Think of your brother! Would he be what he
is, if he hadn’t speculated?’

‘That’s true,’ replied Mr. Nickleby. ‘Very good, my dear. Yes. I WILL
speculate, my dear.’

Speculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing of their
cards at first starting; gains MAY be great--and so may losses. The run
of luck went against Mr. Nickleby. A mania prevailed, a bubble burst,
four stock-brokers took villa residences at Florence, four hundred
nobodies were ruined, and among them Mr. Nickleby.

‘The very house I live in,’ sighed the poor gentleman, ‘may be taken
from me tomorrow. Not an article of my old furniture, but will be sold
to strangers!’

The last reflection hurt him so much, that he took at once to his bed;
apparently resolved to keep that, at all events.

‘Cheer up, sir!’ said the apothecary.

‘You mustn’t let yourself be cast down, sir,’ said the nurse.

‘Such things happen every day,’ remarked the lawyer.

‘And it is very sinful to rebel against them,’ whispered the clergyman.

‘And what no man with a family ought to do,’ added the neighbours.

Mr. Nickleby shook his head, and motioning them all out of the room,
embraced his wife and children, and having pressed them by turns to
his languidly beating heart, sunk exhausted on his pillow. They were
concerned to find that his reason went astray after this; for he
babbled, for a long time, about the generosity and goodness of his
brother, and the merry old times when they were at school together.
This fit of wandering past, he solemnly commended them to One who never
deserted the widow or her fatherless children, and, smiling gently on
them, turned upon his face, and observed, that he thought he could fall
asleep.



CHAPTER 2

Of Mr. Ralph Nickleby, and his Establishments, and his Undertakings, and
of a great Joint Stock Company of vast national Importance


Mr. Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what you would call
a merchant, neither was he a banker, nor an attorney, nor a special
pleader, nor a notary. He was certainly not a tradesman, and still less
could he lay any claim to the title of a professional gentleman; for it
would have been impossible to mention any recognised profession to which
he belonged. Nevertheless, as he lived in a spacious house in Golden
Square, which, in addition to a brass plate upon the street-door, had
another brass plate two sizes and a half smaller upon the left hand
door-post, surrounding a brass model of an infant’s fist grasping a
fragment of a skewer, and displaying the word ‘Office,’ it was clear
that Mr. Ralph Nickleby did, or pretended to do, business of some kind;
and the fact, if it required any further circumstantial evidence, was
abundantly demonstrated by the diurnal attendance, between the hours of
half-past nine and five, of a sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat
upon an uncommonly hard stool in a species of butler’s pantry at the end
of the passage, and always had a pen behind his ear when he answered the
bell.

Although a few members of the graver professions live about Golden
Square, it is not exactly in anybody’s way to or from anywhere. It is
one of the squares that have been; a quarter of the town that has gone
down in the world, and taken to letting lodgings. Many of its first
and second floors are let, furnished, to single gentlemen; and it
takes boarders besides. It is a great resort of foreigners. The
dark-complexioned men who wear large rings, and heavy watch-guards, and
bushy whiskers, and who congregate under the Opera Colonnade, and about
the box-office in the season, between four and five in the afternoon,
when they give away the orders,--all live in Golden Square, or within a
street of it. Two or three violins and a wind instrument from the Opera
band reside within its precincts. Its boarding-houses are musical, and
the notes of pianos and harps float in the evening time round the head
of the mournful statue, the guardian genius of a little wilderness of
shrubs, in the centre of the square. On a summer’s night, windows
are thrown open, and groups of swarthy moustached men are seen by the
passer-by, lounging at the casements, and smoking fearfully. Sounds of
gruff voices practising vocal music invade the evening’s silence; and
the fumes of choice tobacco scent the air. There, snuff and cigars,
and German pipes and flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide the
supremacy between them. It is the region of song and smoke. Street bands
are on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerant glee-singers quaver
involuntarily as they raise their voices within its boundaries.

This would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transaction of
business; but Mr. Ralph Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding, for
many years, and uttered no complaint on that score. He knew nobody round
about, and nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the reputation of being
immensely rich. The tradesmen held that he was a sort of lawyer, and
the other neighbours opined that he was a kind of general agent; both
of which guesses were as correct and definite as guesses about other
people’s affairs usually are, or need to be.

Mr. Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, ready dressed
to walk abroad. He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue coat; a white
waistcoat, grey mixture pantaloons, and Wellington boots drawn over
them. The corner of a small-plaited shirt-frill struggled out, as if
insisting to show itself, from between his chin and the top button of
his spencer; and the latter garment was not made low enough to conceal
a long gold watch-chain, composed of a series of plain rings, which had
its beginning at the handle of a gold repeater in Mr. Nickleby’s pocket,
and its termination in two little keys: one belonging to the watch
itself, and the other to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling of
powder upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but if
that were his purpose, he would perhaps have done better to powder his
countenance also, for there was something in its very wrinkles, and
in his cold restless eye, which seemed to tell of cunning that would
announce itself in spite of him. However this might be, there he was;
and as he was all alone, neither the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the
eyes, had the smallest effect, good or bad, upon anybody just then, and
are consequently no business of ours just now.

Mr. Nickleby closed an account-book which lay on his desk, and, throwing
himself back in his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction through the
dirty window. Some London houses have a melancholy little plot of ground
behind them, usually fenced in by four high whitewashed walls, and
frowned upon by stacks of chimneys: in which there withers on, from
year to year, a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few
leaves late in autumn when other trees shed theirs, and, drooping in
the effort, lingers on, all crackled and smoke-dried, till the following
season, when it repeats the same process, and perhaps, if the weather
be particularly genial, even tempts some rheumatic sparrow to chirrup
in its branches. People sometimes call these dark yards ‘gardens’; it
is not supposed that they were ever planted, but rather that they are
pieces of unreclaimed land, with the withered vegetation of the original
brick-field. No man thinks of walking in this desolate place, or of
turning it to any account. A few hampers, half-a-dozen broken bottles,
and such-like rubbish, may be thrown there, when the tenant first moves
in, but nothing more; and there they remain until he goes away again:
the damp straw taking just as long to moulder as it thinks proper:
and mingling with the scanty box, and stunted everbrowns, and broken
flower-pots, that are scattered mournfully about--a prey to ‘blacks’ and
dirt.

It was into a place of this kind that Mr. Ralph Nickleby gazed, as he sat
with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. He had fixed
his eyes upon a distorted fir tree, planted by some former tenant in a
tub that had once been green, and left there, years before, to rot
away piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in the object, but Mr
Nickleby was wrapt in a brown study, and sat contemplating it with far
greater attention than, in a more conscious mood, he would have deigned
to bestow upon the rarest exotic. At length, his eyes wandered to a
little dirty window on the left, through which the face of the clerk
was dimly visible; that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned him to
attend.

In obedience to this summons the clerk got off the high stool (to which
he had communicated a high polish by countless gettings off and on),
and presented himself in Mr. Nickleby’s room. He was a tall man of middle
age, with two goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a rubicund nose,
a cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (if the term be allowable
when they suited him not at all) much the worse for wear, very much too
small, and placed upon such a short allowance of buttons that it was
marvellous how he contrived to keep them on.

‘Was that half-past twelve, Noggs?’ said Mr. Nickleby, in a sharp and
grating voice.

‘Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by the--’ Noggs was going to
add public-house clock, but recollecting himself, substituted ‘regular
time.’

‘My watch has stopped,’ said Mr. Nickleby; ‘I don’t know from what
cause.’

‘Not wound up,’ said Noggs.

‘Yes it is,’ said Mr. Nickleby.

‘Over-wound then,’ rejoined Noggs.

‘That can’t very well be,’ observed Mr. Nickleby.

‘Must be,’ said Noggs.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Nickleby, putting the repeater back in his pocket;
‘perhaps it is.’

Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of all
disputes with his master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and (as he
rarely spoke to anybody unless somebody spoke to him) fell into a grim
silence, and rubbed his hands slowly over each other: cracking the
joints of his fingers, and squeezing them into all possible distortions.
The incessant performance of this routine on every occasion, and the
communication of a fixed and rigid look to his unaffected eye, so as to
make it uniform with the other, and to render it impossible for anybody
to determine where or at what he was looking, were two among the
numerous peculiarities of Mr. Noggs, which struck an inexperienced
observer at first sight.

‘I am going to the London Tavern this morning,’ said Mr. Nickleby.

‘Public meeting?’ inquired Noggs.

Mr. Nickleby nodded. ‘I expect a letter from the solicitor respecting
that mortgage of Ruddle’s. If it comes at all, it will be here by the
two o’clock delivery. I shall leave the city about that time and walk
to Charing Cross on the left-hand side of the way; if there are any
letters, come and meet me, and bring them with you.’

Noggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at the office bell.
The master looked up from his papers, and the clerk calmly remained in a
stationary position.

‘The bell,’ said Noggs, as though in explanation. ‘At home?’

‘Yes.’

‘To anybody?’

‘Yes.’

‘To the tax-gatherer?’

‘No! Let him call again.’

Noggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much as to say ‘I thought so!’
and, the ring being repeated, went to the door, whence he presently
returned, ushering in, by the name of Mr. Bonney, a pale gentleman in a
violent hurry, who, with his hair standing up in great disorder all over
his head, and a very narrow white cravat tied loosely round his throat,
looked as if he had been knocked up in the night and had not dressed
himself since.

‘My dear Nickleby,’ said the gentleman, taking off a white hat which was
so full of papers that it would scarcely stick upon his head, ‘there’s
not a moment to lose; I have a cab at the door. Sir Matthew Pupker takes
the chair, and three members of Parliament are positively coming. I have
seen two of them safely out of bed. The third, who was at Crockford’s
all night, has just gone home to put a clean shirt on, and take a bottle
or two of soda water, and will certainly be with us, in time to address
the meeting. He is a little excited by last night, but never mind that;
he always speaks the stronger for it.’

‘It seems to promise pretty well,’ said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, whose
deliberate manner was strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other man
of business.

‘Pretty well!’ echoed Mr. Bonney. ‘It’s the finest idea that was ever
started. “United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking
and Punctual Delivery Company. Capital, five millions, in five hundred
thousand shares of ten pounds each.” Why the very name will get the
shares up to a premium in ten days.’

‘And when they ARE at a premium,’ said Mr. Ralph Nickleby, smiling.

‘When they are, you know what to do with them as well as any man alive,
and how to back quietly out at the right time,’ said Mr. Bonney, slapping
the capitalist familiarly on the shoulder. ‘By-the-bye, what a VERY
remarkable man that clerk of yours is.’

‘Yes, poor devil!’ replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. ‘Though Newman
Noggs kept his horses and hounds once.’

‘Ay, ay?’ said the other carelessly.

‘Yes,’ continued Ralph, ‘and not many years ago either; but he
squandered his money, invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and in
short made first a thorough fool of himself, and then a beggar. He took
to drinking, and had a touch of paralysis, and then came here to borrow
a pound, as in his better days I had--’

‘Done business with him,’ said Mr. Bonney with a meaning look.

‘Just so,’ replied Ralph; ‘I couldn’t lend it, you know.’

‘Oh, of course not.’

‘But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open the door and so forth, I
took him out of charity, and he has remained with me ever since. He is
a little mad, I think,’ said Mr. Nickleby, calling up a charitable look,
‘but he is useful enough, poor creature--useful enough.’

The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add that Newman Noggs, being
utterly destitute, served him for rather less than the usual wages of a
boy of thirteen; and likewise failed to mention in his hasty chronicle,
that his eccentric taciturnity rendered him an especially valuable
person in a place where much business was done, of which it was
desirable no mention should be made out of doors. The other gentleman
was plainly impatient to be gone, however, and as they hurried into the
hackney cabriolet immediately afterwards, perhaps Mr. Nickleby forgot to
mention circumstances so unimportant.

There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as they drew up,
and (it being a windy day) half-a-dozen men were tacking across the road
under a press of paper, bearing gigantic announcements that a Public
Meeting would be holden at one o’clock precisely, to take into
consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the
United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual
Delivery Company, capital five millions, in five hundred thousand shares
of ten pounds each; which sums were duly set forth in fat black figures
of considerable size. Mr. Bonney elbowed his way briskly upstairs,
receiving in his progress many low bows from the waiters who stood on
the landings to show the way; and, followed by Mr. Nickleby, dived into a
suite of apartments behind the great public room: in the second of which
was a business-looking table, and several business-looking people.

‘Hear!’ cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr. Bonney presented
himself. ‘Chair, gentlemen, chair!’

The new-comers were received with universal approbation, and Mr. Bonney
bustled up to the top of the table, took off his hat, ran his fingers
through his hair, and knocked a hackney-coachman’s knock on the table
with a little hammer: whereat several gentlemen cried ‘Hear!’ and nodded
slightly to each other, as much as to say what spirited conduct that
was. Just at this moment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore into
the room, and throwing the door open with a crash, shouted ‘Sir Matthew
Pupker!’

The committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, and while they
were clapping them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by two live
members of Parliament, one Irish and one Scotch, all smiling and bowing,
and looking so pleasant that it seemed a perfect marvel how any
man could have the heart to vote against them. Sir Matthew Pupker
especially, who had a little round head with a flaxen wig on the top
of it, fell into such a paroxysm of bows, that the wig threatened to
be jerked off, every instant. When these symptoms had in some degree
subsided, the gentlemen who were on speaking terms with Sir Matthew
Pupker, or the two other members, crowded round them in three little
groups, near one or other of which the gentlemen who were NOT on
speaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker or the two other members, stood
lingering, and smiling, and rubbing their hands, in the desperate hope
of something turning up which might bring them into notice. All this
time, Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other members were relating to
their separate circles what the intentions of government were, about
taking up the bill; with a full account of what the government had said
in a whisper the last time they dined with it, and how the government
had been observed to wink when it said so; from which premises they were
at no loss to draw the conclusion, that if the government had one
object more at heart than another, that one object was the welfare and
advantage of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet
Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.

Meanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the proceedings, and a fair
division of the speechifying, the public in the large room were eyeing,
by turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in the Music Gallery. In
these amusements the greater portion of them had been occupied for a
couple of hours before, and as the most agreeable diversions pall upon
the taste on a too protracted enjoyment of them, the sterner spirits now
began to hammer the floor with their boot-heels, and to express their
dissatisfaction by various hoots and cries. These vocal exertions,
emanating from the people who had been there longest, naturally
proceeded from those who were nearest to the platform and furthest from
the policemen in attendance, who having no great mind to fight their way
through the crowd, but entertaining nevertheless a praiseworthy desire
to do something to quell the disturbance, immediately began to drag
forth, by the coat tails and collars, all the quiet people near the
door; at the same time dealing out various smart and tingling blows with
their truncheons, after the manner of that ingenious actor, Mr. Punch:
whose brilliant example, both in the fashion of his weapons and their
use, this branch of the executive occasionally follows.

Several very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loud shout
attracted the attention even of the belligerents, and then there poured
on to the platform, from a door at the side, a long line of gentlemen
with their hats off, all looking behind them, and uttering vociferous
cheers; the cause whereof was sufficiently explained when Sir Matthew
Pupker and the two other real members of Parliament came to the front,
amidst deafening shouts, and testified to each other in dumb motions
that they had never seen such a glorious sight as that, in the whole
course of their public career.

At length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but Sir Matthew
Pupker being voted into the chair, they underwent a relapse which lasted
five minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupker went on to say what must be
his feelings on that great occasion, and what must be that occasion
in the eyes of the world, and what must be the intelligence of
his fellow-countrymen before him, and what must be the wealth and
respectability of his honourable friends behind him, and lastly, what
must be the importance to the wealth, the happiness, the comfort, the
liberty, the very existence of a free and great people, of such an
Institution as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet
Baking and Punctual Delivery Company!

Mr. Bonney then presented himself to move the first resolution; and
having run his right hand through his hair, and planted his left, in
an easy manner, in his ribs, he consigned his hat to the care of the
gentleman with the double chin (who acted as a species of bottle-holder
to the orators generally), and said he would read to them the first
resolution--‘That this meeting views with alarm and apprehension,
the existing state of the Muffin Trade in this Metropolis and its
neighbourhood; that it considers the Muffin Boys, as at present
constituted, wholly underserving the confidence of the public; and that
it deems the whole Muffin system alike prejudicial to the health and
morals of the people, and subversive of the best interests of a great
commercial and mercantile community.’ The honourable gentleman made a
speech which drew tears from the eyes of the ladies, and awakened the
liveliest emotions in every individual present. He had visited the
houses of the poor in the various districts of London, and had found
them destitute of the slightest vestige of a muffin, which there
appeared too much reason to believe some of these indigent persons
did not taste from year’s end to year’s end. He had found that among
muffin-sellers there existed drunkenness, debauchery, and profligacy,
which he attributed to the debasing nature of their employment as at
present exercised; he had found the same vices among the poorer class of
people who ought to be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to
the despair engendered by their being placed beyond the reach of that
nutritious article, which drove them to seek a false stimulant in
intoxicating liquors. He would undertake to prove before a committee of
the House of Commons, that there existed a combination to keep up the
price of muffins, and to give the bellmen a monopoly; he would prove it
by bellmen at the bar of that House; and he would also prove, that these
men corresponded with each other by secret words and signs as ‘Snooks,’
‘Walker,’ ‘Ferguson,’ ‘Is Murphy right?’ and many others. It was
this melancholy state of things that the Company proposed to correct;
firstly, by prohibiting, under heavy penalties, all private muffin
trading of every description; secondly, by themselves supplying the
public generally, and the poor at their own homes, with muffins of first
quality at reduced prices. It was with this object that a bill had
been introduced into Parliament by their patriotic chairman Sir Matthew
Pupker; it was this bill that they had met to support; it was the
supporters of this bill who would confer undying brightness and
splendour upon England, under the name of the United Metropolitan
Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company;
he would add, with a capital of Five Millions, in five hundred thousand
shares of ten pounds each.

Mr. Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and another gentleman having
moved that it be amended by the insertion of the words ‘and crumpet’
after the word ‘muffin,’ whenever it occurred, it was carried
triumphantly. Only one man in the crowd cried ‘No!’ and he was promptly
taken into custody, and straightway borne off.

The second resolution, which recognised the expediency of immediately
abolishing ‘all muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders in muffins (or
crumpets) of whatsoever description, whether male or female, boys or
men, ringing hand-bells or otherwise,’ was moved by a grievous gentleman
of semi-clerical appearance, who went at once into such deep pathetics,
that he knocked the first speaker clean out of the course in no time.
You might have heard a pin fall--a pin! a feather--as he described
the cruelties inflicted on muffin boys by their masters, which he
very wisely urged were in themselves a sufficient reason for the
establishment of that inestimable company. It seemed that the unhappy
youths were nightly turned out into the wet streets at the most
inclement periods of the year, to wander about, in darkness and rain--or
it might be hail or snow--for hours together, without shelter, food,
or warmth; and let the public never forget upon the latter point, that
while the muffins were provided with warm clothing and blankets,
the boys were wholly unprovided for, and left to their own miserable
resources. (Shame!) The honourable gentleman related one case of a
muffin boy, who having been exposed to this inhuman and barbarous system
for no less than five years, at length fell a victim to a cold in the
head, beneath which he gradually sunk until he fell into a perspiration
and recovered; this he could vouch for, on his own authority, but he
had heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact) of a still more
heart-rending and appalling circumstance. He had heard of the case of an
orphan muffin boy, who, having been run over by a hackney carriage, had
been removed to the hospital, had undergone the amputation of his
leg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing his occupation on
crutches. Fountain of justice, were these things to last!

This was the department of the subject that took the meeting, and this
was the style of speaking to enlist their sympathies. The men shouted;
the ladies wept into their pocket-handkerchiefs till they were moist,
and waved them till they were dry; the excitement was tremendous; and
Mr. Nickleby whispered his friend that the shares were thenceforth at a
premium of five-and-twenty per cent.

The resolution was, of course, carried with loud acclamations, every
man holding up both hands in favour of it, as he would in his enthusiasm
have held up both legs also, if he could have conveniently accomplished
it. This done, the draft of the proposed petition was read at length:
and the petition said, as all petitions DO say, that the petitioners
were very humble, and the petitioned very honourable, and the object
very virtuous; therefore (said the petition) the bill ought to be passed
into a law at once, to the everlasting honour and glory of that most
honourable and glorious Commons of England in Parliament assembled.

Then, the gentleman who had been at Crockford’s all night, and who
looked something the worse about the eyes in consequence, came forward
to tell his fellow-countrymen what a speech he meant to make in favour
of that petition whenever it should be presented, and how desperately he
meant to taunt the parliament if they rejected the bill; and to inform
them also, that he regretted his honourable friends had not inserted a
clause rendering the purchase of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon
all classes of the community, which he--opposing all half-measures,
and preferring to go the extreme animal--pledged himself to propose
and divide upon, in committee. After announcing this determination, the
honourable gentleman grew jocular; and as patent boots, lemon-coloured
kid gloves, and a fur coat collar, assist jokes materially, there
was immense laughter and much cheering, and moreover such a brilliant
display of ladies’ pocket-handkerchiefs, as threw the grievous gentleman
quite into the shade.

And when the petition had been read and was about to be adopted, there
came forward the Irish member (who was a young gentleman of ardent
temperament,) with such a speech as only an Irish member can make,
breathing the true soul and spirit of poetry, and poured forth with such
fervour, that it made one warm to look at him; in the course whereof,
he told them how he would demand the extension of that great boon to his
native country; how he would claim for her equal rights in the muffin
laws as in all other laws; and how he yet hoped to see the day when
crumpets should be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin bells should
ring in her rich green valleys. And, after him, came the Scotch member,
with various pleasant allusions to the probable amount of profits, which
increased the good humour that the poetry had awakened; and all the
speeches put together did exactly what they were intended to do, and
established in the hearers’ minds that there was no speculation
so promising, or at the same time so praiseworthy, as the United
Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual
Delivery Company.

So, the petition in favour of the bill was agreed upon, and the meeting
adjourned with acclamations, and Mr. Nickleby and the other directors
went to the office to lunch, as they did every day at half-past one
o’clock; and to remunerate themselves for which trouble, (as the company
was yet in its infancy,) they only charged three guineas each man for
every such attendance.



CHAPTER 3

Mr. Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, but bears up
nobly against the Intelligence communicated to him. The Reader is
informed how he liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and how kindly
he proposed to make his Fortune at once


Having rendered his zealous assistance towards dispatching the lunch,
with all that promptitude and energy which are among the most important
qualities that men of business can possess, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a
cordial farewell of his fellow-speculators, and bent his steps westward
in unwonted good humour. As he passed St Paul’s he stepped aside into
a doorway to set his watch, and with his hand on the key and his eye
on the cathedral dial, was intent upon so doing, when a man suddenly
stopped before him. It was Newman Noggs.

‘Ah! Newman,’ said Mr. Nickleby, looking up as he pursued his occupation.
‘The letter about the mortgage has come, has it? I thought it would.’

‘Wrong,’ replied Newman.

‘What! and nobody called respecting it?’ inquired Mr. Nickleby, pausing.
Noggs shook his head.

‘What HAS come, then?’ inquired Mr. Nickleby.

‘I have,’ said Newman.

‘What else?’ demanded the master, sternly.

‘This,’ said Newman, drawing a sealed letter slowly from his pocket.
‘Post-mark, Strand, black wax, black border, woman’s hand, C. N. in the
corner.’

‘Black wax?’ said Mr. Nickleby, glancing at the letter. ‘I know something
of that hand, too. Newman, I shouldn’t be surprised if my brother were
dead.’

‘I don’t think you would,’ said Newman, quietly.

‘Why not, sir?’ demanded Mr. Nickleby.

‘You never are surprised,’ replied Newman, ‘that’s all.’

Mr. Nickleby snatched the letter from his assistant, and fixing a cold
look upon him, opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having now hit
the time to a second, began winding up his watch.

‘It is as I expected, Newman,’ said Mr. Nickleby, while he was thus
engaged. ‘He IS dead. Dear me! Well, that’s sudden thing. I shouldn’t
have thought it, really.’ With these touching expressions of sorrow, Mr
Nickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on his gloves to a
nicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowly westward with his hands
behind him.

‘Children alive?’ inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.

‘Why, that’s the very thing,’ replied Mr. Nickleby, as though his
thoughts were about them at that moment. ‘They are both alive.’

‘Both!’ repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.

‘And the widow, too,’ added Mr. Nickleby, ‘and all three in London,
confound them; all three here, Newman.’

Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously
twisted as by a spasm; but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward
laughter, nobody but himself could possibly explain. The expression of
a man’s face is commonly a help to his thoughts, or glossary on his
speech; but the countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was
a problem which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.

‘Go home!’ said Mr. Nickleby, after they had walked a few paces: looking
round at the clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely
uttered when Newman darted across the road, slunk among the crowd, and
disappeared in an instant.

‘Reasonable, certainly!’ muttered Mr. Nickleby to himself, as he walked
on, ‘very reasonable! My brother never did anything for me, and I never
expected it; the breath is no sooner out of his body than I am to be
looked to, as the support of a great hearty woman, and a grown boy and
girl. What are they to me! I never saw them.’

Full of these, and many other reflections of a similar kind, Mr. Nickleby
made the best of his way to the Strand, and, referring to his letter as
if to ascertain the number of the house he wanted, stopped at a private
door about half-way down that crowded thoroughfare.

A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame
screwed upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon a black
velvet ground, two portraits of naval dress coats with faces looking
out of them, and telescopes attached; one of a young gentleman in a very
vermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre; and one of a literary character
with a high forehead, a pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There
was, moreover, a touching representation of a young lady reading a
manuscript in an unfathomable forest, and a charming whole length of a
large-headed little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs fore-shortened
to the size of salt-spoons. Besides these works of art, there were a
great many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out
of blue and brown skies, and an elegantly written card of terms with an
embossed border.

Mr. Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt, and gave
a double knock, which, having been thrice repeated, was answered by a
servant girl with an uncommonly dirty face.

‘Is Mrs. Nickleby at home, girl?’ demanded Ralph sharply.

‘Her name ain’t Nickleby,’ said the girl, ‘La Creevy, you mean.’

Mr. Nickleby looked very indignant at the handmaid on being thus
corrected, and demanded with much asperity what she meant; which she
was about to state, when a female voice proceeding from a perpendicular
staircase at the end of the passage, inquired who was wanted.

‘Mrs. Nickleby,’ said Ralph.

‘It’s the second floor, Hannah,’ said the same voice; ‘what a stupid
thing you are! Is the second floor at home?’

‘Somebody went out just now, but I think it was the attic which had been
a cleaning of himself,’ replied the girl.

‘You had better see,’ said the invisible female. ‘Show the gentleman
where the bell is, and tell him he mustn’t knock double knocks for the
second floor; I can’t allow a knock except when the bell’s broke, and
then it must be two single ones.’

‘Here,’ said Ralph, walking in without more parley, ‘I beg your pardon;
is that Mrs. La what’s-her-name?’

‘Creevy--La Creevy,’ replied the voice, as a yellow headdress bobbed
over the banisters.

‘I’ll speak to you a moment, ma’am, with your leave,’ said Ralph.

The voice replied that the gentleman was to walk up; but he had walked
up before it spoke, and stepping into the first floor, was received by
the wearer of the yellow head-dress, who had a gown to correspond, and
was of much the same colour herself. Miss La Creevy was a mincing
young lady of fifty, and Miss La Creevy’s apartment was the gilt frame
downstairs on a larger scale and something dirtier.

‘Hem!’ said Miss La Creevy, coughing delicately behind her black silk
mitten. ‘A miniature, I presume. A very strongly-marked countenance for
the purpose, sir. Have you ever sat before?’

‘You mistake my purpose, I see, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Nickleby, in his
usual blunt fashion. ‘I have no money to throw away on miniatures,
ma’am, and nobody to give one to (thank God) if I had. Seeing you on the
stairs, I wanted to ask a question of you, about some lodgers here.’

Miss La Creevy coughed once more--this cough was to conceal her
disappointment--and said, ‘Oh, indeed!’

‘I infer from what you said to your servant, that the floor above
belongs to you, ma’am,’ said Mr. Nickleby.

Yes it did, Miss La Creevy replied. The upper part of the house belonged
to her, and as she had no necessity for the second-floor rooms just
then, she was in the habit of letting them. Indeed, there was a lady
from the country and her two children in them, at that present speaking.

‘A widow, ma’am?’ said Ralph.

‘Yes, she is a widow,’ replied the lady.

‘A POOR widow, ma’am,’ said Ralph, with a powerful emphasis on that
little adjective which conveys so much.

‘Well, I’m afraid she IS poor,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

‘I happen to know that she is, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Now, what business
has a poor widow in such a house as this, ma’am?’

‘Very true,’ replied Miss La Creevy, not at all displeased with this
implied compliment to the apartments. ‘Exceedingly true.’

‘I know her circumstances intimately, ma’am,’ said Ralph; ‘in fact, I
am a relation of the family; and I should recommend you not to keep them
here, ma’am.’

‘I should hope, if there was any incompatibility to meet the pecuniary
obligations,’ said Miss La Creevy with another cough, ‘that the lady’s
family would--’

‘No they wouldn’t, ma’am,’ interrupted Ralph, hastily. ‘Don’t think it.’

‘If I am to understand that,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘the case wears a
very different appearance.’

‘You may understand it then, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘and make your
arrangements accordingly. I am the family, ma’am--at least, I believe
I am the only relation they have, and I think it right that you should
know I can’t support them in their extravagances. How long have they
taken these lodgings for?’

‘Only from week to week,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘Mrs. Nickleby paid the
first week in advance.’

‘Then you had better get them out at the end of it,’ said Ralph.
‘They can’t do better than go back to the country, ma’am; they are in
everybody’s way here.’

‘Certainly,’ said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands, ‘if Mrs. Nickleby
took the apartments without the means of paying for them, it was very
unbecoming a lady.’

‘Of course it was, ma’am,’ said Ralph.

‘And naturally,’ continued Miss La Creevy, ‘I who am, AT
PRESENT--hem--an unprotected female, cannot afford to lose by the
apartments.’

‘Of course you can’t, ma’am,’ replied Ralph.

‘Though at the same time,’ added Miss La Creevy, who was plainly
wavering between her good-nature and her interest, ‘I have nothing
whatever to say against the lady, who is extremely pleasant and affable,
though, poor thing, she seems terribly low in her spirits; nor against
the young people either, for nicer, or better-behaved young people
cannot be.’

‘Very well, ma’am,’ said Ralph, turning to the door, for these encomiums
on poverty irritated him; ‘I have done my duty, and perhaps more than I
ought: of course nobody will thank me for saying what I have.’

‘I am sure I am very much obliged to you at least, sir,’ said Miss La
Creevy in a gracious manner. ‘Would you do me the favour to look at a
few specimens of my portrait painting?’

‘You’re very good, ma’am,’ said Mr. Nickleby, making off with great
speed; ‘but as I have a visit to pay upstairs, and my time is precious,
I really can’t.’

‘At any other time when you are passing, I shall be most happy,’ said
Miss La Creevy. ‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to take a card of
terms with you? Thank you--good-morning!’

‘Good-morning, ma’am,’ said Ralph, shutting the door abruptly after him
to prevent any further conversation. ‘Now for my sister-in-law. Bah!’

Climbing up another perpendicular flight, composed with great mechanical
ingenuity of nothing but corner stairs, Mr. Ralph Nickleby stopped to
take breath on the landing, when he was overtaken by the handmaid, whom
the politeness of Miss La Creevy had dispatched to announce him, and
who had apparently been making a variety of unsuccessful attempts, since
their last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean, upon an apron much
dirtier.

‘What name?’ said the girl.

‘Nickleby,’ replied Ralph.

‘Oh! Mrs. Nickleby,’ said the girl, throwing open the door, ‘here’s Mr
Nickleby.’

A lady in deep mourning rose as Mr. Ralph Nickleby entered, but appeared
incapable of advancing to meet him, and leant upon the arm of a slight
but very beautiful girl of about seventeen, who had been sitting by her.
A youth, who appeared a year or two older, stepped forward and saluted
Ralph as his uncle.

‘Oh,’ growled Ralph, with an ill-favoured frown, ‘you are Nicholas, I
suppose?’

‘That is my name, sir,’ replied the youth.

‘Put my hat down,’ said Ralph, imperiously. ‘Well, ma’am, how do you do?
You must bear up against sorrow, ma’am; I always do.’

‘Mine was no common loss!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, applying her handkerchief
to her eyes.

‘It was no UNcommon loss, ma’am,’ returned Ralph, as he coolly
unbuttoned his spencer. ‘Husbands die every day, ma’am, and wives too.’

‘And brothers also, sir,’ said Nicholas, with a glance of indignation.

‘Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs likewise,’ replied his uncle,
taking a chair. ‘You didn’t mention in your letter what my brother’s
complaint was, ma’am.’

‘The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,’ said Mrs
Nickleby; shedding tears. ‘We have too much reason to fear that he died
of a broken heart.’

‘Pooh!’ said Ralph, ‘there’s no such thing. I can understand a man’s
dying of a broken neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a broken
head, or a broken leg, or a broken nose; but a broken heart!--nonsense,
it’s the cant of the day. If a man can’t pay his debts, he dies of a
broken heart, and his widow’s a martyr.’

‘Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,’ observed Nicholas,
quietly.

‘How old is this boy, for God’s sake?’ inquired Ralph, wheeling back his
chair, and surveying his nephew from head to foot with intense scorn.

‘Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,’ replied the widow.

‘Nineteen, eh!’ said Ralph; ‘and what do you mean to do for your bread,
sir?’

‘Not to live upon my mother,’ replied Nicholas, his heart swelling as he
spoke.

‘You’d have little enough to live upon, if you did,’ retorted the uncle,
eyeing him contemptuously.

‘Whatever it be,’ said Nicholas, flushed with anger, ‘I shall not look
to you to make it more.’

‘Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,’ remonstrated Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Dear Nicholas, pray,’ urged the young lady.

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said Ralph. ‘Upon my word! Fine beginnings, Mrs
Nickleby--fine beginnings!’

Mrs. Nickleby made no other reply than entreating Nicholas by a gesture
to keep silent; and the uncle and nephew looked at each other for
some seconds without speaking. The face of the old man was stern,
hard-featured, and forbidding; that of the young one, open, handsome,
and ingenuous. The old man’s eye was keen with the twinklings of avarice
and cunning; the young man’s bright with the light of intelligence and
spirit. His figure was somewhat slight, but manly and well formed; and,
apart from all the grace of youth and comeliness, there was an emanation
from the warm young heart in his look and bearing which kept the old man
down.

However striking such a contrast as this may be to lookers-on, none ever
feel it with half the keenness or acuteness of perfection with which it
strikes to the very soul of him whose inferiority it marks. It galled
Ralph to the heart’s core, and he hated Nicholas from that hour.

The mutual inspection was at length brought to a close by Ralph
withdrawing his eyes, with a great show of disdain, and calling Nicholas
‘a boy.’ This word is much used as a term of reproach by elderly
gentlemen towards their juniors: probably with the view of deluding
society into the belief that if they could be young again, they wouldn’t
on any account.

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Ralph, impatiently, ‘the creditors have
administered, you tell me, and there’s nothing left for you?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.

‘And you spent what little money you had, in coming all the way to
London, to see what I could do for you?’ pursued Ralph.

‘I hoped,’ faltered Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that you might have an opportunity of
doing something for your brother’s children. It was his dying wish that
I should appeal to you in their behalf.’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ muttered Ralph, walking up and down the room,
‘but whenever a man dies without any property of his own, he always
seems to think he has a right to dispose of other people’s. What is your
daughter fit for, ma’am?’

‘Kate has been well educated,’ sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Tell your uncle, my
dear, how far you went in French and extras.’

The poor girl was about to murmur something, when her uncle stopped her,
very unceremoniously.

‘We must try and get you apprenticed at some boarding-school,’ said
Ralph. ‘You have not been brought up too delicately for that, I hope?’

‘No, indeed, uncle,’ replied the weeping girl. ‘I will try to do
anything that will gain me a home and bread.’

‘Well, well,’ said Ralph, a little softened, either by his niece’s
beauty or her distress (stretch a point, and say the latter). ‘You must
try it, and if the life is too hard, perhaps dressmaking or tambour-work
will come lighter. Have YOU ever done anything, sir?’ (turning to his
nephew.)

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, bluntly.

‘No, I thought not!’ said Ralph. ‘This is the way my brother brought up
his children, ma’am.’

‘Nicholas has not long completed such education as his poor father could
give him,’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, ‘and he was thinking of--’

‘Of making something of him someday,’ said Ralph. ‘The old story; always
thinking, and never doing. If my brother had been a man of activity
and prudence, he might have left you a rich woman, ma’am: and if he had
turned his son into the world, as my father turned me, when I wasn’t as
old as that boy by a year and a half, he would have been in a situation
to help you, instead of being a burden upon you, and increasing your
distress. My brother was a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs. Nickleby,
and nobody, I am sure, can have better reason to feel that, than you.’

This appeal set the widow upon thinking that perhaps she might have made
a more successful venture with her one thousand pounds, and then she
began to reflect what a comfortable sum it would have been just then;
which dismal thoughts made her tears flow faster, and in the excess of
these griefs she (being a well-meaning woman enough, but weak withal)
fell first to deploring her hard fate, and then to remarking, with many
sobs, that to be sure she had been a slave to poor Nicholas, and had
often told him she might have married better (as indeed she had, very
often), and that she never knew in his lifetime how the money went, but
that if he had confided in her they might all have been better off that
day; with other bitter recollections common to most married ladies,
either during their coverture, or afterwards, or at both periods. Mrs
Nickleby concluded by lamenting that the dear departed had never deigned
to profit by her advice, save on one occasion; which was a strictly
veracious statement, inasmuch as he had only acted upon it once, and had
ruined himself in consequence.

Mr. Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half-smile; and when the widow
had finished, quietly took up the subject where it had been left before
the above outbreak.

‘Are you willing to work, sir?’ he inquired, frowning on his nephew.

‘Of course I am,’ replied Nicholas haughtily.

‘Then see here, sir,’ said his uncle. ‘This caught my eye this morning,
and you may thank your stars for it.’

With this exordium, Mr. Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper from his
pocket, and after unfolding it, and looking for a short time among the
advertisements, read as follows:

‘“EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers’s Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the
delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth
are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided
with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead,
mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of
the globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic,
fortification, and every other branch of classical literature.
Terms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet
unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till
four, at the Saracen’s Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.
Annual salary 5 pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.”

‘There!’ said Ralph, folding the paper again. ‘Let him get that
situation, and his fortune is made.’

‘But he is not a Master of Arts,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘That,’ replied Ralph, ‘that, I think, can be got over.’

‘But the salary is so small, and it is such a long way off, uncle!’
faltered Kate.

‘Hush, Kate my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Nickleby; ‘your uncle must know
best.’

‘I say,’ repeated Ralph, tartly, ‘let him get that situation, and his
fortune is made. If he don’t like that, let him get one for himself.
Without friends, money, recommendation, or knowledge of business of any
kind, let him find honest employment in London, which will keep him in
shoe leather, and I’ll give him a thousand pounds. At least,’ said Mr
Ralph Nickleby, checking himself, ‘I would if I had it.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said the young lady. ‘Oh! uncle, must we be separated so
soon!’

‘Don’t tease your uncle with questions when he is thinking only for our
good, my love,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Nicholas, my dear, I wish you would
say something.’

‘Yes, mother, yes,’ said Nicholas, who had hitherto remained silent and
absorbed in thought. ‘If I am fortunate enough to be appointed to this
post, sir, for which I am so imperfectly qualified, what will become of
those I leave behind?’

‘Your mother and sister, sir,’ replied Ralph, ‘will be provided for, in
that case (not otherwise), by me, and placed in some sphere of life in
which they will be able to be independent. That will be my immediate
care; they will not remain as they are, one week after your departure, I
will undertake.’

‘Then,’ said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and wringing his uncle’s hand,
‘I am ready to do anything you wish me. Let us try our fortune with Mr
Squeers at once; he can but refuse.’

‘He won’t do that,’ said Ralph. ‘He will be glad to have you on my
recommendation. Make yourself of use to him, and you’ll rise to be a
partner in the establishment in no time. Bless me, only think! if he
were to die, why your fortune’s made at once.’

‘To be sure, I see it all,’ said poor Nicholas, delighted with a
thousand visionary ideas, that his good spirits and his inexperience
were conjuring up before him. ‘Or suppose some young nobleman who is
being educated at the Hall, were to take a fancy to me, and get his
father to appoint me his travelling tutor when he left, and when we
come back from the continent, procured me some handsome appointment. Eh!
uncle?’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ sneered Ralph.

‘And who knows, but when he came to see me when I was settled (as he
would of course), he might fall in love with Kate, who would be keeping
my house, and--and marry her, eh! uncle? Who knows?’

‘Who, indeed!’ snarled Ralph.

‘How happy we should be!’ cried Nicholas with enthusiasm. ‘The pain of
parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again. Kate will be a beautiful
woman, and I so proud to hear them say so, and mother so happy to
be with us once again, and all these sad times forgotten, and--’ The
picture was too bright a one to bear, and Nicholas, fairly overpowered
by it, smiled faintly, and burst into tears.

This simple family, born and bred in retirement, and wholly unacquainted
with what is called the world--a conventional phrase which, being
interpreted, often signifieth all the rascals in it--mingled their tears
together at the thought of their first separation; and, this first gush
of feeling over, were proceeding to dilate with all the buoyancy of
untried hope on the bright prospects before them, when Mr. Ralph Nickleby
suggested, that if they lost time, some more fortunate candidate
might deprive Nicholas of the stepping-stone to fortune which the
advertisement pointed out, and so undermine all their air-built castles.
This timely reminder effectually stopped the conversation. Nicholas,
having carefully copied the address of Mr. Squeers, the uncle and nephew
issued forth together in quest of that accomplished gentleman; Nicholas
firmly persuading himself that he had done his relative great injustice
in disliking him at first sight; and Mrs. Nickleby being at some pains to
inform her daughter that she was sure he was a much more kindly disposed
person than he seemed; which, Miss Nickleby dutifully remarked, he might
very easily be.

To tell the truth, the good lady’s opinion had been not a little
influenced by her brother-in-law’s appeal to her better understanding,
and his implied compliment to her high deserts; and although she had
dearly loved her husband, and still doted on her children, he had struck
so successfully on one of those little jarring chords in the human heart
(Ralph was well acquainted with its worst weaknesses, though he knew
nothing of its best), that she had already begun seriously to consider
herself the amiable and suffering victim of her late husband’s
imprudence.



CHAPTER 4

Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait
upon Mr. Wackford Squeers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster


Snow Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeople who see the
words emblazoned, in all the legibility of gilt letters and dark
shading, on the north-country coaches, take Snow Hill to be? All
people have some undefined and shadowy notion of a place whose name is
frequently before their eyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number
of random ideas there must be perpetually floating about, regarding this
same Snow Hill. The name is such a good one. Snow Hill--Snow Hill too,
coupled with a Saracen’s Head: picturing to us by a double association
of ideas, something stern and rugged! A bleak desolate tract of country,
open to piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms--a dark, cold, gloomy
heath, lonely by day, and scarcely to be thought of by honest folks
at night--a place which solitary wayfarers shun, and where desperate
robbers congregate;--this, or something like this, should be the
prevalent notion of Snow Hill, in those remote and rustic parts, through
which the Saracen’s Head, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and
night with mysterious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its swift and
headlong course in all weathers, and seeming to bid defiance to the very
elements themselves.

The reality is rather different, but by no means to be despised
notwithstanding. There, at the very core of London, in the heart of its
business and animation, in the midst of a whirl of noise and motion:
stemming as it were the giant currents of life that flow ceaselessly on
from different quarters, and meet beneath its walls: stands Newgate; and
in that crowded street on which it frowns so darkly--within a few feet
of the squalid tottering houses--upon the very spot on which the vendors
of soup and fish and damaged fruit are now plying their trades--scores
of human beings, amidst a roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a
great city is as nothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have
been hurried violently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has
been rendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyes
have glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; and
when, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch, in his
all-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one--not one--that bore the
impress of pity or compassion.

Near to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and
the Compter, and the bustle and noise of the city; and just on that
particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastward
seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney
cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is
the coach-yard of the Saracen’s Head Inn; its portal guarded by two
Saracens’ heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of
the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which
have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity; possibly
because this species of humour is now confined to St James’s parish,
where door knockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires
esteemed as convenient toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not,
there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn
itself garnished with another Saracen’s Head, frowns upon you from the
top of the yard; while from the door of the hind boot of all the red
coaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen’s Head,
with a twin expression to the large Saracens’ Heads below, so that the
general appearance of the pile is decidedly of the Saracenic order.

When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office on your
left, and the tower of St Sepulchre’s church, darting abruptly up into
the sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on both sides. Just
before you, you will observe a long window with the words ‘coffee-room’
legibly painted above it; and looking out of that window, you would have
seen in addition, if you had gone at the right time, Mr. Wackford Squeers
with his hands in his pockets.

Mr. Squeers’s appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye,
and the popular prejudice runs in favour of two. The eye he had, was
unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental: being of a greenish
grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street door. The blank
side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a
very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his
expression bordered closely on the villainous. His hair was very flat
and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low
protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse
manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the
middle size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of
scholastic black; but his coat sleeves being a great deal too long,
and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in
his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at
finding himself so respectable.

Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fire-places,
fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two
of extraordinary shapes and dimensions made to suit the angles of the
partition. In a corner of the seat, was a very small deal trunk, tied
round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched--his
lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air--a
diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands
planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time
to time, with evident dread and apprehension.

‘Half-past three,’ muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the window, and
looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. ‘There will be nobody here
today.’

Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to
see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened
not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him
not to do it again.

‘At Midsummer,’ muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his complaint, ‘I took
down ten boys; ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back at eight
o’clock tomorrow morning, and have got only three--three oughts is an
ought--three twos is six--sixty pound. What’s come of all the boys?
what’s parents got in their heads? what does it all mean?’

Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.

‘Halloa, sir!’ growled the schoolmaster, turning round. ‘What’s that,
sir?’

‘Nothing, please sir,’ replied the little boy.

‘Nothing, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Squeers.

‘Please sir, I sneezed,’ rejoined the boy, trembling till the little
trunk shook under him.

‘Oh! sneezed, did you?’ retorted Mr. Squeers. ‘Then what did you say
“nothing” for, sir?’

In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a
couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr
Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the face,
and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.

‘Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,’ said Mr
Squeers, ‘and then I’ll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise,
sir?’

‘Ye--ye--yes,’ sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard with
the Beggar’s Petition in printed calico.

‘Then do so at once, sir,’ said Squeers. ‘Do you hear?’

As this admonition was accompanied with a threatening gesture, and
uttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as
if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking,
gave no further vent to his emotions.

‘Mr. Squeers,’ said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; ‘here’s a
gentleman asking for you at the bar.’

‘Show the gentleman in, Richard,’ replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice.
‘Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I’ll
murder you when the gentleman goes.’

The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper,
when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned
to be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to his
youthful pupil.

‘My dear child,’ said Mr. Squeers, ‘all people have their trials. This
early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst, and
your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing;
less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a
father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful
village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are
boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided
with all necessaries--’

‘It IS the gentleman,’ observed the stranger, stopping the schoolmaster
in the rehearsal of his advertisement. ‘Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir?’

‘The same, sir,’ said Mr. Squeers, with an assumption of extreme
surprise.

‘The gentleman,’ said the stranger, ‘that advertised in the Times
newspaper?’

‘--Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regarding the
Academy called Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys,
near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,’ added Mr. Squeers. ‘You come on
business, sir. I see by my young friends. How do you do, my little
gentleman? and how do you do, sir?’ With this salutation Mr. Squeers
patted the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the
applicant had brought with him, and waited for further communications.

‘I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,’ said the
stranger.

Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, ‘And a remarkably pretty
name, too.’

The stranger continued. ‘I have been thinking, Mr. Squeers, of placing my
two boys at your school.’

‘It is not for me to say so, sir,’ replied Mr. Squeers, ‘but I don’t
think you could possibly do a better thing.’

‘Hem!’ said the other. ‘Twenty pounds per annewum, I believe, Mr
Squeers?’

‘Guineas,’ rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.

‘Pounds for two, I think, Mr. Squeers,’ said Mr. Snawley, solemnly.

‘I don’t think it could be done, sir,’ replied Squeers, as if he had
never considered the proposition before. ‘Let me see; four fives is
twenty, double that, and deduct the--well, a pound either way shall not
stand betwixt us. You must recommend me to your connection, sir, and
make it up that way.’

‘They are not great eaters,’ said Mr. Snawley.

‘Oh! that doesn’t matter at all,’ replied Squeers. ‘We don’t consider
the boys’ appetites at our establishment.’ This was strictly true; they
did not.

‘Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,’ continued
Squeers; ‘every beautiful moral that Mrs. Squeers can instil; every--in
short, every comfort of a home that a boy could wish for, will be
theirs, Mr. Snawley.’

‘I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,’ said Mr
Snawley.

‘I am glad of that, sir,’ replied the schoolmaster, drawing himself up.
‘They have come to the right shop for morals, sir.’

‘You are a moral man yourself,’ said Mr. Snawley.

‘I rather believe I am, sir,’ replied Squeers.

‘I have the satisfaction to know you are, sir,’ said Mr. Snawley. ‘I
asked one of your references, and he said you were pious.’

‘Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,’ replied Squeers.

‘I hope I am also,’ rejoined the other. ‘Could I say a few words with
you in the next box?’

‘By all means,’ rejoined Squeers with a grin. ‘My dears, will you speak
to your new playfellow a minute or two? That is one of my boys, sir.
Belling his name is,--a Taunton boy that, sir.’

‘Is he, indeed?’ rejoined Mr. Snawley, looking at the poor little urchin
as if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity.

‘He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,’ said Squeers. ‘That’s his luggage
that he is a sitting upon now. Each boy is required to bring, sir, two
suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stockings, two nightcaps, two
pocket-handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats, and a razor.’

‘A razor!’ exclaimed Mr. Snawley, as they walked into the next box. ‘What
for?’

‘To shave with,’ replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.

There was not much in these three words, but there must have been
something in the manner in which they were said, to attract attention;
for the schoolmaster and his companion looked steadily at each other for
a few seconds, and then exchanged a very meaning smile. Snawley was a
sleek, flat-nosed man, clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters,
and bearing in his countenance an expression of much mortification
and sanctity; so, his smiling without any obvious reason was the more
remarkable.

‘Up to what age do you keep boys at your school then?’ he asked at
length.

‘Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments to my agent
in town, or until such time as they run away,’ replied Squeers. ‘Let
us understand each other; I see we may safely do so. What are these
boys;--natural children?’

‘No,’ rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the schoolmaster’s one eye.
‘They ain’t.’

‘I thought they might be,’ said Squeers, coolly. ‘We have a good many of
them; that boy’s one.’

‘Him in the next box?’ said Snawley.

Squeers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took another peep at
the little boy on the trunk, and, turning round again, looked as if he
were quite disappointed to see him so much like other boys, and said he
should hardly have thought it.

‘He is,’ cried Squeers. ‘But about these boys of yours; you wanted to
speak to me?’

‘Yes,’ replied Snawley. ‘The fact is, I am not their father, Mr. Squeers.
I’m only their father-in-law.’

‘Oh! Is that it?’ said the schoolmaster. ‘That explains it at once. I
was wondering what the devil you were going to send them to Yorkshire
for. Ha! ha! Oh, I understand now.’

‘You see I have married the mother,’ pursued Snawley; ‘it’s expensive
keeping boys at home, and as she has a little money in her own right, I
am afraid (women are so very foolish, Mr. Squeers) that she might be led
to squander it on them, which would be their ruin, you know.’

‘I see,’ returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his chair, and
waving his hand.

‘And this,’ resumed Snawley, ‘has made me anxious to put them to some
school a good distance off, where there are no holidays--none of those
ill-judged coming home twice a year that unsettle children’s minds
so--and where they may rough it a little--you comprehend?’

‘The payments regular, and no questions asked,’ said Squeers, nodding
his head.

‘That’s it, exactly,’ rejoined the other. ‘Morals strictly attended to,
though.’

‘Strictly,’ said Squeers.

‘Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?’ said the father-in-law,
hesitating.

‘None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were so happy,
and hope they may never be sent for,’ rejoined Squeers.

‘Nothing could be better,’ said the father-in-law, rubbing his hands.

‘Then, as we understand each other,’ said Squeers, ‘will you allow me
to ask you whether you consider me a highly virtuous, exemplary, and
well-conducted man in private life; and whether, as a person whose
business it is to take charge of youth, you place the strongest
confidence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality, religious
principles, and ability?’

‘Certainly I do,’ replied the father-in-law, reciprocating the
schoolmaster’s grin.

‘Perhaps you won’t object to say that, if I make you a reference?’

‘Not the least in the world.’

‘That’s your sort!’ said Squeers, taking up a pen; ‘this is doing
business, and that’s what I like.’

Having entered Mr. Snawley’s address, the schoolmaster had next to
perform the still more agreeable office of entering the receipt of the
first quarter’s payment in advance, which he had scarcely completed,
when another voice was heard inquiring for Mr. Squeers.

‘Here he is,’ replied the schoolmaster; ‘what is it?’

‘Only a matter of business, sir,’ said Ralph Nickleby, presenting
himself, closely followed by Nicholas. ‘There was an advertisement of
yours in the papers this morning?’

‘There was, sir. This way, if you please,’ said Squeers, who had by this
time got back to the box by the fire-place. ‘Won’t you be seated?’

‘Why, I think I will,’ replied Ralph, suiting the action to the word,
and placing his hat on the table before him. ‘This is my nephew, sir, Mr
Nicholas Nickleby.’

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Squeers.

Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very much astonished
at the outward appearance of the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall: as indeed
he was.

‘Perhaps you recollect me?’ said Ralph, looking narrowly at the
schoolmaster.

‘You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits to town,
for some years, I think, sir,’ replied Squeers.

‘I did,’ rejoined Ralph.

‘For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortunately--’

‘--unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,’ said Ralph, finishing the
sentence.

‘I remember very well, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Ah! Mrs. Squeers, sir,
was as partial to that lad as if he had been her own; the attention,
sir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his illness! Dry toast and
warm tea offered him every night and morning when he couldn’t swallow
anything--a candle in his bedroom on the very night he died--the best
dictionary sent up for him to lay his head upon--I don’t regret it
though. It is a pleasant thing to reflect that one did one’s duty by
him.’

Ralph smiled, as if he meant anything but smiling, and looked round at
the strangers present.

‘These are only some pupils of mine,’ said Wackford Squeers, pointing
to the little boy on the trunk and the two little boys on the floor,
who had been staring at each other without uttering a word, and writhing
their bodies into most remarkable contortions, according to the custom
of little boys when they first become acquainted. ‘This gentleman,
sir, is a parent who is kind enough to compliment me upon the course
of education adopted at Dotheboys Hall, which is situated, sir, at the
delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,
where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with
pocket-money--’

‘Yes, we know all about that, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, testily. ‘It’s in
the advertisement.’

‘You are very right, sir; it IS in the advertisement,’ replied Squeers.

‘And in the matter of fact besides,’ interrupted Mr. Snawley. ‘I feel
bound to assure you, sir, and I am proud to have this opportunity OF
assuring you, that I consider Mr. Squeers a gentleman highly virtuous,
exemplary, well conducted, and--’

‘I make no doubt of it, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, checking the torrent of
recommendation; ‘no doubt of it at all. Suppose we come to business?’

‘With all my heart, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘“Never postpone business,”
 is the very first lesson we instil into our commercial pupils. Master
Belling, my dear, always remember that; do you hear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Master Belling.

‘He recollects what it is, does he?’ said Ralph.

‘Tell the gentleman,’ said Squeers.

‘“Never,”’ repeated Master Belling.

‘Very good,’ said Squeers; ‘go on.’

‘Never,’ repeated Master Belling again.

‘Very good indeed,’ said Squeers. ‘Yes.’

‘P,’ suggested Nicholas, good-naturedly.

‘Perform--business!’ said Master Belling. ‘Never--perform--business!’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Squeers, darting a withering look at the culprit.
‘You and I will perform a little business on our private account
by-and-by.’

‘And just now,’ said Ralph, ‘we had better transact our own, perhaps.’

‘If you please,’ said Squeers.

‘Well,’ resumed Ralph, ‘it’s brief enough; soon broached; and I hope
easily concluded. You have advertised for an able assistant, sir?’

‘Precisely so,’ said Squeers.

‘And you really want one?’

‘Certainly,’ answered Squeers.

‘Here he is!’ said Ralph. ‘My nephew Nicholas, hot from school,
with everything he learnt there, fermenting in his head, and nothing
fermenting in his pocket, is just the man you want.’

‘I am afraid,’ said Squeers, perplexed with such an application from a
youth of Nicholas’s figure, ‘I am afraid the young man won’t suit me.’

‘Yes, he will,’ said Ralph; ‘I know better. Don’t be cast down, sir; you
will be teaching all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hall in less than a
week’s time, unless this gentleman is more obstinate than I take him to
be.’

‘I fear, sir,’ said Nicholas, addressing Mr. Squeers, ‘that you object to
my youth, and to my not being a Master of Arts?’

‘The absence of a college degree IS an objection,’ replied Squeers,
looking as grave as he could, and considerably puzzled, no less by the
contrast between the simplicity of the nephew and the worldly manner of
the uncle, than by the incomprehensible allusion to the young noblemen
under his tuition.

‘Look here, sir,’ said Ralph; ‘I’ll put this matter in its true light in
two seconds.’

‘If you’ll have the goodness,’ rejoined Squeers.

‘This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or a hobbledehoy,
or whatever you like to call him, of eighteen or nineteen, or
thereabouts,’ said Ralph.

‘That I see,’ observed the schoolmaster.

‘So do I,’ said Mr. Snawley, thinking it as well to back his new friend
occasionally.

‘His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has no
resources whatever, and wants something to do,’ said Ralph. ‘I recommend
him to this splendid establishment of yours, as an opening which will
lead him to fortune if he turns it to proper account. Do you see that?’

‘Everybody must see that,’ replied Squeers, half imitating the sneer
with which the old gentleman was regarding his unconscious relative.

‘I do, of course,’ said Nicholas, eagerly.

‘He does, of course, you observe,’ said Ralph, in the same dry, hard
manner. ‘If any caprice of temper should induce him to cast aside this
golden opportunity before he has brought it to perfection, I consider
myself absolved from extending any assistance to his mother and sister.
Look at him, and think of the use he may be to you in half-a-dozen ways!
Now, the question is, whether, for some time to come at all events, he
won’t serve your purpose better than twenty of the kind of people
you would get under ordinary circumstances. Isn’t that a question for
consideration?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph’s head with a nod
of his own.

‘Good,’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Let me have two words with you.’

The two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes Mr. Wackford Squeers
announced that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby was, from that moment, thoroughly
nominated to, and installed in, the office of first assistant master at
Dotheboys Hall.

‘Your uncle’s recommendation has done it, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Wackford
Squeers.

Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle’s hand warmly, and
could almost have worshipped Squeers upon the spot.

‘He is an odd-looking man,’ thought Nicholas. ‘What of that? Porson was
an odd-looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; all these bookworms are.’

‘At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Squeers, ‘the
coach starts. You must be here at a quarter before, as we take these
boys with us.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘And your fare down, I have paid,’ growled Ralph. ‘So, you’ll have
nothing to do but keep yourself warm.’

Here was another instance of his uncle’s generosity! Nicholas felt his
unexpected kindness so much, that he could scarcely find words to thank
him; indeed, he had not found half enough, when they took leave of the
schoolmaster, and emerged from the Saracen’s Head gateway.

‘I shall be here in the morning to see you fairly off,’ said Ralph. ‘No
skulking!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I never shall forget this
kindness.’

‘Take care you don’t,’ replied his uncle. ‘You had better go home now,
and pack up what you have got to pack. Do you think you could find your
way to Golden Square first?’

‘Certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can easily inquire.’

‘Leave these papers with my clerk, then,’ said Ralph, producing a small
parcel, ‘and tell him to wait till I come home.’

Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding his worthy
uncle an affectionate farewell, which that warm-hearted old gentleman
acknowledged by a growl, hastened away to execute his commission.

He found Golden Square in due course; Mr. Noggs, who had stepped out
for a minute or so to the public-house, was opening the door with a
latch-key, as he reached the steps.

‘What’s that?’ inquired Noggs, pointing to the parcel.

‘Papers from my uncle,’ replied Nicholas; ‘and you’re to have the
goodness to wait till he comes home, if you please.’

‘Uncle!’ cried Noggs.

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said Nicholas in explanation.

‘Come in,’ said Newman.

Without another word he led Nicholas into the passage, and thence into
the official pantry at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair,
and mounting upon his high stool, sat, with his arms hanging, straight
down by his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, as from a tower of
observation.

‘There is no answer,’ said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a table beside
him.

Newman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting his head
forward so as to obtain a nearer view of Nicholas’s face, scanned his
features closely.

‘No answer,’ said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under the impression
that Newman Noggs was deaf.

Newman placed his hands upon his knees, and, without uttering a
syllable, continued the same close scrutiny of his companion’s face.

This was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utter
stranger, and his appearance was so extremely peculiar, that Nicholas,
who had a sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, could not refrain
from breaking into a smile as he inquired whether Mr. Noggs had any
commands for him.

Noggs shook his head and sighed; upon which Nicholas rose, and remarking
that he required no rest, bade him good-morning.

It was a great exertion for Newman Noggs, and nobody knows to this day
how he ever came to make it, the other party being wholly unknown to
him, but he drew a long breath and actually said, out loud, without once
stopping, that if the young gentleman did not object to tell, he should
like to know what his uncle was going to do for him.

Nicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on the contrary
was rather pleased to have an opportunity of talking on the subject
which occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down again, and (his sanguine
imagination warming as he spoke) entered into a fervent and glowing
description of all the honours and advantages to be derived from his
appointment at that seat of learning, Dotheboys Hall.

‘But, what’s the matter--are you ill?’ said Nicholas, suddenly breaking
off, as his companion, after throwing himself into a variety of
uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the stool, and cracked his
finger-joints as if he were snapping all the bones in his hands.

Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging his shoulders and
cracking his finger-joints; smiling horribly all the time, and looking
steadfastly at nothing, out of the tops of his eyes, in a most ghastly
manner.

At first, Nicholas thought the mysterious man was in a fit, but, on
further consideration, decided that he was in liquor, under which
circumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at once. He looked back
when he had got the street-door open. Newman Noggs was still indulging
in the same extraordinary gestures, and the cracking of his fingers
sounded louder that ever.



CHAPTER 5

Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-taking and his
Fellow-Travellers, and what befell them on the Road


If tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve its owner from
sorrow and misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby would have commenced his
expedition under most happy auspices. There was so much to be done, and
so little time to do it in; so many kind words to be spoken, and such
bitter pain in the hearts in which they rose to impede their utterance;
that the little preparations for his journey were made mournfully
indeed. A hundred things which the anxious care of his mother and sister
deemed indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted on leaving
behind, as they might prove of some after use, or might be convertible
into money if occasion required. A hundred affectionate contests on
such points as these, took place on the sad night which preceded his
departure; and, as the termination of every angerless dispute brought
them nearer and nearer to the close of their slight preparations, Kate
grew busier and busier, and wept more silently.

The box was packed at last, and then there came supper, with some little
delicacy provided for the occasion, and as a set-off against the expense
of which, Kate and her mother had feigned to dine when Nicholas was out.
The poor lad nearly choked himself by attempting to partake of it,
and almost suffocated himself in affecting a jest or two, and forcing a
melancholy laugh. Thus, they lingered on till the hour of separating
for the night was long past; and then they found that they might as
well have given vent to their real feelings before, for they could not
suppress them, do what they would. So, they let them have their way, and
even that was a relief.

Nicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or of what
was home once--no matter which, for things that are changed or gone will
come back as they used to be, thank God! in sleep--and rose quite brisk
and gay. He wrote a few lines in pencil, to say the goodbye which he was
afraid to pronounce himself, and laying them, with half his scanty stock
of money, at his sister’s door, shouldered his box and crept softly
downstairs.

‘Is that you, Hannah?’ cried a voice from Miss La Creevy’s sitting-room,
whence shone the light of a feeble candle.

‘It is I, Miss La Creevy,’ said Nicholas, putting down the box and
looking in.

‘Bless us!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting her hand to
her curl-papers. ‘You’re up very early, Mr. Nickleby.’

‘So are you,’ replied Nicholas.

‘It’s the fine arts that bring me out of bed, Mr. Nickleby,’ returned the
lady. ‘I’m waiting for the light to carry out an idea.’

Miss La Creevy had got up early to put a fancy nose into a miniature of
an ugly little boy, destined for his grandmother in the country, who was
expected to bequeath him property if he was like the family.

‘To carry out an idea,’ repeated Miss La Creevy; ‘and that’s the great
convenience of living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. When I want
a nose or an eye for any particular sitter, I have only to look out of
window and wait till I get one.’

‘Does it take long to get a nose, now?’ inquired Nicholas, smiling.

‘Why, that depends in a great measure on the pattern,’ replied Miss La
Creevy. ‘Snubs and Romans are plentiful enough, and there are flats of
all sorts and sizes when there’s a meeting at Exeter Hall; but perfect
aquilines, I am sorry to say, are scarce, and we generally use them for
uniforms or public characters.’

‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas. ‘If I should meet with any in my travels, I’ll
endeavour to sketch them for you.’

‘You don’t mean to say that you are really going all the way down into
Yorkshire this cold winter’s weather, Mr. Nickleby?’ said Miss La Creevy.
‘I heard something of it last night.’

‘I do, indeed,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Needs must, you know, when somebody
drives. Necessity is my driver, and that is only another name for the
same gentleman.’

‘Well, I am very sorry for it; that’s all I can say,’ said Miss La
Creevy; ‘as much on your mother’s and sister’s account as on yours.
Your sister is a very pretty young lady, Mr. Nickleby, and that is
an additional reason why she should have somebody to protect her. I
persuaded her to give me a sitting or two, for the street-door case.
‘Ah! she’ll make a sweet miniature.’ As Miss La Creevy spoke, she held
up an ivory countenance intersected with very perceptible sky-blue
veins, and regarded it with so much complacency, that Nicholas quite
envied her.

‘If you ever have an opportunity of showing Kate some little kindness,’
said Nicholas, presenting his hand, ‘I think you will.’

‘Depend upon that,’ said the good-natured miniature painter; ‘and God
bless you, Mr. Nickleby; and I wish you well.’

It was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed
enough about its ways to think, that if he gave Miss La Creevy one
little kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindly disposed towards
those he was leaving behind. So, he gave her three or four with a kind
of jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of
displeasure than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she
had never heard of such a thing, and couldn’t have believed it possible.

Having terminated the unexpected interview in this satisfactory manner,
Nicholas hastily withdrew himself from the house. By the time he had
found a man to carry his box it was only seven o’clock, so he walked
slowly on, a little in advance of the porter, and very probably with not
half as light a heart in his breast as the man had, although he had no
waistcoat to cover it with, and had evidently, from the appearance of
his other garments, been spending the night in a stable, and taking his
breakfast at a pump.

Regarding, with no small curiosity and interest, all the busy
preparations for the coming day which every street and almost every
house displayed; and thinking, now and then, that it seemed rather hard
that so many people of all ranks and stations could earn a livelihood in
London, and that he should be compelled to journey so far in search of
one; Nicholas speedily arrived at the Saracen’s Head, Snow Hill. Having
dismissed his attendant, and seen the box safely deposited in the
coach-office, he looked into the coffee-room in search of Mr. Squeers.

He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with the three
little boys before noticed, and two others who had turned up by some
lucky chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on
the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee,
a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that
moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.

‘This is twopenn’orth of milk, is it, waiter?’ said Mr. Squeers, looking
down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an
accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.

‘That’s twopenn’orth, sir,’ replied the waiter.

‘What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!’ said Mr. Squeers,
with a sigh. ‘Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will
you?’

‘To the wery top, sir?’ inquired the waiter. ‘Why, the milk will be
drownded.’

‘Never you mind that,’ replied Mr. Squeers. ‘Serve it right for being so
dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?’

‘Coming directly, sir.’

‘You needn’t hurry yourself,’ said Squeers; ‘there’s plenty of time.
Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t be eager after vittles.’ As he
uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold
beef, and recognised Nicholas.

‘Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Squeers. ‘Here we are, a breakfasting you
see!’

Nicholas did NOT see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr. Squeers;
but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he
could.

‘Oh! that’s the milk and water, is it, William?’ said Squeers. ‘Very
good; don’t forget the bread and butter presently.’

At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys
looked very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes;
meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.

‘Ah!’ said that gentleman, smacking his lips, ‘here’s richness! Think of
the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this,
little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn’t it, Mr. Nickleby?’

‘Very shocking, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘When I say number one,’ pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the
children, ‘the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink;
and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we
come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir,’ cried all the little boys with great eagerness.

‘That’s right,’ said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast;
‘keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears,
and you’ve conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength
of mind, Mr. Nickleby,’ said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and
speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.

Nicholas murmured something--he knew not what--in reply; and the little
boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which
had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into
his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.

‘Thank God for a good breakfast,’ said Squeers, when he had finished.
‘Number one may take a drink.’

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make
him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who
gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process
was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.

‘And now,’ said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for
three into as many portions as there were children, ‘you had better look
sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two,
and then every boy leaves off.’

Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat
voraciously, and in desperate haste: while the schoolmaster (who was
in high good humour after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and
looked smilingly on. In a very short time, the horn was heard.

‘I thought it wouldn’t be long,’ said Squeers, jumping up and producing
a little basket from under the seat; ‘put what you haven’t had time to
eat, in here, boys! You’ll want it on the road!’

Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical
arrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little
boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and their boxes had to
be brought out and put in, and Mr. Squeers’s luggage was to be seen
carefully deposited in the boot, and all these offices were in his
department. He was in the full heat and bustle of concluding these
operations, when his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, accosted him.

‘Oh! here you are, sir!’ said Ralph. ‘Here are your mother and sister,
sir.’

‘Where?’ cried Nicholas, looking hastily round.

‘Here!’ replied his uncle. ‘Having too much money and nothing at all to
do with it, they were paying a hackney coach as I came up, sir.’

‘We were afraid of being too late to see him before he went away from
us,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless of the unconcerned
lookers-on in the coach-yard.

‘Very good, ma’am,’ returned Ralph, ‘you’re the best judge of course. I
merely said that you were paying a hackney coach. I never pay a hackney
coach, ma’am; I never hire one. I haven’t been in a hackney coach of my
own hiring, for thirty years, and I hope I shan’t be for thirty more, if
I live as long.’

‘I should never have forgiven myself if I had not seen him,’ said Mrs
Nickleby. ‘Poor dear boy--going away without his breakfast too, because
he feared to distress us!’

‘Mighty fine certainly,’ said Ralph, with great testiness. ‘When I first
went to business, ma’am, I took a penny loaf and a ha’porth of milk for
my breakfast as I walked to the city every morning; what do you say to
that, ma’am? Breakfast! Bah!’

‘Now, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, coming up at the moment buttoning his
greatcoat; ‘I think you’d better get up behind. I’m afraid of one of
them boys falling off and then there’s twenty pound a year gone.’

‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, touching her brother’s arm, ‘who is
that vulgar man?’

‘Eh!’ growled Ralph, whose quick ears had caught the inquiry. ‘Do you
wish to be introduced to Mr. Squeers, my dear?’

‘That the schoolmaster! No, uncle. Oh no!’ replied Kate, shrinking back.

‘I’m sure I heard you say as much, my dear,’ retorted Ralph in his cold
sarcastic manner. ‘Mr. Squeers, here’s my niece: Nicholas’s sister!’

‘Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,’ said Squeers, raising his
hat an inch or two. ‘I wish Mrs. Squeers took gals, and we had you for a
teacher. I don’t know, though, whether she mightn’t grow jealous if we
had. Ha! ha! ha!’

If the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could have known what was passing
in his assistant’s breast at that moment, he would have discovered, with
some surprise, that he was as near being soundly pummelled as he had
ever been in his life. Kate Nickleby, having a quicker perception of her
brother’s emotions, led him gently aside, and thus prevented Mr. Squeers
from being impressed with the fact in a peculiarly disagreeable manner.

‘My dear Nicholas,’ said the young lady, ‘who is this man? What kind of
place can it be that you are going to?’

‘I hardly know, Kate,’ replied Nicholas, pressing his sister’s hand. ‘I
suppose the Yorkshire folks are rather rough and uncultivated; that’s
all.’

‘But this person,’ urged Kate.

‘Is my employer, or master, or whatever the proper name may be,’ replied
Nicholas quickly; ‘and I was an ass to take his coarseness ill. They are
looking this way, and it is time I was in my place. Bless you, love,
and goodbye! Mother, look forward to our meeting again someday! Uncle,
farewell! Thank you heartily for all you have done and all you mean to
do. Quite ready, sir!’

With these hasty adieux, Nicholas mounted nimbly to his seat, and waved
his hand as gallantly as if his heart went with it.

At this moment, when the coachman and guard were comparing notes for the
last time before starting, on the subject of the way-bill; when porters
were screwing out the last reluctant sixpences, itinerant newsmen
making the last offer of a morning paper, and the horses giving the last
impatient rattle to their harness; Nicholas felt somebody pulling softly
at his leg. He looked down, and there stood Newman Noggs, who pushed up
into his hand a dirty letter.

‘What’s this?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘Hush!’ rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr. Ralph Nickleby, who was saying a
few earnest words to Squeers, a short distance off: ‘Take it. Read it.
Nobody knows. That’s all.’

‘Stop!’ cried Nicholas.

‘No,’ replied Noggs.

Nicholas cried stop, again, but Newman Noggs was gone.

A minute’s bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a swaying of the
vehicle to one side, as the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard,
climbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few notes from the horn,
a hasty glance of two sorrowful faces below, and the hard features of Mr
Ralph Nickleby--and the coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones
of Smithfield.

The little boys’ legs being too short to admit of their feet
resting upon anything as they sat, and the little boys’ bodies being
consequently in imminent hazard of being jerked off the coach, Nicholas
had enough to do over the stones to hold them on. Between the manual
exertion and the mental anxiety attendant upon this task, he was not a
little relieved when the coach stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He
was still more relieved when a hearty-looking gentleman, with a very
good-humoured face, and a very fresh colour, got up behind, and proposed
to take the other corner of the seat.

‘If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,’ said the new-comer,
‘they’ll be safer in case of their going to sleep; eh?’

‘If you’ll have the goodness, sir,’ replied Squeers, ‘that’ll be the
very thing. Mr. Nickleby, take three of them boys between you and the
gentleman. Belling and the youngest Snawley can sit between me and the
guard. Three children,’ said Squeers, explaining to the stranger, ‘books
as two.’

‘I have not the least objection I am sure,’ said the fresh-coloured
gentleman; ‘I have a brother who wouldn’t object to book his six
children as two at any butcher’s or baker’s in the kingdom, I dare say.
Far from it.’

‘Six children, sir?’ exclaimed Squeers.

‘Yes, and all boys,’ replied the stranger.

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said Squeers, in great haste, ‘catch hold of that basket.
Let me give you a card, sir, of an establishment where those six boys
can be brought up in an enlightened, liberal, and moral manner, with no
mistake at all about it, for twenty guineas a year each--twenty guineas,
sir--or I’d take all the boys together upon a average right through, and
say a hundred pound a year for the lot.’

‘Oh!’ said the gentleman, glancing at the card, ‘you are the Mr. Squeers
mentioned here, I presume?’

‘Yes, I am, sir,’ replied the worthy pedagogue; ‘Mr. Wackford Squeers is
my name, and I’m very far from being ashamed of it. These are some of my
boys, sir; that’s one of my assistants, sir--Mr. Nickleby, a gentleman’s
son, and a good scholar, mathematical, classical, and commercial. We
don’t do things by halves at our shop. All manner of learning my boys
take down, sir; the expense is never thought of; and they get paternal
treatment and washing in.’

‘Upon my word,’ said the gentleman, glancing at Nicholas with a
half-smile, and a more than half expression of surprise, ‘these are
advantages indeed.’

‘You may say that, sir,’ rejoined Squeers, thrusting his hands into his
great-coat pockets. ‘The most unexceptionable references are given
and required. I wouldn’t take a reference with any boy, that wasn’t
responsible for the payment of five pound five a quarter, no, not if you
went down on your knees, and asked me, with the tears running down your
face, to do it.’

‘Highly considerate,’ said the passenger.

‘It’s my great aim and end to be considerate, sir,’ rejoined Squeers.
‘Snawley, junior, if you don’t leave off chattering your teeth, and
shaking with the cold, I’ll warm you with a severe thrashing in about
half a minute’s time.’

‘Sit fast here, genelmen,’ said the guard as he clambered up.

‘All right behind there, Dick?’ cried the coachman.

‘All right,’ was the reply. ‘Off she goes!’ And off she did go--if
coaches be feminine--amidst a loud flourish from the guard’s horn,
and the calm approval of all the judges of coaches and coach-horses
congregated at the Peacock, but more especially of the helpers, who
stood, with the cloths over their arms, watching the coach till it
disappeared, and then lounged admiringly stablewards, bestowing various
gruff encomiums on the beauty of the turn-out.

When the guard (who was a stout old Yorkshireman) had blown himself
quite out of breath, he put the horn into a little tunnel of a basket
fastened to the coach-side for the purpose, and giving himself a
plentiful shower of blows on the chest and shoulders, observed it was
uncommon cold; after which, he demanded of every person separately
whether he was going right through, and if not, where he WAS going.
Satisfactory replies being made to these queries, he surmised that the
roads were pretty heavy arter that fall last night, and took the
liberty of asking whether any of them gentlemen carried a snuff-box. It
happening that nobody did, he remarked with a mysterious air that he had
heard a medical gentleman as went down to Grantham last week, say how
that snuff-taking was bad for the eyes; but for his part he had never
found it so, and what he said was, that everybody should speak as they
found. Nobody attempting to controvert this position, he took a small
brown-paper parcel out of his hat, and putting on a pair of horn
spectacles (the writing being crabbed) read the direction half-a-dozen
times over; having done which, he consigned the parcel to its old place,
put up his spectacles again, and stared at everybody in turn. After
this, he took another blow at the horn by way of refreshment; and,
having now exhausted his usual topics of conversation, folded his arms
as well as he could in so many coats, and falling into a solemn silence,
looked carelessly at the familiar objects which met his eye on every
side as the coach rolled on; the only things he seemed to care for,
being horses and droves of cattle, which he scrutinised with a critical
air as they were passed upon the road.

The weather was intensely and bitterly cold; a great deal of snow fell
from time to time; and the wind was intolerably keen. Mr. Squeers got
down at almost every stage--to stretch his legs as he said--and as he
always came back from such excursions with a very red nose, and composed
himself to sleep directly, there is reason to suppose that he derived
great benefit from the process. The little pupils having been stimulated
with the remains of their breakfast, and further invigorated by sundry
small cups of a curious cordial carried by Mr. Squeers, which tasted very
like toast-and-water put into a brandy bottle by mistake, went to sleep,
woke, shivered, and cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholas and
the good-tempered man found so many things to talk about, that between
conversing together, and cheering up the boys, the time passed with them
as rapidly as it could, under such adverse circumstances.

So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good coach dinner, of
which the box, the four front outsides, the one inside, Nicholas, the
good-tempered man, and Mr. Squeers, partook; while the five little boys
were put to thaw by the fire, and regaled with sandwiches. A stage or
two further on, the lamps were lighted, and a great to-do occasioned
by the taking up, at a roadside inn, of a very fastidious lady with an
infinite variety of cloaks and small parcels, who loudly lamented, for
the behoof of the outsides, the non-arrival of her own carriage which
was to have taken her on, and made the guard solemnly promise to stop
every green chariot he saw coming; which, as it was a dark night and he
was sitting with his face the other way, that officer undertook, with
many fervent asseverations, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, finding
there was a solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lighted which
she carried in reticule, and being after much trouble shut in, the
horses were put into a brisk canter and the coach was once more in rapid
motion.

The night and the snow came on together, and dismal enough they were.
There was no sound to be heard but the howling of the wind; for the
noise of the wheels, and the tread of the horses’ feet, were rendered
inaudible by the thick coating of snow which covered the ground, and was
fast increasing every moment. The streets of Stamford were deserted as
they passed through the town; and its old churches rose, frowning and
dark, from the whitened ground. Twenty miles further on, two of the
front outside passengers, wisely availing themselves of their arrival at
one of the best inns in England, turned in, for the night, at the George
at Grantham. The remainder wrapped themselves more closely in their
coats and cloaks, and leaving the light and warmth of the town behind
them, pillowed themselves against the luggage, and prepared, with many
half-suppressed moans, again to encounter the piercing blast which swept
across the open country.

They were little more than a stage out of Grantham, or about halfway
between it and Newark, when Nicholas, who had been asleep for a short
time, was suddenly roused by a violent jerk which nearly threw him from
his seat. Grasping the rail, he found that the coach had sunk greatly
on one side, though it was still dragged forward by the horses; and
while--confused by their plunging and the loud screams of the lady
inside--he hesitated, for an instant, whether to jump off or not,
the vehicle turned easily over, and relieved him from all further
uncertainty by flinging him into the road.



CHAPTER 6

In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter,
affords an Opportunity to a couple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against
each other


‘Wo ho!’ cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, and running to the
leaders’ heads. ‘Is there ony genelmen there as can len’ a hond here?
Keep quiet, dang ye! Wo ho!’

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Nicholas, looking sleepily up.

‘Matther mun, matter eneaf for one neight,’ replied the guard; ‘dang the
wall-eyed bay, he’s gane mad wi’ glory I think, carse t’coorch is over.
Here, can’t ye len’ a hond? Dom it, I’d ha’ dean it if all my boans were
brokken.’

‘Here!’ cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, ‘I’m ready. I’m only a
little abroad, that’s all.’

‘Hoold ‘em toight,’ cried the guard, ‘while ar coot treaces. Hang on
tiv’em sumhoo. Well deane, my lod. That’s it. Let’em goa noo. Dang ‘em,
they’ll gang whoam fast eneaf!’

In truth, the animals were no sooner released than they trotted back,
with much deliberation, to the stable they had just left, which was
distant not a mile behind.

‘Can you blo’ a harn?’ asked the guard, disengaging one of the
coach-lamps.

‘I dare say I can,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Then just blo’ away into that ‘un as lies on the grund, fit to wakken
the deead, will’ee,’ said the man, ‘while I stop sum o’ this here
squealing inside. Cumin’, cumin’. Dean’t make that noise, wooman.’

As the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench open the uppermost door of the
coach, while Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke the echoes far and wide
with one of the most extraordinary performances on that instrument ever
heard by mortal ears. It had its effect, however, not only in rousing
such of their fall, but in summoning assistance to their relief; for
lights gleamed in the distance, and people were already astir.

In fact, a man on horseback galloped down, before the passengers were
well collected together; and a careful investigation being instituted,
it appeared that the lady inside had broken her lamp, and the gentleman
his head; that the two front outsides had escaped with black eyes; the
box with a bloody nose; the coachman with a contusion on the temple;
Mr. Squeers with a portmanteau bruise on his back; and the remaining
passengers without any injury at all--thanks to the softness of the
snow-drift in which they had been overturned. These facts were no
sooner thoroughly ascertained, than the lady gave several indications of
fainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carried on
some gentleman’s shoulders to the nearest public-house, she prudently
thought better of it, and walked back with the rest.

They found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with no very great
accommodation in the way of apartments--that portion of its resources
being all comprised in one public room with a sanded floor, and a chair
or two. However, a large faggot and a plentiful supply of coals being
heaped upon the fire, the appearance of things was not long in mending;
and, by the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late
accident, the room was warm and light, which was a most agreeable
exchange for the cold and darkness out of doors.

‘Well, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Squeers, insinuating himself into the warmest
corner, ‘you did very right to catch hold of them horses. I should have
done it myself if I had come to in time, but I am very glad you did it.
You did it very well; very well.’

‘So well,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem to approve
very much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers, ‘that if they had
not been firmly checked when they were, you would most probably have had
no brains left to teach with.’

This remark called up a discourse relative to the promptitude
Nicholas had displayed, and he was overwhelmed with compliments and
commendations.

‘I am very glad to have escaped, of course,’ observed Squeers: ‘every
man is glad when he escapes from danger; but if any one of my charges
had been hurt--if I had been prevented from restoring any one of these
little boys to his parents whole and sound as I received him--what would
have been my feelings? Why the wheel a-top of my head would have been
far preferable to it.’

‘Are they all brothers, sir?’ inquired the lady who had carried the
‘Davy’ or safety-lamp.

‘In one sense they are, ma’am,’ replied Squeers, diving into his
greatcoat pocket for cards. ‘They are all under the same parental and
affectionate treatment. Mrs. Squeers and myself are a mother and father
to every one of ‘em. Mr. Nickleby, hand the lady them cards, and offer
these to the gentleman. Perhaps they might know of some parents that
would be glad to avail themselves of the establishment.’

Expressing himself to this effect, Mr. Squeers, who lost no opportunity
of advertising gratuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and looked
at the pupils with as much benignity as he could possibly affect, while
Nicholas, blushing with shame, handed round the cards as directed.

‘I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma’am?’ said the
merry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as though he were
charitably desirous to change the subject.

‘No bodily inconvenience,’ replied the lady.

‘No mental inconvenience, I hope?’

‘The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,’ replied the
lady with strong emotion; ‘and I beg you as a gentleman, not to refer to
it.’

‘Dear me,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrier still, ‘I
merely intended to inquire--’

‘I hope no inquiries will be made,’ said the lady, ‘or I shall be
compelled to throw myself on the protection of the other gentlemen.
Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside the door--and if
a green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham, to stop it
instantly.’

The people of the house were evidently overcome by this request, and
when the lady charged the boy to remember, as a means of identifying the
expected green chariot, that it would have a coachman with a gold-laced
hat on the box, and a footman, most probably in silk stockings, behind,
the attentions of the good woman of the inn were redoubled. Even the
box-passenger caught the infection, and growing wonderfully deferential,
immediately inquired whether there was not very good society in that
neighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner
which sufficiently implied that she moved at the very tiptop and summit
of it all.

‘As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to get another coach,’
said the good-tempered gentleman when they had been all sitting round
the fire, for some time, in silence, ‘and as he must be gone a couple
of hours at the very least, I propose a bowl of hot punch. What say you,
sir?’

This question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, who was a man
of very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not past the
middle age, but his hair was grey; it seemed to have been prematurely
turned by care or sorrow. He readily acceded to the proposal, and
appeared to be prepossessed by the frank good-nature of the individual
from whom it emanated.

This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapster when the
punch was ready, and after dispensing it all round, led the conversation
to the antiquities of York, with which both he and the grey-haired
gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. When this topic flagged, he
turned with a smile to the grey-headed gentleman, and asked if he could
sing.

‘I cannot indeed,’ replied gentleman, smiling in his turn.

‘That’s a pity,’ said the owner of the good-humoured countenance. ‘Is
there nobody here who can sing a song to lighten the time?’

The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; that they
wished they could; that they couldn’t remember the words of anything
without the book; and so forth.

‘Perhaps the lady would not object,’ said the president with great
respect, and a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘Some little Italian thing out
of the last opera brought out in town, would be most acceptable I am
sure.’

As the lady condescended to make no reply, but tossed her head
contemptuously, and murmured some further expression of surprise
regarding the absence of the green chariot, one or two voices urged
upon the president himself, the propriety of making an attempt for the
general benefit.

‘I would if I could,’ said he of the good-tempered face; ‘for I hold
that in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers to
each other are thrown unexpectedly together, they should endeavour
to render themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake of the little
community, as possible.’

‘I wish the maxim were more generally acted on, in all cases,’ said the
grey-headed gentleman.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ returned the other. ‘Perhaps, as you can’t sing,
you’ll tell us a story?’

‘Nay. I should ask you.’

‘After you, I will, with pleasure.’

‘Indeed!’ said the grey-haired gentleman, smiling, ‘Well, let it be so.
I fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten the time
you must pass here; but you have brought this upon yourselves, and shall
judge. We were speaking of York Minster just now. My story shall have
some reference to it. Let us call it


THE FIVE SISTERS OF YORK


After a murmur of approbation from the other passengers, during which
the fastidious lady drank a glass of punch unobserved, the grey-headed
gentleman thus went on:

‘A great many years ago--for the fifteenth century was scarce two
years old at the time, and King Henry the Fourth sat upon the throne of
England--there dwelt, in the ancient city of York, five maiden sisters,
the subjects of my tale.

‘These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest was in her
twenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third a year younger
than the second, and the fourth a year younger than the third. They were
tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair of jet; dignity
and grace were in their every movement; and the fame of their great
beauty had spread through all the country round.

‘But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was the
youngest, a fair creature of sixteen! The blushing tints in the soft
bloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the flower, are not more
exquisite than was the blending of the rose and lily in her gentle face,
or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegant luxuriance, is
not more graceful than were the clusters of rich brown hair that sported
round her brow.

‘If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in the bosoms of
the young and beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be! If, while
our bodies grow old and withered, our hearts could but retain their
early youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows and
sufferings! But, the faint image of Eden which is stamped upon them in
childhood, chafes and rubs in our rough struggles with the world,
and soon wears away: too often to leave nothing but a mournful blank
remaining.

‘The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness. Devoted
attachment to her sisters, and a fervent love of all beautiful things
in nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesome voice and merry laugh
were the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life.
The brightest flowers in the garden were reared by her; the caged
birds sang when they heard her voice, and pined when they missed its
sweetness. Alice, dear Alice; what living thing within the sphere of her
gentle witchery, could fail to love her!

‘You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisters lived,
for their very names have passed away, and dusty antiquaries tell of
them as of a fable. But they dwelt in an old wooden house--old even in
those days--with overhanging gables and balconies of rudely-carved oak,
which stood within a pleasant orchard, and was surrounded by a rough
stone wall, whence a stout archer might have winged an arrow to St
Mary’s Abbey. The old abbey flourished then; and the five sisters,
living on its fair domains, paid yearly dues to the black monks of St
Benedict, to which fraternity it belonged.

‘It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time of summer, when
one of those black monks emerged from the abbey portal, and bent his
steps towards the house of the fair sisters. Heaven above was blue, and
earth beneath was green; the river glistened like a path of diamonds in
the sun; the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the
lark soared high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects
filled the air. Everything looked gay and smiling; but the holy man
walked gloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. The beauty of
the earth is but a breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathy should
a holy preacher have with either?

‘With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough to prevent
his stumbling over such obstacles as lay in his way, the religious man
moved slowly forward until he reached a small postern in the wall of the
sisters’ orchard, through which he passed, closing it behind him. The
noise of soft voices in conversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon
his ears ere he had advanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher
than was his humble wont, he descried, at no great distance, the five
sisters seated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying
their customary task of embroidering.

‘“Save you, fair daughters!” said the friar; and fair in truth they
were. Even a monk might have loved them as choice masterpieces of his
Maker’s hand.

‘The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, and the
eldest motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar
shook his head, and bumped himself down on a very hard stone,--at which,
no doubt, approving angels were gratified.

‘“Ye were merry, daughters,” said the monk.

‘“You know how light of heart sweet Alice is,” replied the eldest
sister, passing her fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.

‘“And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to see all nature
beaming in brightness and sunshine, father,” added Alice, blushing
beneath the stern look of the recluse.

‘The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination of the head, and the
sisters pursued their task in silence.

‘“Still wasting the precious hours,” said the monk at length, turning to
the eldest sister as he spoke, “still wasting the precious hours on
this vain trifling. Alas, alas! that the few bubbles on the surface
of eternity--all that Heaven wills we should see of that dark deep
stream--should be so lightly scattered!”

‘“Father,” urged the maiden, pausing, as did each of the others, in
her busy task, “we have prayed at matins, our daily alms have been
distributed at the gate, the sick peasants have been tended,--all our
morning tasks have been performed. I hope our occupation is a blameless
one?’

‘“See here,” said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, “an
intricate winding of gaudy colours, without purpose or object, unless
it be that one day it is destined for some vain ornament, to minister to
the pride of your frail and giddy sex. Day after day has been employed
upon this senseless task, and yet it is not half accomplished. The shade
of each departed day falls upon our graves, and the worm exults as he
beholds it, to know that we are hastening thither. Daughters, is there
no better way to pass the fleeting hours?”

‘The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed by the holy
man’s reproof, but Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly on the friar.

‘“Our dear mother,” said the maiden; “Heaven rest her soul!”

‘“Amen!” cried the friar in a deep voice.

‘“Our dear mother,” faltered the fair Alice, “was living when these long
tasks began, and bade us, when she should be no more, ply them in all
discretion and cheerfulness, in our leisure hours; she said that if in
harmless mirth and maidenly pursuits we passed those hours together,
they would prove the happiest and most peaceful of our lives, and that
if, in later times, we went forth into the world, and mingled with its
cares and trials--if, allured by its temptations and dazzled by its
glitter, we ever forgot that love and duty which should bind, in holy
ties, the children of one loved parent--a glance at the old work of our
common girlhood would awaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften
our hearts to affection and love.”

‘“Alice speaks truly, father,” said the elder sister, somewhat proudly.
And so saying she resumed her work, as did the others.

‘It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister had before
her; the device was of a complex and intricate description, and
the pattern and colours of all five were the same. The sisters bent
gracefully over their work; the monk, resting his chin upon his hands,
looked from one to the other in silence.

‘“How much better,” he said at length, “to shun all such thoughts and
chances, and, in the peaceful shelter of the church, devote your lives
to Heaven! Infancy, childhood, the prime of life, and old age, wither as
rapidly as they crowd upon each other. Think how human dust rolls onward
to the tomb, and turning your faces steadily towards that goal, avoid
the cloud which takes its rise among the pleasures of the world, and
cheats the senses of their votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil!”

‘“Never, sisters,” cried Alice. “Barter not the light and air of heaven,
and the freshness of earth and all the beautiful things which breathe
upon it, for the cold cloister and the cell. Nature’s own blessings are
the proper goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly together. To
die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us die with life about us; when
our cold hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating near; let our
last look be upon the bounds which God has set to his own bright skies,
and not on stone walls and bars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and
die, if you list, in this green garden’s compass; only shun the gloom
and sadness of a cloister, and we shall be happy.”

‘The tears fell fast from the maiden’s eyes as she closed her
impassioned appeal, and hid her face in the bosom of her sister.

‘“Take comfort, Alice,” said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead.
“The veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say you,
sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or for me.”

‘The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was cast
together, and that there were dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the
convent’s walls.

‘“Father,” said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, “you hear our
final resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey of St
Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directed that no
constraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, but that we should
be free to live according to our choice. Let us hear no more of this,
we pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us take shelter until
evening!” With a reverence to the friar, the lady rose and walked
towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the other sisters followed.

‘The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, but had never
met with so direct a repulse, walked some little distance behind, with
his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving AS IF in prayer. As
the sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace, and called upon
them to stop.

‘“Stay!” said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, and directing
an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister. “Stay, and
hear from me what these recollections are, which you would cherish above
eternity, and awaken--if in mercy they slumbered--by means of idle toys.
The memory of earthly things is charged, in after life, with bitter
disappointment, affliction, death; with dreary change and wasting
sorrow. The time will one day come, when a glance at those unmeaning
baubles will tear open deep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and
strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives--and, mark me, come
it will--turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge which you
spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fire of mortals
grows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and there weep for the dreams
of youth. These things are Heaven’s will, not mine,” said the friar,
subduing his voice as he looked round upon the shrinking girls. “The
Virgin’s blessing be upon you, daughters!”

‘With these words he disappeared through the postern; and the sisters
hastening into the house were seen no more that day.

‘But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next day the
sun shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And in the
morning’s glare, and the evening’s soft repose, the five sisters still
walked, or worked, or beguiled the time by cheerful conversation, in
their quiet orchard.

‘Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed than many tales
that are told, of which number I fear this may be one. The house of the
five sisters stood where it did, and the same trees cast their pleasant
shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters too were there, and lovely as
at first, but a change had come over their dwelling. Sometimes, there
was the clash of armour, and the gleaming of the moon on caps of steel;
and, at others, jaded coursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female
form glided hurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the weary
messenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one night within
the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of the fair sisters
among them. Then, horsemen began to come less frequently, and seemed to
bring bad tidings when they did, and at length they ceased to come at
all, and footsore peasants slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their
errand there, by stealth. Once, a vassal was dispatched in haste to the
abbey at dead of night, and when morning came, there were sounds of woe
and wailing in the sisters’ house; and after this, a mournful silence
fell upon it, and knight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no
more.

‘There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had gone angrily
down, tinting the dull clouds with the last traces of his wrath,
when the same black monk walked slowly on, with folded arms, within a
stone’s-throw of the abbey. A blight had fallen on the trees and shrubs;
and the wind, at length beginning to break the unnatural stillness
that had prevailed all day, sighed heavily from time to time, as though
foretelling in grief the ravages of the coming storm. The bat skimmed in
fantastic flights through the heavy air, and the ground was alive with
crawling things, whose instinct brought them forth to swell and fatten
in the rain.

‘No longer were the friar’s eyes directed to the earth; they were cast
abroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom and desolation
of the scene found a quick response in his own bosom. Again he paused
near the sisters’ house, and again he entered by the postern.

‘But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, or his eyes
rest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All was silent and
deserted. The boughs of the trees were bent and broken, and the grass
had grown long and rank. No light feet had pressed it for many, many a
day.

‘With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed to the
change, the monk glided into the house, and entered a low, dark room.
Four sisters sat there. Their black garments made their pale faces
whiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were
stately yet; but the flush and pride of beauty were gone.

‘And Alice--where was she? In Heaven.

‘The monk--even the monk--could bear with some grief here; for it
was long since these sisters had met, and there were furrows in their
blanched faces which years could never plough. He took his seat in
silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.

‘“They are here, sisters,” said the elder lady in a trembling voice. “I
have never borne to look upon them since, and now I blame myself for my
weakness. What is there in her memory that we should dread? To call up
our old days shall be a solemn pleasure yet.”

‘She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet, brought
forth the five frames of work, completed long before. Her step was
firm, but her hand trembled as she produced the last one; and, when the
feelings of the other sisters gushed forth at sight of it, her pent-up
tears made way, and she sobbed “God bless her!”

‘The monk rose and advanced towards them. “It was almost the last thing
she touched in health,” he said in a low voice.

‘“It was,” cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.

‘The monk turned to the second sister.

‘“The gallant youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung upon thy very
breath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime, lies buried on
a plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rusty fragments of armour,
once brightly burnished, lie rotting on the ground, and are as little
distinguishable for his, as are the bones that crumble in the mould!”

‘The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.

‘“The policy of courts,” he continued, turning to the two other sisters,
“drew ye from your peaceful home to scenes of revelry and splendour.
The same policy, and the restless ambition of--proud and fiery men, have
sent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbled outcasts. Do I speak truly?”

‘The sobs of the two sisters were their only reply.

‘“There is little need,” said the monk, with a meaning look, “to fritter
away the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the pale ghosts of hopes
of early years. Bury them, heap penance and mortification on their
heads, keep them down, and let the convent be their grave!”

‘The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, that night,
as though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud for their dead joys.
But, morning came again, and though the boughs of the orchard trees
drooped and ran wild upon the ground, it was the same orchard still. The
grass was coarse and high, but there was yet the spot on which they had
so often sat together, when change and sorrow were but names. There was
every walk and nook which Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave
was one flat stone beneath which she slept in peace.

‘And could they, remembering how her young heart had sickened at the
thought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave, in garbs which would
chill the very ashes within it? Could they bow down in prayer, and when
all Heaven turned to hear them, bring the dark shade of sadness on one
angel’s face? No.

‘They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times, and
having obtained the church’s sanction to their work of piety, caused
to be executed, in five large compartments of richly stained glass, a
faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a
large window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone
brightly, as she had so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were
reflected in their original colours, and throwing a stream of brilliant
light upon the pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice.

‘For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up and down the
nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Only three were seen
in the customary place, after many years; then but two, and, for a long
time afterwards, but one solitary female bent with age. At length she
came no more, and the stone bore five plain Christian names.

‘That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, and many
generations have come and gone since then. Time has softened down the
colours, but the same stream of light still falls upon the forgotten
tomb, of which no trace remains; and, to this day, the stranger is shown
in York Cathedral, an old window called the Five Sisters.’


‘That’s a melancholy tale,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, emptying his
glass.

‘It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows,’ returned
the other, courteously, but in a grave and sad tone of voice.

‘There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if
we choose to contemplate them,’ said the gentleman with the merry face.
‘The youngest sister in your tale was always light-hearted.’

‘And died early,’ said the other, gently.

‘She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy,’ said
the first speaker, with much feeling. ‘Do you think the sisters who
loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her life had been one
of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a
heavy loss, it would be--with me--the reflection, that those I mourned,
by being innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared
themselves for a purer and happier world. The sun does not shine upon
this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it.’

‘I believe you are right,’ said the gentleman who had told the story.

‘Believe!’ retorted the other, ‘can anybody doubt it? Take any subject
of sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it is associated.
The recollection of past pleasure may become pain--’

‘It does,’ interposed the other.

‘Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot be restored, is pain,
but of a softened kind. Our recollections are unfortunately mingled with
much that we deplore, and with many actions which we bitterly repent;
still in the most chequered life I firmly think there are so many little
rays of sunshine to look back upon, that I do not believe any mortal
(unless he had put himself without the pale of hope) would deliberately
drain a goblet of the waters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.’

‘Possibly you are correct in that belief,’ said the grey-haired
gentleman after a short reflection. ‘I am inclined to think you are.’

‘Why, then,’ replied the other, ‘the good in this state of existence
preponderates over the bad, let miscalled philosophers tell us what they
will. If our affections be tried, our affections are our consolation and
comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest link between
this world and a better. But come! I’ll tell you a story of another
kind.’

After a very brief silence, the merry-faced gentleman sent round the
punch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately
apprehensive that he was going to relate something improper, began


THE BARON OF GROGZWIG


‘The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was as likely a
young baron as you would wish to see. I needn’t say that he lived in a
castle, because that’s of course; neither need I say that he lived in
an old castle; for what German baron ever lived in a new one? There were
many strange circumstances connected with this venerable building, among
which, not the least startling and mysterious were, that when the wind
blew, it rumbled in the chimneys, or even howled among the trees in the
neighbouring forest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way
through certain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some
parts of the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others
in gloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron’s ancestors, being
short of money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who called
one night to ask his way, and it WAS supposed that these miraculous
occurrences took place in consequence. And yet I hardly know how that
could have been, either, because the baron’s ancestor, who was an
amiable man, felt very sorry afterwards for having been so rash, and
laying violent hands upon a quantity of stone and timber which belonged
to a weaker baron, built a chapel as an apology, and so took a receipt
from Heaven, in full of all demands.

‘Talking of the baron’s ancestor puts me in mind of the baron’s great
claims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid to say,
I am sure, how many ancestors the baron had; but I know that he had a
great many more than any other man of his time; and I only wish that
he had lived in these latter days, that he might have had more. It is a
very hard thing upon the great men of past centuries, that they should
have come into the world so soon, because a man who was born three or
four hundred years ago, cannot reasonably be expected to have had as
many relations before him, as a man who is born now. The last man,
whoever he is--and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught
we know--will have a longer pedigree than the greatest nobleman now
alive; and I contend that this is not fair.

‘Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was a fine swarthy
fellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, who rode a-hunting in
clothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots on his feet, and a bugle
slung over his shoulder like the guard of a long stage. When he blew
this bugle, four-and-twenty other gentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln
green a little coarser, and russet boots with a little thicker soles,
turned out directly: and away galloped the whole train, with spears in
their hands like lacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or
perhaps encounter a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him
first, and greased his whiskers with him afterwards.

‘This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrier still
for the baron’s retainers, who drank Rhine wine every night till they
fell under the table, and then had the bottles on the floor, and called
for pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking, merry-making
blades, as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.

‘But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under the table,
require a little variety; especially when the same five-and-twenty
people sit daily down to the same board, to discuss the same subjects,
and tell the same stories. The baron grew weary, and wanted excitement.
He took to quarrelling with his gentlemen, and tried kicking two or
three of them every day after dinner. This was a pleasant change at
first; but it became monotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt
quite out of sorts, and cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.

‘One night, after a day’s sport in which he had outdone Nimrod or
Gillingwater, and slaughtered “another fine bear,” and brought him home
in triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily at the head of his
table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a discontented aspect. He
swallowed huge bumpers of wine, but the more he swallowed, the more
he frowned. The gentlemen who had been honoured with the dangerous
distinction of sitting on his right and left, imitated him to a miracle
in the drinking, and frowned at each other.

‘“I will!” cried the baron suddenly, smiting the table with his right
hand, and twirling his moustache with his left. “Fill to the Lady of
Grogzwig!”

‘The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with the exception of
their four-and-twenty noses, which were unchangeable.

‘“I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,” repeated the baron, looking round the
board.

‘“To the Lady of Grogzwig!” shouted the Lincoln greens; and down their
four-and-twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperial pints of such
rare old hock, that they smacked their eight-and-forty lips, and winked
again.

‘“The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen,” said Koeldwethout,
condescending to explain. “We will demand her in marriage of her father,
ere the sun goes down tomorrow. If he refuse our suit, we will cut off
his nose.”

‘A hoarse murmur arose from the company; every man touched, first
the hilt of his sword, and then the tip of his nose, with appalling
significance.

‘What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate! If the daughter
of the Baron Von Swillenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied heart, or
fallen at her father’s feet and corned them in salt tears, or
only fainted away, and complimented the old gentleman in frantic
ejaculations, the odds are a hundred to one but Swillenhausen Castle
would have been turned out at window, or rather the baron turned out at
window, and the castle demolished. The damsel held her peace, however,
when an early messenger bore the request of Von Koeldwethout next
morning, and modestly retired to her chamber, from the casement of which
she watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue. She was no sooner
assured that the horseman with the large moustachios was her proffered
husband, than she hastened to her father’s presence, and expressed her
readiness to sacrifice herself to secure his peace. The venerable baron
caught his child to his arms, and shed a wink of joy.

‘There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four-and-twenty
Lincoln greens of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows of eternal friendship
with twelve Lincoln greens of Von Swillenhausen, and promised the
old baron that they would drink his wine “Till all was blue”--meaning
probably until their whole countenances had acquired the same tint as
their noses. Everybody slapped everybody else’s back, when the time
for parting came; and the Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers rode
gaily home.

‘For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. The houses of
Koeldwethout and Swillenhausen were united; the spears rusted; and the
baron’s bugle grew hoarse for lack of blowing.

‘Those were great times for the four-and-twenty; but, alas! their high
and palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and were already walking
off.

‘“My dear,” said the baroness.

‘“My love,” said the baron.

‘“Those coarse, noisy men--”

‘“Which, ma’am?” said the baron, starting.

‘The baroness pointed, from the window at which they stood, to the
courtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln greens were taking a
copious stirrup-cup, preparatory to issuing forth after a boar or two.

‘“My hunting train, ma’am,” said the baron.

‘“Disband them, love,” murmured the baroness.

‘“Disband them!” cried the baron, in amazement.

‘“To please me, love,” replied the baroness.

‘“To please the devil, ma’am,” answered the baron.

‘Whereupon the baroness uttered a great cry, and swooned away at the
baron’s feet.

‘What could the baron do? He called for the lady’s maid, and roared
for the doctor; and then, rushing into the yard, kicked the two Lincoln
greens who were the most used to it, and cursing the others all round,
bade them go--but never mind where. I don’t know the German for it, or I
would put it delicately that way.

‘It is not for me to say by what means, or by what degrees, some wives
manage to keep down some husbands as they do, although I may have
my private opinion on the subject, and may think that no Member of
Parliament ought to be married, inasmuch as three married members out of
every four, must vote according to their wives’ consciences (if there be
such things), and not according to their own. All I need say, just now,
is, that the Baroness Von Koeldwethout somehow or other acquired great
control over the Baron Von Koeldwethout, and that, little by little, and
bit by bit, and day by day, and year by year, the baron got the worst of
some disputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby;
and that by the time he was a fat hearty fellow of forty-eight or
thereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, and no
hunting--nothing in short that he liked, or used to have; and that,
although he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold as brass, he was
decidedly snubbed and put down, by his own lady, in his own castle of
Grogzwig.

‘Nor was this the whole extent of the baron’s misfortunes. About a year
after his nuptials, there came into the world a lusty young baron,
in whose honour a great many fireworks were let off, and a great many
dozens of wine drunk; but next year there came a young baroness, and
next year another young baron, and so on, every year, either a baron or
baroness (and one year both together), until the baron found himself
the father of a small family of twelve. Upon every one of these
anniversaries, the venerable Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously
sensitive for the well-being of her child the Baroness Von Koeldwethout;
and although it was not found that the good lady ever did anything
material towards contributing to her child’s recovery, still she made it
a point of duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogzwig,
and to divide her time between moral observations on the baron’s
housekeeping, and bewailing the hard lot of her unhappy daughter. And if
the Baron of Grogzwig, a little hurt and irritated at this, took heart,
and ventured to suggest that his wife was at least no worse off than the
wives of other barons, the Baroness Von Swillenhausen begged all
persons to take notice, that nobody but she, sympathised with her dear
daughter’s sufferings; upon which, her relations and friends remarked,
that to be sure she did cry a great deal more than her son-in-law, and
that if there were a hard-hearted brute alive, it was that Baron of
Grogzwig.

‘The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when he could bear
it no longer lost his appetite and his spirits, and sat himself gloomily
and dejectedly down. But there were worse troubles yet in store for
him, and as they came on, his melancholy and sadness increased. Times
changed. He got into debt. The Grogzwig coffers ran low, though the
Swillenhausen family had looked upon them as inexhaustible; and just
when the baroness was on the point of making a thirteenth addition to
the family pedigree, Von Koeldwethout discovered that he had no means of
replenishing them.

‘“I don’t see what is to be done,” said the baron. “I think I’ll kill
myself.”

‘This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting-knife from a
cupboard hard by, and having sharpened it on his boot, made what boys
call “an offer” at his throat.

‘“Hem!” said the baron, stopping short. “Perhaps it’s not sharp enough.”

‘The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was
arrested by a loud screaming among the young barons and baronesses, who
had a nursery in an upstairs tower with iron bars outside the window, to
prevent their tumbling out into the moat.

‘“If I had been a bachelor,” said the baron sighing, “I might have done
it fifty times over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Put a flask of
wine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted room behind the hall.”

‘One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed the baron’s order
in the course of half an hour or so, and Von Koeldwethout being apprised
thereof, strode to the vaulted room, the walls of which, being of dark
shining wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing logs which were piled
upon the hearth. The bottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole,
the place looked very comfortable.

‘“Leave the lamp,” said the baron.

‘“Anything else, my lord?” inquired the domestic.

‘“The room,” replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and the baron
locked the door.

‘“I’ll smoke a last pipe,” said the baron, “and then I’ll be off.” So,
putting the knife upon the table till he wanted it, and tossing off a
goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw himself back in his
chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffed away.

‘He thought about a great many things--about his present troubles and
past days of bachelorship, and about the Lincoln greens, long since
dispersed up and down the country, no one knew whither: with the
exception of two who had been unfortunately beheaded, and four who had
killed themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and
boars, when, in the process of draining his glass to the bottom,
he raised his eyes, and saw, for the first time and with unbounded
astonishment, that he was not alone.

‘No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there sat with
folded arms a wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk and bloodshot
eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face, shadowed by jagged and
matted locks of coarse black hair. He wore a kind of tunic of a dull
bluish colour, which, the baron observed, on regarding it attentively,
was clasped or ornamented down the front with coffin handles. His legs,
too, were encased in coffin plates as though in armour; and over his
left shoulder he wore a short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a
remnant of some pall. He took no notice of the baron, but was intently
eyeing the fire.

‘“Halloa!” said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.

‘“Halloa!” replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards the baron, but
not his face or himself “What now?”

‘“What now!” replied the baron, nothing daunted by his hollow voice and
lustreless eyes. “I should ask that question. How did you get here?”

‘“Through the door,” replied the figure.

‘“What are you?” says the baron.

‘“A man,” replied the figure.

‘“I don’t believe it,” says the baron.

‘“Disbelieve it then,” says the figure.

‘“I will,” rejoined the baron.

‘The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogzwig for some time, and then
said familiarly,

‘“There’s no coming over you, I see. I’m not a man!”

‘“What are you then?” asked the baron.

‘“A genius,” replied the figure.

‘“You don’t look much like one,” returned the baron scornfully.

‘“I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,” said the apparition. “Now you
know me.”

‘With these words the apparition turned towards the baron, as if
composing himself for a talk--and, what was very remarkable, was, that
he threw his cloak aside, and displaying a stake, which was run through
the centre of his body, pulled it out with a jerk, and laid it on the
table, as composedly as if it had been a walking-stick.

‘“Now,” said the figure, glancing at the hunting-knife, “are you ready
for me?”

‘“Not quite,” rejoined the baron; “I must finish this pipe first.”

‘“Look sharp then,” said the figure.

‘“You seem in a hurry,” said the baron.

‘“Why, yes, I am,” answered the figure; “they’re doing a pretty brisk
business in my way, over in England and France just now, and my time is
a good deal taken up.”

‘“Do you drink?” said the baron, touching the bottle with the bowl of
his pipe.

‘“Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,” rejoined the figure,
drily.

‘“Never in moderation?” asked the baron.

‘“Never,” replied the figure, with a shudder, “that breeds
cheerfulness.”

‘The baron took another look at his new friend, whom he thought an
uncommonly queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took
any active part in such little proceedings as that which he had in
contemplation.

‘“No,” replied the figure evasively; “but I am always present.”

‘“Just to see fair, I suppose?” said the baron.

‘“Just that,” replied the figure, playing with his stake, and examining
the ferule. “Be as quick as you can, will you, for there’s a young
gentleman who is afflicted with too much money and leisure wanting me
now, I find.”

‘“Going to kill himself because he has too much money!” exclaimed the
baron, quite tickled. “Ha! ha! that’s a good one.” (This was the first
time the baron had laughed for many a long day.)

‘“I say,” expostulated the figure, looking very much scared; “don’t do
that again.”

‘“Why not?” demanded the baron.

‘“Because it gives me pain all over,” replied the figure. “Sigh as much
as you please: that does me good.”

‘The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; the figure,
brightening up again, handed him the hunting-knife with most winning
politeness.

‘“It’s not a bad idea though,” said the baron, feeling the edge of the
weapon; “a man killing himself because he has too much money.”

‘“Pooh!” said the apparition, petulantly, “no better than a man’s
killing himself because he has none or little.”

‘Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself in saying this,
or whether he thought the baron’s mind was so thoroughly made up that it
didn’t matter what he said, I have no means of knowing. I only know that
the baron stopped his hand, all of a sudden, opened his eyes wide, and
looked as if quite a new light had come upon him for the first time.

‘“Why, certainly,” said Von Koeldwethout, “nothing is too bad to be
retrieved.”

‘“Except empty coffers,” cried the genius.

‘“Well; but they may be one day filled again,” said the baron.

‘“Scolding wives,” snarled the genius.

‘“Oh! They may be made quiet,” said the baron.

‘“Thirteen children,” shouted the genius.

‘“Can’t all go wrong, surely,” said the baron.

‘The genius was evidently growing very savage with the baron, for
holding these opinions all at once; but he tried to laugh it off, and
said if he would let him know when he had left off joking he should feel
obliged to him.

‘“But I am not joking; I was never farther from it,” remonstrated the
baron.

‘“Well, I am glad to hear that,” said the genius, looking very grim,
“because a joke, without any figure of speech, IS the death of me. Come!
Quit this dreary world at once.”

‘“I don’t know,” said the baron, playing with the knife; “it’s a dreary
one certainly, but I don’t think yours is much better, for you have
not the appearance of being particularly comfortable. That puts me in
mind--what security have I, that I shall be any the better for going
out of the world after all!” he cried, starting up; “I never thought of
that.”

‘“Dispatch,” cried the figure, gnashing his teeth.

‘“Keep off!” said the baron. ‘I’ll brood over miseries no longer, but
put a good face on the matter, and try the fresh air and the bears
again; and if that don’t do, I’ll talk to the baroness soundly, and cut
the Von Swillenhausens dead.’ With this the baron fell into his chair,
and laughed so loud and boisterously, that the room rang with it.

‘The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baron meanwhile with
a look of intense terror, and when he had ceased, caught up the stake,
plunged it violently into its body, uttered a frightful howl, and
disappeared.

‘Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made up his mind
to action, he soon brought the baroness and the Von Swillenhausens to
reason, and died many years afterwards: not a rich man that I am aware
of, but certainly a happy one: leaving behind him a numerous family,
who had been carefully educated in bear and boar-hunting under his own
personal eye. And my advice to all men is, that if ever they become
hipped and melancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they
look at both sides of the question, applying a magnifying-glass to the
best one; and if they still feel tempted to retire without leave, that
they smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit by the
laudable example of the Baron of Grogzwig.’


‘The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,’ said a
new driver, looking in.

This intelligence caused the punch to be finished in a great hurry,
and prevented any discussion relative to the last story. Mr. Squeers was
observed to draw the grey-headed gentleman on one side, and to ask a
question with great apparent interest; it bore reference to the Five
Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquiry whether he could inform
him how much per annum the Yorkshire convents got in those days with
their boarders.

The journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and,
when he awoke, found, with great regret, that, during his nap, both the
Baron of Grogzwig and the grey-haired gentleman had got down and were
gone. The day dragged on uncomfortably enough. At about six o’clock that
night, he and Mr. Squeers, and the little boys, and their united luggage,
were all put down together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge.



CHAPTER 7

Mr. and Mrs. Squeers at Home


Mr. Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and the boys standing
with the luggage in the road, to amuse themselves by looking at the
coach as it changed horses, while he ran into the tavern and went
through the leg-stretching process at the bar. After some minutes, he
returned, with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and
a short hiccup afforded any criterion; and at the same time there came
out of the yard a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by two labouring
men.

‘Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,’ said Squeers, rubbing his
hands; ‘and this young man and me will go on in the chaise. Get in,
Nickleby.’

Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing the pony to
obey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to
follow at leisure.

‘Are you cold, Nickleby?’ inquired Squeers, after they had travelled
some distance in silence.

‘Rather, sir, I must say.’

‘Well, I don’t find fault with that,’ said Squeers; ‘it’s a long journey
this weather.’

‘Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?’ asked Nicholas.

‘About three mile from here,’ replied Squeers. ‘But you needn’t call it
a Hall down here.’

Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.

‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall,’ observed Squeers drily.

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence much
astonished.

‘No,’ replied Squeers. ‘We call it a Hall up in London, because it
sounds better, but they don’t know it by that name in these parts. A man
may call his house an island if he likes; there’s no act of Parliament
against that, I believe?’

‘I believe not, sir,’ rejoined Nicholas.

Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this little
dialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appeared in
nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, contented himself with
lashing the pony until they reached their journey’s end.

‘Jump out,’ said Squeers. ‘Hallo there! Come and put this horse up. Be
quick, will you!’

While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries,
Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking
house, one storey high, with a few straggling out-buildings behind, and
a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the
noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a
tall lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.

‘Is that you, Smike?’ cried Squeers.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘Then why the devil didn’t you come before?’

‘Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,’ answered Smike, with
humility.

‘Fire! what fire? Where’s there a fire?’ demanded the schoolmaster,
sharply.

‘Only in the kitchen, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘Missus said as I was
sitting up, I might go in there for a warm.’

‘Your missus is a fool,’ retorted Squeers. ‘You’d have been a deuced
deal more wakeful in the cold, I’ll engage.’

By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to
see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn’t any more corn that
night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-door a minute while he went
round and let him in.

A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas
during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled
force when he was left alone. His great distance from home and the
impossibility of reaching it, except on foot, should he feel ever so
anxious to return, presented itself to him in most alarming colours; and
as he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild
country round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and
spirit which he had never experienced before.

‘Now then!’ cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front-door. ‘Where
are you, Nickleby?’

‘Here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Come in, then,’ said Squeers ‘the wind blows in, at this door, fit to
knock a man off his legs.’

Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr. Squeers, having bolted the door to
keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantily furnished with a
few chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall, and a couple of tables;
one of which bore some preparations for supper; while, on the other, a
tutor’s assistant, a Murray’s grammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and
a worn letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in
picturesque confusion.

They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, when a female
bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat, gave him
two loud kisses: one close after the other, like a postman’s knock. The
lady, who was of a large raw-boned figure, was about half a head taller
than Mr. Squeers, and was dressed in a dimity night-jacket; with her hair
in papers; she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton
handkerchief which tied it under the chin.

‘How is my Squeery?’ said this lady in a playful manner, and a very
hoarse voice.

‘Quite well, my love,’ replied Squeers. ‘How’s the cows?’

‘All right, every one of’em,’ answered the lady.

‘And the pigs?’ said Squeers.

‘As well as they were when you went away.’

‘Come; that’s a blessing,’ said Squeers, pulling off his great-coat.
‘The boys are all as they were, I suppose?’

‘Oh, yes, they’re well enough,’ replied Mrs. Squeers, snappishly. ‘That
young Pitcher’s had a fever.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Squeers. ‘Damn that boy, he’s always at something of
that sort.’

‘Never was such a boy, I do believe,’ said Mrs. Squeers; ‘whatever he
has is always catching too. I say it’s obstinacy, and nothing shall ever
convince me that it isn’t. I’d beat it out of him; and I told you that,
six months ago.’

‘So you did, my love,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We’ll try what can be done.’

Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood, awkwardly enough,
in the middle of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected
to retire into the passage, or to remain where he was. He was now
relieved from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.

‘This is the new young man, my dear,’ said that gentleman.

‘Oh,’ replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him
coldly from top to toe.

‘He’ll take a meal with us tonight,’ said Squeers, ‘and go among the
boys tomorrow morning. You can give him a shake-down here, tonight,
can’t you?’

‘We must manage it somehow,’ replied the lady. ‘You don’t much mind how
you sleep, I suppose, sir?’

No, indeed,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I am not particular.’

‘That’s lucky,’ said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady’s humour was
considered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and
seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.

After some further conversation between the master and mistress relative
to the success of Mr. Squeers’s trip and the people who had paid, and the
people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in
a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the
boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.

Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different
boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The
boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if
with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was
a very painful one, and went to Nicholas’s heart at once; for it told a
long and very sad history.

It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was
surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which
formed his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or
nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit,
such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most
absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his
attenuated frame. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in
perfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of
boots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some
stout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven
knows how long he had been there, but he still wore the same linen which
he had first taken down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child’s
frill, only half concealed by a coarse, man’s neckerchief. He was lame;
and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the
letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that
Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.

‘What are you bothering about there, Smike?’ cried Mrs. Squeers; ‘let the
things alone, can’t you?’

‘Eh!’ said Squeers, looking up. ‘Oh! it’s you, is it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to
control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. ‘Is there--’

‘Well!’ said Squeers.

‘Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?’

‘Devil a bit,’ replied Squeers testily.

The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved
towards the door.

‘Not a word,’ resumed Squeers, ‘and never will be. Now, this is a pretty
sort of thing, isn’t it, that you should have been left here, all these
years, and no money paid after the first six--nor no notice taken, nor
no clue to be got who you belong to? It’s a pretty sort of thing that I
should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one
penny for it, isn’t it?’

The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to
recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,
gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.

‘I’ll tell you what, Squeers,’ remarked his wife as the door closed, ‘I
think that young chap’s turning silly.’

‘I hope not,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘for he’s a handy fellow out of
doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should think he’d have
wit enough for us though, if he was. But come; let’s have supper, for I
am hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.’

This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr. Squeers, who speedily
proceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but his
appetite was effectually taken away.

‘How’s the steak, Squeers?’ said Mrs. S.

‘Tender as a lamb,’ replied Squeers. ‘Have a bit.’

‘I couldn’t eat a morsel,’ replied his wife. ‘What’ll the young man
take, my dear?’

‘Whatever he likes that’s present,’ rejoined Squeers, in a most unusual
burst of generosity.

‘What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy?’ inquired Mrs. Squeers.

‘I’ll take a little of the pie, if you please,’ replied Nicholas. ‘A
very little, for I’m not hungry.’

Well, it’s a pity to cut the pie if you’re not hungry, isn’t it?’ said
Mrs. Squeers. ‘Will you try a bit of the beef?’

‘Whatever you please,’ replied Nicholas abstractedly; ‘it’s all the same
to me.’

Mrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; and nodding
to Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find the young man
knew his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meat with her own fair
hands.

‘Ale, Squeery?’ inquired the lady, winking and frowning to give him to
understand that the question propounded, was, whether Nicholas should
have ale, and not whether he (Squeers) would take any.

‘Certainly,’ said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner. ‘A
glassful.’

So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his own reflections,
drank it, in happy innocence of all the foregone proceedings.

‘Uncommon juicy steak that,’ said Squeers, as he laid down his knife and
fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.

‘It’s prime meat,’ rejoined his lady. ‘I bought a good large piece of it
myself on purpose for--’

‘For what!’ exclaimed Squeers hastily. ‘Not for the--’

‘No, no; not for them,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers; ‘on purpose for you
against you came home. Lor! you didn’t think I could have made such a
mistake as that.’

‘Upon my word, my dear, I didn’t know what you were going to say,’ said
Squeers, who had turned pale.

‘You needn’t make yourself uncomfortable,’ remarked his wife, laughing
heartily. ‘To think that I should be such a noddy! Well!’

This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; but popular
rumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr. Squeers, being amiably
opposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequently purchased for boy
consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death;
possibly he was apprehensive of having unintentionally devoured some
choice morsel intended for the young gentlemen.

Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with a hungry
eye, Mrs. Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe
custody the clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, and who were
half-way up the troublesome flight of steps which leads to death’s door,
in consequence of exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with
a light supper of porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a small
bedstead, to warm each other, and dream of a substantial meal with
something hot after it, if their fancies set that way: which it is not
at all improbable they did.

Mr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, made
on the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for the dissolution of
the sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholas the ghost of a small
glassful of the same compound. This done, Mr. and Mrs. Squeers drew
close up to the fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender, talked
confidentially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor’s
assistant, read the interesting legends in the miscellaneous questions,
and all the figures into the bargain, with as much thought or
consciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a magnetic
slumber.

At length, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it was high time
to go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs. Squeers and the girl dragged in a
small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a
couch for Nicholas.

‘We’ll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickelby,’ said
Squeers. ‘Let me see! Who sleeps in Brooks’s bed, my dear?’

‘In Brooks’s,’ said Mrs. Squeers, pondering. ‘There’s Jennings, little
Bolder, Graymarsh, and what’s his name.’

‘So there is,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Yes! Brooks is full.’

‘Full!’ thought Nicholas. ‘I should think he was.’

‘There’s a place somewhere, I know,’ said Squeers; ‘but I can’t at this
moment call to mind where it is. However, we’ll have that all settled
tomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o’clock in the morning, mind.’

‘I shall be ready, sir,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Good-night.’

‘I’ll come in myself and show you where the well is,’ said Squeers.
‘You’ll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that
belongs to you.’

Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers was again going
away, when he once more turned back.

‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ he said, ‘whose towel to put you on; but
if you’ll make shift with something tomorrow morning, Mrs. Squeers will
arrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don’t forget.’

‘I’ll take care,’ replied Mrs. Squeers; ‘and mind YOU take care, young
man, and get first wash. The teacher ought always to have it; but they
get the better of him if they can.’

Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring away the brandy bottle, lest
Nicholas should help himself in the night; and the lady having seized it
with great precipitation, they retired together.

Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and down the room
in a condition of much agitation and excitement; but, growing gradually
calmer, sat himself down in a chair, and mentally resolved that, come
what come might, he would endeavour, for a time, to bear whatever
wretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering the
helplessness of his mother and sister, he would give his uncle no
plea for deserting them in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of
producing some good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew
less desponding, and--so sanguine and buoyant is youth--even hoped that
affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than they promised.

He was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness,
when a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving
London, it had escaped his attention, and had not occurred to him since,
but it at once brought back to him the recollection of the mysterious
behaviour of Newman Noggs.

‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas; ‘what an extraordinary hand!’

It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in
such cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great
difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read as follows:--

My dear young Man.

I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a
kindness when there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not
be bound on such a journey.

If ever you want a shelter in London (don’t be angry at this, I once
thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign of the
Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner of Silver
Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come at
night. Once, nobody was ashamed--never mind that. It’s all over.

Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have
forgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.

NEWMAN NOGGS.

P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the
King’s Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will not charge you
for it. You may say Mr. Noggs there, for I was a gentleman then. I was
indeed.


It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had
folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, Nicholas Nickleby’s
eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might have been taken for tears.



CHAPTER 8

Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall


A ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, is one of the
best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is
even a sweetener of dreams, for those which hovered over the rough couch
of Nicholas, and whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were of an
agreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed,
when the faint glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and
a voice he had no difficulty in recognising as part and parcel of Mr
Squeers, admonished him that it was time to rise.

‘Past seven, Nickleby,’ said Mr. Squeers.

‘Has morning come already?’ asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed.

‘Ah! that has it,’ replied Squeers, ‘and ready iced too. Now, Nickleby,
come; tumble up, will you?’

Nicholas needed no further admonition, but ‘tumbled up’ at once, and
proceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper, which Mr. Squeers
carried in his hand.

‘Here’s a pretty go,’ said that gentleman; ‘the pump’s froze.’

‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelligence.

‘Yes,’ replied Squeers. ‘You can’t wash yourself this morning.’

‘Not wash myself!’ exclaimed Nicholas.

‘No, not a bit of it,’ rejoined Squeers tartly. ‘So you must be content
with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and
can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don’t stand staring at me, but do
look sharp, will you?’

Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his clothes.
Squeers, meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew the candle out; when
the voice of his amiable consort was heard in the passage, demanding
admittance.

‘Come in, my love,’ said Squeers.

Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night-jacket which
had displayed the symmetry of her figure on the previous night, and
further ornamented with a beaver bonnet of some antiquity, which she
wore, with much ease and lightness, on the top of the nightcap before
mentioned.

‘Drat the things,’ said the lady, opening the cupboard; ‘I can’t find
the school spoon anywhere.’

‘Never mind it, my dear,’ observed Squeers in a soothing manner; ‘it’s
of no consequence.’

‘No consequence, why how you talk!’ retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply; ‘isn’t
it brimstone morning?’

‘I forgot, my dear,’ rejoined Squeers; ‘yes, it certainly is. We purify
the boys’ bloods now and then, Nickleby.’

‘Purify fiddlesticks’ ends,’ said his lady. ‘Don’t think, young man,
that we go to the expense of flower of brimstone and molasses, just to
purify them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way,
you’ll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.’

‘My dear,’ said Squeers frowning. ‘Hem!’

‘Oh! nonsense,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers. ‘If the young man comes to be
a teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don’t want any
foolery about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly
because if they hadn’t something or other in the way of medicine they’d
be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it
spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So,
it does them good and us good at the same time, and that’s fair enough
I’m sure.’

Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her head into the closet
and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr. Squeers
assisted. A few words passed between them while they were thus engaged,
but as their voices were partially stifled by the cupboard, all that
Nicholas could distinguish was, that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers
had said, was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. Squeers
said, was ‘stuff.’

A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless,
Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers, and boxed by Mr. Squeers;
which course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled him to
suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket,
as indeed turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had previously
protested, however, that she was quite certain she had not got it,
Smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his
mistress, together with a promise of a sound thrashing if he were not
more respectful in future; so that he took nothing very advantageous by
his motion.

‘A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,’ said Squeers when his consort
had hurried away, pushing the drudge before her.

‘Indeed, sir!’ observed Nicholas.

‘I don’t know her equal,’ said Squeers; ‘I do not know her equal. That
woman, Nickleby, is always the same--always the same bustling, lively,
active, saving creetur that you see her now.’

Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable domestic
prospect thus opened to him; but Squeers was, fortunately, too much
occupied with his own reflections to perceive it.

‘It’s my way to say, when I am up in London,’ continued Squeers, ‘that
to them boys she is a mother. But she is more than a mother to them;
ten times more. She does things for them boys, Nickleby, that I don’t
believe half the mothers going, would do for their own sons.’

‘I should think they would not, sir,’ answered Nicholas.

Now, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed the boys in the
light of their proper and natural enemies; or, in other words, they held
and considered that their business and profession was to get as much
from every boy as could by possibility be screwed out of him. On this
point they were both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The
only difference between them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged war against
the enemy openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality,
even at home, with a spice of his habitual deceit; as if he really had
a notion of someday or other being able to take himself in, and persuade
his own mind that he was a very good fellow.

‘But come,’ said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some thoughts to
this effect in the mind of his usher, ‘let’s go to the schoolroom; and
lend me a hand with my school-coat, will you?’

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting-jacket,
which he took down from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming
himself with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the rear
of the house.

‘There,’ said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together; ‘this is our
shop, Nickleby!’

It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract
attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without
seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself
into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a
tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old
copy-books and paper. There were a couple of long old rickety desks, cut
and notched, and inked, and damaged, in every possible way; two or three
forms; a detached desk for Squeers; and another for his assistant. The
ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters;
and the walls were so stained and discoloured, that it was impossible to
tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.

But the pupils--the young noblemen! How the last faint traces of hope,
the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in
this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay
around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the
countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys
of stunted growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear
their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together; there were
the bleared eye, the hare-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness
or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for
their offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of
infancy, had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There
were little faces which should have been handsome, darkened with the
scowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there was childhood with the light of
its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining;
there were vicious-faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like
malefactors in a jail; and there were young creatures on whom the sins
of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the mercenary
nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every
kindly sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and
healthy feeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passion
that can fester in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in
silence, what an incipient Hell was breeding here!

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features,
which, in a less interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked
a smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an
immense basin of brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she
administered a large instalment to each boy in succession: using for
the purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally
manufactured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young
gentleman’s mouth considerably: they being all obliged, under heavy
corporal penalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In
another corner, huddled together for companionship, were the little
boys who had arrived on the preceding night, three of them in very large
leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a something tighter fit than
drawers are usually worn; at no great distance from these was seated
the juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers--a striking likeness of his
father--kicking, with great vigour, under the hands of Smike, who
was fitting upon him a pair of new boots that bore a most suspicious
resemblance to those which the least of the little boys had worn on
the journey down--as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he
was regarding the appropriation with a look of most rueful amazement.
Besides these, there was a long row of boys waiting, with countenances
of no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled; and another file, who
had just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of wry mouths
indicative of anything but satisfaction. The whole were attired in
such motley, ill-assorted, extraordinary garments, as would have been
irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder,
and disease, with which they were associated.

‘Now,’ said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which
made half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, ‘is that
physicking over?’

‘Just over,’ said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and
tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him.
‘Here, you Smike; take away now. Look sharp!’

Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers having called up a
little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out
after him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire and
a large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were
arranged upon a board.

Into these bowls, Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant, poured
a brown composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without
the covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was
inserted in each bowl, and when they had eaten their porridge by means
of the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished their
breakfast; whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice, ‘For what we
have received, may the Lord make us truly thankful!’--and went away to
his own.

Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the
same reason which induces some savages to swallow earth--lest they
should be inconveniently hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having
further disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted to him in
virtue of his office, he sat himself down, to wait for school-time.

He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be.
There was none of the noise and clamour of a schoolroom; none of
its boisterous play, or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and
shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The
only pupil who evinced the slightest tendency towards locomotion or
playfulness was Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread
upon the other boys’ toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was
rather disagreeable than otherwise.

After some half-hour’s delay, Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took
their places and their books, of which latter commodity the average
might be about one to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed,
during which Mr. Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect
apprehension of what was inside all the books, and could say every word
of their contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that
gentleman called up the first class.

Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the
schoolmaster’s desk, half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows,
one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye.

‘This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,’
said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. ‘We’ll get up a
Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now, then, where’s the first boy?’

‘Please, sir, he’s cleaning the back-parlour window,’ said the temporary
head of the philosophical class.

‘So he is, to be sure,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We go upon the practical mode
of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean,
verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a
casement. When the boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It’s
just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where’s the second
boy?’

‘Please, sir, he’s weeding the garden,’ replied a small voice.

‘To be sure,’ said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. ‘So he is. B-o-t,
bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive,
a knowledge of plants. When he has learned that bottinney means a
knowledge of plants, he goes and knows ‘em. That’s our system, Nickleby:
what do you think of it?’

‘It’s very useful one, at any rate,’ answered Nicholas.

‘I believe you,’ rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his
usher. ‘Third boy, what’s horse?’

‘A beast, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘So it is,’ said Squeers. ‘Ain’t it, Nickleby?’

‘I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,’ answered Nicholas.

‘Of course there isn’t,’ said Squeers. ‘A horse is a quadruped, and
quadruped’s Latin for beast, as everybody that’s gone through the
grammar knows, or else where’s the use of having grammars at all?’

‘Where, indeed!’ said Nicholas abstractedly.

‘As you’re perfect in that,’ resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, ‘go
and look after MY horse, and rub him down well, or I’ll rub you down.
The rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you
to leave off, for it’s washing-day tomorrow, and they want the coppers
filled.’

So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in
practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and
half doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think
of him by this time.

‘That’s the way we do it, Nickleby,’ he said, after a pause.

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely
perceptible, and said he saw it was.

‘And a very good way it is, too,’ said Squeers. ‘Now, just take them
fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because, you know, you
must begin to be useful. Idling about here won’t do.’

Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that
he must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did
not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were
arranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was soon listening
to their dull, drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of
engrossing interest which are to be found in the more antiquated
spelling-books.

In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. At one
o’clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly
taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some
hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his
portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this,
there was another hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with
cold, and then school began again.

It was Mr. Squeer’s custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of
report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the
relations and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the letters he
had brought down, the bills which had been paid, the accounts which had
been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took place
in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the
boys acquired strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or,
possibly, because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and
inflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was wont to
indulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were
recalled from house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school
were assembled in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers, with a small bundle of
papers in his hand, and Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered
the room and proclaimed silence.

‘Let any boy speak a word without leave,’ said Mr. Squeers mildly, ‘and
I’ll take the skin off his back.’

This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a deathlike
silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on
to say:

‘Boys, I’ve been to London, and have returned to my family and you, as
strong and well as ever.’

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at
this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sights of extra strength with
the chill on.

‘I have seen the parents of some boys,’ continued Squeers, turning over
his papers, ‘and they’re so glad to hear how their sons are getting on,
that there’s no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is
a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for all parties.’

Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but
the greater part of the young gentlemen having no particular parents to
speak of, were wholly uninterested in the thing one way or other.

‘I have had disappointments to contend against,’ said Squeers, looking
very grim; ‘Bolder’s father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?’

‘Here he is, please sir,’ rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys are
very like men to be sure.

‘Come here, Bolder,’ said Squeers.

An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over his hands, stepped from
his place to the master’s desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to
Squeers’s face; his own, quite white from the rapid beating of his
heart.

‘Bolder,’ said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering, as
the saying goes, where to have him. ‘Bolder, if you father thinks that
because--why, what’s this, sir?’

As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy’s hand by the cuff of his jacket,
and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.

‘What do you call this, sir?’ demanded the schoolmaster, administering a
cut with the cane to expedite the reply.

‘I can’t help it, indeed, sir,’ rejoined the boy, crying. ‘They will
come; it’s the dirty work I think, sir--at least I don’t know what it
is, sir, but it’s not my fault.’

‘Bolder,’ said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and moistening
the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the cane, ‘you’re an
incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good,
we must see what another will do towards beating it out of you.’

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers
fell upon the boy and caned him soundly: not leaving off, indeed, until
his arm was tired out.

‘There,’ said Squeers, when he had quite done; ‘rub away as hard as you
like, you won’t rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won’t hold that noise,
won’t you? Put him out, Smike.’

The drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitate about
obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side-door, and Mr. Squeers
perched himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. Squeers, who
occupied another at his side.

‘Now let us see,’ said Squeers. ‘A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.’

Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while Squeers made a
mental abstract of the same.

‘Oh!’ said Squeers: ‘Cobbey’s grandmother is dead, and his uncle John
has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except
eighteenpence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs
Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?’

The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most business-like
air, and Squeers passed on to the next boy, as coolly as possible.

‘Graymarsh,’ said Squeers, ‘he’s the next. Stand up, Graymarsh.’

Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the letter as
before.

‘Graymarsh’s maternal aunt,’ said Squeers, when he had possessed himself
of the contents, ‘is very glad to hear he’s so well and happy, and sends
her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks she must be an
angel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too good for this world; but
hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent
the two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards
a tract instead, and hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence.
Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. and Mrs
Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love
Master Squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no
Christian should. Ah!’ said Squeers, folding it up, ‘a delightful
letter. Very affecting indeed.’

It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh’s maternal aunt was
strongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be no other than his
maternal parent; Squeers, however, without alluding to this part of the
story (which would have sounded immoral before boys), proceeded with
the business by calling out ‘Mobbs,’ whereupon another boy rose, and
Graymarsh resumed his seat.

‘Mobbs’s step-mother,’ said Squeers, ‘took to her bed on hearing that he
wouldn’t eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know,
by an early post, where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with
his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the
cow’s-liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it.
This was told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he is
too kind and too good to set anybody against anybody--and it has vexed
her so much, Mobbs can’t think. She is sorry to find he is discontented,
which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into
a happier state of mind; with which view, she has also stopped his
halfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a
corkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for
him.’

‘A sulky state of feeling,’ said Squeers, after a terrible pause, during
which he had moistened the palm of his right hand again, ‘won’t do.
Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!’

Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation
of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired by the
side-door, with as good cause as a boy need have.

Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection of letters;
some enclosing money, which Mrs. Squeers ‘took care of;’ and others
referring to small articles of apparel, as caps and so forth, all of
which the same lady stated to be too large, or too small, and calculated
for nobody but young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most
accommodating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted
him to a nicety. His head, in particular, must have been singularly
elastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike to him.

This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and
Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the
boys in the school-room, which was very cold, and where a meal of bread
and cheese was served out shortly after dark.

There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest
to the master’s desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, so depressed and
self-degraded by the consciousness of his position, that if death could
have come upon him at that time, he would have been almost happy to meet
it. The cruelty of which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse
and ruffianly behaviour of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy
place, the sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state of
feeling; but when he recollected that, being there as an assistant,
he actually seemed--no matter what unhappy train of circumstances had
brought him to that pass--to be the aider and abettor of a system which
filled him with honest disgust and indignation, he loathed himself, and
felt, for the moment, as though the mere consciousness of his present
situation must, through all time to come, prevent his raising his head
again.

But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution he had
formed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. He had written to
his mother and sister, announcing the safe conclusion of his journey,
and saying as little about Dotheboys Hall, and saying that little as
cheerfully, as he possibly could. He hoped that by remaining where he
was, he might do some good, even there; at all events, others depended
too much on his uncle’s favour, to admit of his awakening his wrath just
then.

One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish considerations
arising out of his own position. This was the probable destination of
his sister Kate. His uncle had deceived him, and might he not consign
her to some miserable place where her youth and beauty would prove a far
greater curse than ugliness and decrepitude? To a caged man, bound hand
and foot, this was a terrible idea--but no, he thought, his mother was
by; there was the portrait-painter, too--simple enough, but still living
in the world, and of it. He was willing to believe that Ralph Nickleby
had conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty good reason,
by this time, to reciprocate it, he had no great difficulty in arriving
at this conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that the feeling
extended no farther than between them.

As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the
upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a
few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He
had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was
observed, shrunk back, as if expecting a blow.

‘You need not fear me,’ said Nicholas kindly. ‘Are you cold?’

‘N-n-o.’

‘You are shivering.’

‘I am not cold,’ replied Smike quickly. ‘I am used to it.’

There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he
was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help
exclaiming, ‘Poor fellow!’

If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word.
But, now, he burst into tears.

‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ he cried, covering his face with his cracked and
horny hands. ‘My heart will break. It will, it will.’

‘Hush!’ said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. ‘Be a man; you
are nearly one by years, God help you.’

‘By years!’ cried Smike. ‘Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of
them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now!
Where are they all!’

‘Whom do you speak of?’ inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor
half-witted creature to reason. ‘Tell me.’

‘My friends,’ he replied, ‘myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have
been!’

‘There is always hope,’ said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.

‘No,’ rejoined the other, ‘no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that
died here?’

‘I was not here, you know,’ said Nicholas gently; ‘but what of him?’

‘Why,’ replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner’s side, ‘I
was with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for
friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round
his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and
he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?’

‘Yes, yes,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘What faces will smile on me when I die!’ cried his companion,
shivering. ‘Who will talk to me in those long nights! They cannot come
from home; they would frighten me, if they did, for I don’t know what it
is, and shouldn’t know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive
or dead. No hope, no hope!’

The bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual
listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a
heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired; there was no
retirement there--followed--to his dirty and crowded dormitory.



CHAPTER 9

Of Miss Squeers, Mrs. Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr. Squeers; and of
various Matters and Persons connected no less with the Squeerses than
Nicholas Nickleby


When Mr. Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, he betook himself, as
has been before remarked, to his own fireside, which was situated--not
in the room in which Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival,
but in a smaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady
wife, his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full
enjoyment of each other’s society; Mrs. Squeers being engaged in the
matronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and the young lady and gentleman
being occupied in the adjustment of some youthful differences, by means
of a pugilistic contest across the table, which, on the approach of
their honoured parent, subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks
beneath it.

And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, that Miss
Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If there be any one
grace or loveliness inseparable from that particular period of life,
Miss Squeers may be presumed to have been possessed of it, as there is
no reason to suppose that she was a solitary exception to an universal
rule. She was not tall like her mother, but short like her father; from
the former she inherited a voice of harsh quality; from the latter a
remarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to having none at
all.

Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neighbouring friend,
and had only just returned to the parental roof. To this circumstance
may be referred, her having heard nothing of Nicholas, until Mr. Squeers
himself now made him the subject of conversation.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Squeers, drawing up his chair, ‘what do you think
of him by this time?’

‘Think of who?’ inquired Mrs. Squeers; who (as she often remarked) was no
grammarian, thank Heaven.

‘Of the young man--the new teacher--who else could I mean?’

‘Oh! that Knuckleboy,’ said Mrs. Squeers impatiently. ‘I hate him.’

‘What do you hate him for, my dear?’ asked Squeers.

‘What’s that to you?’ retorted Mrs. Squeers. ‘If I hate him, that’s
enough, ain’t it?’

‘Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much I dare say,
if he knew it,’ replied Squeers in a pacific tone. ‘I only ask from
curiosity, my dear.’

‘Well, then, if you want to know,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers, ‘I’ll tell you.
Because he’s a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock.’

Mrs. Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use strong language, and,
moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of
a figurative kind, as the word peacock, and furthermore the allusion
to Nicholas’s nose, which was not intended to be taken in its literal
sense, but rather to bear a latitude of construction according to the
fancy of the hearers.

Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so much as to
the object on whom they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present
case: a peacock with a turned-up nose being a novelty in ornithology,
and a thing not commonly seen.

‘Hem!’ said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak. ‘He is
cheap, my dear; the young man is very cheap.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ retorted Mrs. Squeers.

‘Five pound a year,’ said Squeers.

‘What of that; it’s dear if you don’t want him, isn’t it?’ replied his
wife.

‘But we DO want him,’ urged Squeers.

‘I don’t see that you want him any more than the dead,’ said
Mrs. Squeers. ‘Don’t tell me. You can put on the cards and in the
advertisements, “Education by Mr. Wackford Squeers and able assistants,”
 without having any assistants, can’t you? Isn’t it done every day by all
the masters about? I’ve no patience with you.’

‘Haven’t you!’ said Squeers, sternly. ‘Now I’ll tell you what, Mrs
Squeers. In this matter of having a teacher, I’ll take my own way, if
you please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a man under
him, to see that his blacks don’t run away, or get up a rebellion; and
I’ll have a man under me to do the same with OUR blacks, till such time
as little Wackford is able to take charge of the school.’

‘Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?’ said
Wackford junior, suspending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious
kick which he was administering to his sister.

‘You are, my son,’ replied Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental voice.

‘Oh my eye, won’t I give it to the boys!’ exclaimed the interesting
child, grasping his father’s cane. ‘Oh, father, won’t I make ‘em squeak
again!’

It was a proud moment in Mr. Squeers’s life, when he witnessed that burst
of enthusiasm in his young child’s mind, and saw in it a foreshadowing
of his future eminence. He pressed a penny into his hand, and gave
vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wife also), in a shout of
approving laughter. The infantine appeal to their common sympathies,
at once restored cheerfulness to the conversation, and harmony to the
company.

‘He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that’s what I consider him,’ said Mrs
Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.

‘Supposing he is,’ said Squeers, ‘he is as well stuck up in our
schoolroom as anywhere else, isn’t he?--especially as he don’t like it.’

‘Well,’ observed Mrs. Squeers, ‘there’s something in that. I hope it’ll
bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it don’t.’

Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very extraordinary
and unaccountable thing to hear of,--any usher at all being a novelty;
but a proud one, a being of whose existence the wildest imagination
could never have dreamed--that Miss Squeers, who seldom troubled
herself with scholastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this
Knuckleboy was, that gave himself such airs.

‘Nickleby,’ said Squeers, spelling the name according to some eccentric
system which prevailed in his own mind; ‘your mother always calls things
and people by their wrong names.’

‘No matter for that,’ said Mrs. Squeers; ‘I see them with right eyes,
and that’s quite enough for me. I watched him when you were laying on
to little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as black as thunder, all the
while, and, one time, started up as if he had more than got it in his
mind to make a rush at you. I saw him, though he thought I didn’t.’

‘Never mind that, father,’ said Miss Squeers, as the head of the family
was about to reply. ‘Who is the man?’

‘Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he’s the son of
a poor gentleman that died the other day,’ said Mrs. Squeers.

‘The son of a gentleman!’

‘Yes; but I don’t believe a word of it. If he’s a gentleman’s son at
all, he’s a fondling, that’s my opinion.’

‘Mrs. Squeers intended to say ‘foundling,’ but, as she frequently
remarked when she made any such mistake, it would be all the same a
hundred years hence; with which axiom of philosophy, indeed, she was in
the constant habit of consoling the boys when they laboured under more
than ordinary ill-usage.

‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ said Squeers, in answer to the above remark,
‘for his father was married to his mother years before he was born, and
she is alive now. If he was, it would be no business of ours, for we
make a very good friend by having him here; and if he likes to learn the
boys anything besides minding them, I have no objection I am sure.’

‘I say again, I hate him worse than poison,’ said Mrs. Squeers
vehemently.

‘If you dislike him, my dear,’ returned Squeers, ‘I don’t know anybody
who can show dislike better than you, and of course there’s no occasion,
with him, to take the trouble to hide it.’

‘I don’t intend to, I assure you,’ interposed Mrs. S.

‘That’s right,’ said Squeers; ‘and if he has a touch of pride about him,
as I think he has, I don’t believe there’s woman in all England that can
bring anybody’s spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.’

Mrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flattering
compliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit or two in
her day. It is but due to her character to say, that in conjunction with
her estimable husband, she had broken many and many a one.

Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much more
conversation on the same subject, until she retired for the night,
when she questioned the hungry servant, minutely, regarding the outward
appearance and demeanour of Nicholas; to which queries the girl returned
such enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many laudatory remarks
touching his beautiful dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight
legs--upon which last-named articles she laid particular stress; the
general run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked--that Miss Squeers
was not long in arriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be
a very remarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,
‘something quite out of the common.’ And so Miss Squeers made up her
mind that she would take a personal observation of Nicholas the very
next day.

In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of
her mother being engaged, and her father absent, and went accidentally
into the schoolroom to get a pen mended: where, seeing nobody but
Nicholas presiding over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited
great confusion.

‘I beg your pardon,’ faltered Miss Squeers; ‘I thought my father was--or
might be--dear me, how very awkward!’

‘Mr. Squeers is out,’ said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the
apparition, unexpected though it was.

‘Do you know will he be long, sir?’ asked Miss Squeers, with bashful
hesitation.

‘He said about an hour,’ replied Nicholas--politely of course, but
without any indication of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers’s
charms.

‘I never knew anything happen so cross,’ exclaimed the young lady.
‘Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn’t thought
my father was here, I wouldn’t upon any account have--it is very
provoking--must look so very strange,’ murmured Miss Squeers, blushing
once more, and glancing, from the pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his
desk, and back again.

‘If that is all you want,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, and
smiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of the
schoolmaster’s daughter, ‘perhaps I can supply his place.’

Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of
advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom,
as though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys; and
finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with
a most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.

‘Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?’ inquired Nicholas, smiling to
prevent himself from laughing outright.

‘He HAS a beautiful smile,’ thought Miss Squeers.

‘Which did you say?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,’
replied Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! as soft as possible, if you please.’ With
which words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, to give Nicholas to
understand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to
match.

Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gave it to Miss
Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up,
Miss Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together;
whereat five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud: being positively for
the first and only time that half-year.

‘Very awkward of me,’ said Nicholas, opening the door for the young
lady’s retreat.

‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Miss Squeers; ‘it was my fault. It was all my
foolish--a--a--good-morning!’

‘Goodbye,’ said Nicholas. ‘The next I make for you, I hope will be made
less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.’

‘Really,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘so embarrassing that I scarcely know what
I--very sorry to give you so much trouble.’

‘Not the least trouble in the world,’ replied Nicholas, closing the
schoolroom door.

‘I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!’ said Miss
Squeers, as she walked away.

In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.

To account for the rapidity with which this young lady had conceived a
passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, that the friend
from whom she had so recently returned, was a miller’s daughter of
only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto the son of a small
corn-factor, resident in the nearest market town. Miss Squeers and the
miller’s daughter, being fast friends, had covenanted together some two
years before, according to a custom prevalent among young ladies, that
whoever was first engaged to be married, should straightway confide the
mighty secret to the bosom of the other, before communicating it to
any living soul, and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time; in
fulfilment of which pledge the miller’s daughter, when her engagement
was formed, came out express, at eleven o’clock at night as the
corn-factor’s son made an offer of his hand and heart at twenty-five
minutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushed into Miss
Squeers’s bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now, Miss Squeers
being five years older, and out of her teens (which is also a great
matter), had, since, been more than commonly anxious to return the
compliment, and possess her friend with a similar secret; but, either
in consequence of finding it hard to please herself, or harder still to
please anybody else, had never had an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as
she had no such secret to disclose. The little interview with Nicholas
had no sooner passed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers,
putting on her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to
her friend’s house, and, upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows of
secrecy, revealed how that she was--not exactly engaged, but going to
be--to a gentleman’s son--(none of your corn-factors, but a gentleman’s
son of high descent)--who had come down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall,
under most mysterious and remarkable circumstances--indeed, as Miss
Squeers more than once hinted she had good reason to believe, induced,
by the fame of her many charms, to seek her out, and woo and win her.

‘Isn’t it an extraordinary thing?’ said Miss Squeers, emphasising the
adjective strongly.

‘Most extraordinary,’ replied the friend. ‘But what has he said to you?’

‘Don’t ask me what he said, my dear,’ rejoined Miss Squeers. ‘If you had
only seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome in all my life.’

‘Did he look in this way?’ inquired the miller’s daughter,
counterfeiting, as nearly as she could, a favourite leer of the
corn-factor.

‘Very like that--only more genteel,’ replied Miss Squeers.

‘Ah!’ said the friend, ‘then he means something, depend on it.’

Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was by no means
ill pleased to be confirmed by a competent authority; and discovering,
on further conversation and comparison of notes, a great many points
of resemblance between the behaviour of Nicholas, and that of the
corn-factor, grew so exceedingly confidential, that she intrusted her
friend with a vast number of things Nicholas had NOT said, which were
all so very complimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated
on the fearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuously
opposed to her intended husband; on which unhappy circumstance she dwelt
at great length; for the friend’s father and mother were quite agreeable
to her being married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat
and common-place an affair as it was possible to imagine.

‘How I should like to see him!’ exclaimed the friend.

‘So you shall, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘I should consider myself
one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. I think
mother’s going away for two days to fetch some boys; and when she does,
I’ll ask you and John up to tea, and have him to meet you.’

This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the friends
parted.

It so fell out, that Mrs. Squeers’s journey, to some distance, to fetch
three new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance
of a small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for the next day but
one; and on the next day but one, Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach,
as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle
containing something in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and carrying
besides a large white top-coat to wear in the night-time; with which
baggage she went her way.

Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it was Squeers’s custom
to drive over to the market town, every evening, on pretence of urgent
business, and stop till ten or eleven o’clock at a tavern he much
affected. As the party was not in his way, therefore, but rather
afforded a means of compromise with Miss Squeers, he readily yielded his
full assent thereunto, and willingly communicated to Nicholas that
he was expected to take his tea in the parlour that evening, at five
o’clock.

To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the time
approached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the best advantage:
with her hair--it had more than a tinge of red, and she wore it in a
crop--curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top of her head, and
arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to say nothing of the
blue sash which floated down her back, or the worked apron or the long
gloves, or the green gauze scarf worn over one shoulder and under the
other; or any of the numerous devices which were to be as so many arrows
to the heart of Nicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements
to her entire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity-brown
parcel--flat and three-cornered--containing sundry small adornments
which were to be put on upstairs, and which the friend put on, talking
incessantly. When Miss Squeers had ‘done’ the friend’s hair, the friend
‘did’ Miss Squeers’s hair, throwing in some striking improvements in the
way of ringlets down the neck; and then, when they were both touched up
to their entire satisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with
the long gloves on, all ready for company.

‘Where’s John, ‘Tilda?’ said Miss Squeers.

‘Only gone home to clean himself,’ replied the friend. ‘He will be here
by the time the tea’s drawn.’

‘I do so palpitate,’ observed Miss Squeers.

‘Ah! I know what it is,’ replied the friend.

‘I have not been used to it, you know, ‘Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers,
applying her hand to the left side of her sash.

‘You’ll soon get the better of it, dear,’ rejoined the friend. While
they were talking thus, the hungry servant brought in the tea-things,
and, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the room door.

‘There he is!’ cried Miss Squeers. ‘Oh ‘Tilda!’

‘Hush!’ said ‘Tilda. ‘Hem! Say, come in.’

‘Come in,’ cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked Nicholas.

‘Good-evening,’ said that young gentleman, all unconscious of his
conquest. ‘I understood from Mr. Squeers that--’

‘Oh yes; it’s all right,’ interposed Miss Squeers. ‘Father don’t tea
with us, but you won’t mind that, I dare say.’ (This was said archly.)

Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter off very
coolly--not caring, particularly, about anything just then--and went
through the ceremony of introduction to the miller’s daughter with so
much grace, that that young lady was lost in admiration.

‘We are only waiting for one more gentleman,’ said Miss Squeers, taking
off the teapot lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was getting on.

It was matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they were waiting for
one gentleman or twenty, so he received the intelligence with perfect
unconcern; and, being out of spirits, and not seeing any especial reason
why he should make himself agreeable, looked out of the window and
sighed involuntarily.

As luck would have it, Miss Squeers’s friend was of a playful turn, and
hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rally the lovers on
their lowness of spirits.

‘But if it’s caused by my being here,’ said the young lady, ‘don’t mind
me a bit, for I’m quite as bad. You may go on just as you would if you
were alone.’

‘’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls,
‘I am ashamed of you;’ and here the two friends burst into a variety
of giggles, and glanced from time to time, over the tops of
their pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state of
unmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressible
laughter--occasioned, partly by the bare notion of his being in love
with Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterous appearance and
behaviour of the two girls. These two causes of merriment, taken
together, struck him as being so keenly ridiculous, that, despite his
miserable condition, he laughed till he was thoroughly exhausted.

‘Well,’ thought Nicholas, ‘as I am here, and seem expected, for some
reason or other, to be amiable, it’s of no use looking like a goose. I
may as well accommodate myself to the company.’

We blush to tell it; but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting,
for the time, the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed
this resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great
gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began to make himself
more at home than in all probability an usher has ever done in his
employer’s house since ushers were first invented.

The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour on the
part of Mr. Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, with his hair very
damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereof the collar might
have belonged to some giant ancestor, forming, together with a white
waistcoat of similar dimensions, the chief ornament of his person.

‘Well, John,’ said Miss Matilda Price (which, by-the-bye, was the name
of the miller’s daughter).

‘Weel,’ said John with a grin that even the collar could not conceal.

‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to do the
honours. ‘Mr. Nickleby--Mr. John Browdie.’

‘Servant, sir,’ said John, who was something over six feet high, with a
face and body rather above the due proportion than below it.

‘Yours to command, sir,’ replied Nicholas, making fearful ravages on the
bread and butter.

Mr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversational powers, so
he grinned twice more, and having now bestowed his customary mark
of recognition on every person in company, grinned at nothing in
particular, and helped himself to food.

‘Old wooman awa’, bean’t she?’ said Mr. Browdie, with his mouth full.

Miss Squeers nodded assent.

Mr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really
was something to laugh at, and went to work at the bread and butter with
increased vigour. It was quite a sight to behold how he and Nicholas
emptied the plate between them.

‘Ye wean’t get bread and butther ev’ry neight, I expect, mun,’ said Mr
Browdie, after he had sat staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty
plate.

Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear the remark.

‘Ecod,’ said Mr. Browdie, laughing boisterously, ‘they dean’t put too
much intiv’em. Ye’ll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop here long
eneaf. Ho! ho! ho!’

‘You are facetious, sir,’ said Nicholas, scornfully.

‘Na; I dean’t know,’ replied Mr. Browdie, ‘but t’oother teacher, ‘cod
he wur a learn ‘un, he wur.’ The recollection of the last teacher’s
leanness seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the most exquisite delight, for he
laughed until he found it necessary to apply his coat-cuffs to his eyes.

‘I don’t know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough, Mr
Browdie, to enable you to understand that your remarks are offensive,’
said Nicholas in a towering passion, ‘but if they are, have the goodness
to--’

‘If you say another word, John,’ shrieked Miss Price, stopping her
admirer’s mouth as he was about to interrupt, ‘only half a word, I’ll
never forgive you, or speak to you again.’

‘Weel, my lass, I dean’t care aboot ‘un,’ said the corn-factor,
bestowing a hearty kiss on Miss Matilda; ‘let ‘un gang on, let ‘un gang
on.’

It now became Miss Squeers’s turn to intercede with Nicholas, which she
did with many symptoms of alarm and horror; the effect of the double
intercession was, that he and John Browdie shook hands across the table
with much gravity; and such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial,
that Miss Squeers was overcome and shed tears.

‘What’s the matter, Fanny?’ said Miss Price.

‘Nothing, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, sobbing.

‘There never was any danger,’ said Miss Price, ‘was there, Mr. Nickleby?’

‘None at all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Absurd.’

‘That’s right,’ whispered Miss Price, ‘say something kind to her,
and she’ll soon come round. Here! Shall John and I go into the little
kitchen, and come back presently?’

‘Not on any account,’ rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at the
proposition. ‘What on earth should you do that for?’

‘Well,’ said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking with some
degree of contempt--‘you ARE a one to keep company.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Nicholas; ‘I am not a one to keep company at
all--here at all events. I can’t make this out.’

‘No, nor I neither,’ rejoined Miss Price; ‘but men are always fickle,
and always were, and always will be; that I can make out, very easily.’

‘Fickle!’ cried Nicholas; ‘what do you suppose? You don’t mean to say
that you think--’

‘Oh no, I think nothing at all,’ retorted Miss Price, pettishly.
‘Look at her, dressed so beautiful and looking so well--really ALMOST
handsome. I am ashamed at you.’

‘My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing beautifully or
looking well?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘Come, don’t call me a dear girl,’ said Miss Price--smiling a little
though, for she was pretty, and a coquette too in her small way, and
Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him the property of somebody
else, which were all reasons why she should be gratified to think she
had made an impression on him,--‘or Fanny will be saying it’s my fault.
Come; we’re going to have a game at cards.’ Pronouncing these last words
aloud, she tripped away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.

This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no other distinct
impression on his mind at the moment, than that Miss Squeers was an
ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price a pretty one; but he
had not time to enlighten himself by reflection, for the hearth being
by this time swept up, and the candle snuffed, they sat down to play
speculation.

‘There are only four of us, ‘Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, looking slyly at
Nicholas; ‘so we had better go partners, two against two.’

‘What do you say, Mr. Nickleby?’ inquired Miss Price.

‘With all the pleasure in life,’ replied Nicholas. And so saying, quite
unconscious of his heinous offence, he amalgamated into one common heap
those portions of a Dotheboys Hall card of terms, which represented his
own counters, and those allotted to Miss Price, respectively.

‘Mr. Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers hysterically, ‘shall we make a bank
against them?’

The Yorkshireman assented--apparently quite overwhelmed by the new
usher’s impudence--and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her
friend, and giggled convulsively.

The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered.

‘We intend to win everything,’ said he.

‘’Tilda HAS won something she didn’t expect, I think, haven’t you,
dear?’ said Miss Squeers, maliciously.

‘Only a dozen and eight, love,’ replied Miss Price, affecting to take
the question in a literal sense.

‘How dull you are tonight!’ sneered Miss Squeers.

‘No, indeed,’ replied Miss Price, ‘I am in excellent spirits. I was
thinking YOU seemed out of sorts.’

‘Me!’ cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling with very
jealousy. ‘Oh no!’

‘That’s well,’ remarked Miss Price. ‘Your hair’s coming out of curl,
dear.’

‘Never mind me,’ tittered Miss Squeers; ‘you had better attend to your
partner.’

‘Thank you for reminding her,’ said Nicholas. ‘So she had.’

The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with his clenched
fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity of
exercising it upon the features of some other gentleman; and Miss
Squeers tossed her head with such indignation, that the gust of wind
raised by the multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew the candle out.

‘I never had such luck, really,’ exclaimed coquettish Miss Price, after
another hand or two. ‘It’s all along of you, Mr. Nickleby, I think. I
should like to have you for a partner always.’

‘I wish you had.’

‘You’ll have a bad wife, though, if you always win at cards,’ said Miss
Price.

‘Not if your wish is gratified,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I am sure I shall
have a good one in that case.’

To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn-factor flattened
his nose, while this conversation was carrying on! It would have been
worth a small annuity to have beheld that; let alone Miss Price’s
evident joy at making them jealous, and Nicholas Nickleby’s happy
unconsciousness of making anybody uncomfortable.

‘We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,’ said Nicholas, looking
good-humouredly round the table as he took up the cards for a fresh
deal.

‘You do it so well,’ tittered Miss Squeers, ‘that it would be a pity to
interrupt, wouldn’t it, Mr. Browdie? He! he! he!’

‘Nay,’ said Nicholas, ‘we do it in default of having anybody else to
talk to.’

‘We’ll talk to you, you know, if you’ll say anything,’ said Miss Price.

‘Thank you, ‘Tilda, dear,’ retorted Miss Squeers, majestically.

‘Or you can talk to each other, if you don’t choose to talk to us,’
said Miss Price, rallying her dear friend. ‘John, why don’t you say
something?’

‘Say summat?’ repeated the Yorkshireman.

‘Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.’

‘Weel, then!’ said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavily with his
fist, ‘what I say’s this--Dang my boans and boddy, if I stan’ this ony
longer. Do ye gang whoam wi’ me, and do yon loight an’ toight young
whipster look sharp out for a brokken head, next time he cums under my
hond.’

‘Mercy on us, what’s all this?’ cried Miss Price, in affected
astonishment.

‘Cum whoam, tell ‘e, cum whoam,’ replied the Yorkshireman, sternly. And
as he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of tears;
arising in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent
desire to lacerate somebody’s countenance with her fair finger-nails.

This state of things had been brought about by divers means and
workings. Miss Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring to the high
state and condition of being matrimonially engaged, without good grounds
for so doing; Miss Price had brought it about, by indulging in three
motives of action: first, a desire to punish her friend for laying
claim to a rivalship in dignity, having no good title: secondly, the
gratification of her own vanity, in receiving the compliments of a smart
young man: and thirdly, a wish to convince the corn-factor of the great
danger he ran, in deferring the celebration of their expected nuptials;
while Nicholas had brought it about, by half an hour’s gaiety and
thoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid the imputation of
inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means employed, and the end
produced, were alike the most natural in the world; for young ladies
will look forward to being married, and will jostle each other in the
race to the altar, and will avail themselves of all opportunities of
displaying their own attractions to the best advantage, down to the very
end of time, as they have done from its beginning.

‘Why, and here’s Fanny in tears now!’ exclaimed Miss Price, as if in
fresh amazement. ‘What can be the matter?’

‘Oh! you don’t know, miss, of course you don’t know. Pray don’t trouble
yourself to inquire,’ said Miss Squeers, producing that change of
countenance which children call making a face.

‘Well, I’m sure!’ exclaimed Miss Price.

‘And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma’am?’ retorted Miss
Squeers, making another face.

‘You are monstrous polite, ma’am,’ said Miss Price.

‘I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma’am!’ retorted
Miss Squeers.

‘You needn’t take the trouble to make yourself plainer than you
are, ma’am, however,’ rejoined Miss Price, ‘because that’s quite
unnecessary.’

Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God that she
hadn’t got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder,
congratulated herself upon not being possessed of the envious feeling of
other people; whereupon Miss Squeers made some general remark touching
the danger of associating with low persons; in which Miss Price entirely
coincided: observing that it was very true indeed, and she had thought
so a long time.

‘’Tilda,’ exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, ‘I hate you.’

‘Ah! There’s no love lost between us, I assure you,’ said Miss Price,
tying her bonnet strings with a jerk. ‘You’ll cry your eyes out, when
I’m gone; you know you will.’

‘I scorn your words, Minx,’ said Miss Squeers.

‘You pay me a great compliment when you say so,’ answered the miller’s
daughter, curtseying very low. ‘Wish you a very good-night, ma’am, and
pleasant dreams attend your sleep!’

With this parting benediction, Miss Price swept from the room, followed
by the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas, at parting, that
peculiarly expressive scowl with which the cut-and-thrust counts, in
melodramatic performances, inform each other they will meet again.

They were no sooner gone, than Miss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of
her quondam friend by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears,
and uttering various dismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas
stood looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but
feeling uncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced,
or scratched, and considering that either infliction would be equally
agreeable, he walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in
her pocket-handkerchief.

‘This is one consequence,’ thought Nicholas, when he had groped his way
to the dark sleeping-room, ‘of my cursed readiness to adapt myself
to any society in which chance carries me. If I had sat mute and
motionless, as I might have done, this would not have happened.’

He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.

‘I was glad,’ he murmured, ‘to grasp at any relief from the sight of
this dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have set
these people by the ears, and made two new enemies, where, Heaven knows,
I needed none. Well, it is a just punishment for having forgotten, even
for an hour, what is around me now!’

So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-hearted sleepers,
and crept into his poor bed.



CHAPTER 10

How Mr. Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister-in-Law


On the second morning after the departure of Nicholas for Yorkshire,
Kate Nickleby sat in a very faded chair raised upon a very dusty throne
in Miss La Creevy’s room, giving that lady a sitting for the portrait
upon which she was engaged; and towards the full perfection of which,
Miss La Creevy had had the street-door case brought upstairs, in
order that she might be the better able to infuse into the counterfeit
countenance of Miss Nickleby, a bright salmon flesh-tint which she had
originally hit upon while executing the miniature of a young officer
therein contained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered,
by Miss La Creevy’s chief friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty in
art: as indeed it was.

‘I think I have caught it now,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘The very shade!
This will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done, certainly.’

‘It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,’ replied
Kate, smiling.

‘No, no, I won’t allow that, my dear,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy. ‘It’s
a very nice subject--a very nice subject, indeed--though, of course,
something depends upon the mode of treatment.’

‘And not a little,’ observed Kate.

‘Why, my dear, you are right there,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘in the main
you are right there; though I don’t allow that it is of such very great
importance in the present case. Ah! The difficulties of Art, my dear,
are great.’

‘They must be, I have no doubt,’ said Kate, humouring her good-natured
little friend.

‘They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conception of,’
replied Miss La Creevy. ‘What with bringing out eyes with all one’s
power, and keeping down noses with all one’s force, and adding to heads,
and taking away teeth altogether, you have no idea of the trouble one
little miniature is.’

‘The remuneration can scarcely repay you,’ said Kate.

‘Why, it does not, and that’s the truth,’ answered Miss La Creevy; ‘and
then people are so dissatisfied and unreasonable, that, nine times out
of ten, there’s no pleasure in painting them. Sometimes they say, “Oh,
how very serious you have made me look, Miss La Creevy!” and at others,
“La, Miss La Creevy, how very smirking!” when the very essence of a
good portrait is, that it must be either serious or smirking, or it’s no
portrait at all.’

‘Indeed!’ said Kate, laughing.

‘Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are always either the one or
the other,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘Look at the Royal Academy! All
those beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen in black velvet waistcoats,
with their fists doubled up on round tables, or marble slabs, are
serious, you know; and all the ladies who are playing with little
parasols, or little dogs, or little children--it’s the same rule in art,
only varying the objects--are smirking. In fact,’ said Miss La Creevy,
sinking her voice to a confidential whisper, ‘there are only two styles
of portrait painting; the serious and the smirk; and we always use the
serious for professional people (except actors sometimes), and the smirk
for private ladies and gentlemen who don’t care so much about looking
clever.’

Kate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss La Creevy went
on painting and talking, with immovable complacency.

‘What a number of officers you seem to paint!’ said Kate, availing
herself of a pause in the discourse, and glancing round the room.

‘Number of what, child?’ inquired Miss La Creevy, looking up from her
work. ‘Character portraits, oh yes--they’re not real military men, you
know.’

‘No!’

‘Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire a
uniform coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag.
Some artists,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘keep a red coat, and charge
seven-and-sixpence extra for hire and carmine; but I don’t do that
myself, for I don’t consider it legitimate.’

Drawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly upon not
resorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy applied
herself, more intently, to her task: only raising her head occasionally,
to look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touch she had just put
in: and now and then giving Miss Nickleby to understand what particular
feature she was at work upon, at the moment; ‘not,’ she expressly
observed, ‘that you should make it up for painting, my dear, but because
it’s our custom sometimes to tell sitters what part we are upon, in
order that if there’s any particular expression they want introduced,
they may throw it in, at the time, you know.’

‘And when,’ said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, an
interval of full a minute and a half, ‘when do you expect to see your
uncle again?’

‘I scarcely know; I had expected to have seen him before now,’ replied
Kate. ‘Soon I hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than
anything.’

‘I suppose he has money, hasn’t he?’ inquired Miss La Creevy.

‘He is very rich, I have heard,’ rejoined Kate. ‘I don’t know that he
is, but I believe so.’

‘Ah, you may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn’t be so surly,’
remarked Miss La Creevy, who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness and
simplicity. ‘When a man’s a bear, he is generally pretty independent.’

‘His manner is rough,’ said Kate.

‘Rough!’ cried Miss La Creevy, ‘a porcupine’s a featherbed to him! I
never met with such a cross-grained old savage.’

‘It is only his manner, I believe,’ observed Kate, timidly; ‘he was
disappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper
soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I
knew he deserved it.’

‘Well; that’s very right and proper,’ observed the miniature painter,
‘and Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of your doing so! But,
now, mightn’t he, without feeling it himself, make you and your mama
some nice little allowance that would keep you both comfortable until
you were well married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What
would a hundred a year for instance, be to him?’

‘I don’t know what it would be to him,’ said Kate, with energy, ‘but it
would be that to me I would rather die than take.’

‘Heyday!’ cried Miss La Creevy.

‘A dependence upon him,’ said Kate, ‘would embitter my whole life. I
should feel begging a far less degradation.’

‘Well!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy. ‘This of a relation whom you will not
hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough, I
confess.’

‘I dare say it does,’ replied Kate, speaking more gently, ‘indeed I am
sure it must. I--I--only mean that with the feelings and recollection of
better times upon me, I could not bear to live on anybody’s bounty--not
his particularly, but anybody’s.’

Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether
Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeing that her young
friend was distressed, made no remark.

‘I only ask of him,’ continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke,
‘that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as to
enable me by his recommendation--only by his recommendation--to earn,
literally, my bread and remain with my mother. Whether we shall ever
taste happiness again, depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother;
but if he will do this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and
cheerful, I shall be contented.’

As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screen
which stood between her and the door, and some person knocked at the
wainscot.’

‘Come in, whoever it is!’ cried Miss La Creevy.

The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave to view the form
and features of no less an individual than Mr. Ralph Nickleby himself.

‘Your servant, ladies,’ said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns.
‘You were talking so loud, that I was unable to make you hear.’

When the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking
at his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their
thick and protruding brows, for an instant, and then displaying them in
their full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep down the smile
which parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines
about his mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the
whole, of their recent conversation, had been overheard.

‘I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you
here,’ said Ralph, addressing his niece, and looking contemptuously at
the portrait. ‘Is that my niece’s portrait, ma’am?’

‘Yes it is, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a very sprightly
air, ‘and between you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very nice
portrait too, though I say it who am the painter.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself to show it to me, ma’am,’ cried Ralph, moving
away, ‘I have no eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished?’

‘Why, yes,’ replied Miss La Creevy, considering with the pencil end of
her brush in her mouth. ‘Two sittings more will--’

‘Have them at once, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘She’ll have no time to idle
over fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma’am, work; we must all work. Have
you let your lodgings, ma’am?’

‘I have not put a bill up yet, sir.’

‘Put it up at once, ma’am; they won’t want the rooms after this week,
or if they do, can’t pay for them. Now, my dear, if you’re ready, we’ll
lose no more time.’

With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his
usual manner, Mr. Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young lady to precede
him, and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed
upstairs, where Mrs. Nickleby received him with many expressions of
regard. Stopping them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an
impatient gesture, and proceeded to the object of his visit.

‘I have found a situation for your daughter, ma’am,’ said Ralph.

‘Well,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Now, I will say that that is only just
what I have expected of you. “Depend upon it,” I said to Kate, only
yesterday morning at breakfast, “that after your uncle has provided, in
that most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us until he has
done at least the same for you.” These were my very words, as near as I
remember. Kate, my dear, why don’t you thank your--’

‘Let me proceed, ma’am, pray,’ said Ralph, interrupting his
sister-in-law in the full torrent of her discourse.

‘Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘I am most anxious that he should, mama,’ rejoined Kate.

‘Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow
your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,’ observed
Mrs. Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. ‘Your uncle’s time is
very valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be--and naturally
desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so
little of your uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the
pleasure of having him among us, still, we are bound not to be selfish,
but to take into consideration the important nature of his occupations
in the city.’

‘I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,’ said Ralph with a scarcely
perceptible sneer. ‘An absence of business habits in this family leads,
apparently, to a great waste of words before business--when it does come
under consideration--is arrived at, at all.’

‘I fear it is so indeed,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby with a sigh. ‘Your poor
brother--’

‘My poor brother, ma’am,’ interposed Ralph tartly, ‘had no idea what
business was--was unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning
of the word.’

‘I fear he was,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘If it hadn’t been for me, I don’t know what would have become of him.’

What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out
by Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At
every small deprivation or discomfort which presented itself in the
course of the four-and-twenty hours to remind her of her straitened
and altered circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand
pounds had arisen before Mrs. Nickleby’s mind, until, at last, she had
come to persuade herself that of all her late husband’s creditors she
was the worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him
dearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is
the usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A
decent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their old train, at
once.

‘Repining is of no use, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Of all fruitless errands,
sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.’

‘So it is,’ sobbed Mrs. Nickleby. ‘So it is.’

‘As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences
of inattention to business, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘I am sure you will
impress upon your children the necessity of attaching themselves to it
early in life.’

‘Of course I must see that,’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Sad experience, you
know, brother-in-law.--Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter
to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if I write.’

Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty
sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition,
went on to say:

‘The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma’am, is
with--with a milliner and dressmaker, in short.’

‘A milliner!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby.

‘A milliner and dressmaker, ma’am,’ replied Ralph. ‘Dressmakers in
London, as I need not remind you, ma’am, who are so well acquainted with
all matters in the ordinary routine of life, make large fortunes, keep
equipages, and become persons of great wealth and fortune.’

Now, the first idea called up in Mrs. Nickleby’s mind by the words
milliner and dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined
with black oilskin, which she remembered to have seen carried to and
fro in the streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these disappeared, and
were replaced by visions of large houses at the West end, neat private
carriages, and a banker’s book; all of which images succeeded each other
with such rapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than
she nodded her head and said ‘Very true,’ with great appearance of
satisfaction.

‘What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘I recollect when your poor papa and I came to town after we were
married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with
white and green trimming, and green persian lining, in her own carriage,
which drove up to the door full gallop;--at least, I am not quite
certain whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I
remember very well that the horse dropped down dead as he was turning
round, and that your poor papa said he hadn’t had any corn for a
fortnight.’

This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners,
was not received with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as
Kate hung down her head while it was relating, and Ralph manifested very
intelligible symptoms of extreme impatience.

‘The lady’s name,’ said Ralph, hastily striking in, ‘is
Mantalini--Madame Mantalini. I know her. She lives near Cavendish
Square. If your daughter is disposed to try after the situation, I’ll
take her there directly.’

‘Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?’ inquired Mrs. Nickleby.

‘A great deal,’ replied Kate; ‘but not now. I would rather speak to him
when we are alone;--it will save his time if I thank him and say what I
wish to say to him, as we walk along.’

With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that
were stealing down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while
Mrs. Nickleby amused her brother-in-law by giving him, with many tears, a
detailed account of the dimensions of a rosewood cabinet piano they had
possessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute description
of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs
to match the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings
apiece, and had gone at the sale for a mere nothing.

These reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate’s return in her
walking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the
whole time of her absence, lost no time, and used very little ceremony,
in descending into the street.

‘Now,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘walk as fast as you can, and you’ll get
into the step that you’ll have to walk to business with, every morning.’
So saying, he led Kate off, at a good round pace, towards Cavendish
Square.

‘I am very much obliged to you, uncle,’ said the young lady, after they
had hurried on in silence for some time; ‘very.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Ralph. ‘I hope you’ll do your duty.’

‘I will try to please, uncle,’ replied Kate: ‘indeed I--’

‘Don’t begin to cry,’ growled Ralph; ‘I hate crying.’

‘It’s very foolish, I know, uncle,’ began poor Kate.

‘It is,’ replied Ralph, stopping her short, ‘and very affected besides.
Let me see no more of it.’

Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and
sensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirely new scene
of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but it had its effect
notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a few
moments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.

It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk
through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets, giving way to
the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph as though she feared
to lose him in the throng; and how the stern and hard-featured man of
business went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and
then exchanging a gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who
turned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of
surprise, and seemed to wonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But,
it would have been a stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts
that were beating side by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence
of the one, and the rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the
guileless thoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among
all the wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not be
one word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. But so it
was; and stranger still--though this is a thing of every day--the warm
young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions,
while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in its cell, beating only
as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or
fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.

‘Uncle,’ said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination,
‘I must ask one question of you. I am to live at home?’

‘At home!’ replied Ralph; ‘where’s that?’

‘I mean with my mother--THE WIDOW,’ said Kate emphatically.

‘You will live, to all intents and purposes, here,’ rejoined Ralph; ‘for
here you will take your meals, and here you will be from morning till
night--occasionally perhaps till morning again.’

‘But at night, I mean,’ said Kate; ‘I cannot leave her, uncle. I must
have some place that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you
know, and may be a very humble one.’

‘May be!’ said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the
remark; ‘must be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?’

‘The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,’ urged Kate.

‘I hope not,’ said Ralph.

‘But my question, uncle; you have not answered it.’

‘Why, I anticipated something of the kind,’ said Ralph; ‘and--though I
object very strongly, mind--have provided against it. I spoke of you as
an out-of-door worker; so you will go to this home that may be humble,
every night.’

There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks for her uncle’s
consideration, which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all, and
they arrived without any further conversation at the dressmaker’s door,
which displayed a very large plate, with Madame Mantalini’s name and
occupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was
a shop to the house, but it was let off to an importer of otto of roses.
Madame Mantalini’s shows-rooms were on the first-floor: a fact which was
notified to the nobility and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the
handsomely curtained windows, of two or three elegant bonnets of the
newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.

A liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph’s inquiry
whether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them, through a handsome
hall and up a spacious staircase, into the show saloon, which comprised
two spacious drawing-rooms, and exhibited an immense variety of superb
dresses and materials for dresses: some arranged on stands, others
laid carelessly on sofas, and others again, scattered over the carpet,
hanging on the cheval-glasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the
rich furniture of various descriptions, which was profusely displayed.

They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr. Ralph
Nickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little
concern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman
suddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeing somebody there, as
suddenly popped it out again.

‘Here. Hollo!’ cried Ralph. ‘Who’s that?’

At the sound of Ralph’s voice, the head reappeared, and the mouth,
displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing
tone the words, ‘Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!’ Having uttered
which ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, and shook hands with Ralph,
with great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with
a waistcoat and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk
neckerchief, and bright green slippers, and had a very copious
watch-chain wound round his body. Moreover, he had whiskers and a
moustache, both dyed black and gracefully curled.

‘Demmit, you don’t mean to say you want me, do you, demmit?’ said this
gentleman, smiting Ralph on the shoulder.

‘Not yet,’ said Ralph, sarcastically.

‘Ha! ha! demmit,’ cried the gentleman; when, wheeling round to laugh
with greater elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby, who was standing
near.

‘My niece,’ said Ralph.

‘I remember,’ said the gentleman, striking his nose with the knuckle
of his forefinger as a chastening for his forgetfulness. ‘Demmit, I
remember what you come for. Step this way, Nickleby; my dear, will you
follow me? Ha! ha! They all follow me, Nickleby; always did, demmit,
always.’

Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagination, after this fashion,
the gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on the second floor,
scarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartment below, where the
presence of a silver coffee-pot, an egg-shell, and sloppy china for one,
seemed to show that he had just breakfasted.

‘Sit down, my dear,’ said the gentleman: first staring Miss Nickleby out
of countenance, and then grinning in delight at the achievement.
‘This cursed high room takes one’s breath away. These infernal sky
parlours--I’m afraid I must move, Nickleby.’

‘I would, by all means,’ replied Ralph, looking bitterly round.

‘What a demd rum fellow you are, Nickleby,’ said the gentleman, ‘the
demdest, longest-headed, queerest-tempered old coiner of gold and silver
ever was--demmit.’

Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rang the bell,
and stared at Miss Nickleby until it was answered, when he left off to
bid the man desire his mistress to come directly; after which, he began
again, and left off no more until Madame Mantalini appeared.

The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed and rather
good-looking, but much older than the gentleman in the Turkish trousers,
whom she had wedded some six months before. His name was originally
Muntle; but it had been converted, by an easy transition, into
Mantalini: the lady rightly considering that an English appellation
would be of serious injury to the business. He had married on his
whiskers; upon which property he had previously subsisted, in a genteel
manner, for some years; and which he had recently improved, after
patient cultivation by the addition of a moustache, which promised
to secure him an easy independence: his share in the labours of
the business being at present confined to spending the money, and
occasionally, when that ran short, driving to Mr. Ralph Nickleby to
procure discount--at a percentage--for the customers’ bills.

‘My life,’ said Mr. Mantalini, ‘what a demd devil of a time you have
been!’

‘I didn’t even know Mr. Nickleby was here, my love,’ said Madame
Mantalini.

‘Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman must be, my soul,’
remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.

‘My dear,’ said Madame, ‘that is entirely your fault.’

‘My fault, my heart’s joy?’

‘Certainly,’ returned the lady; ‘what can you expect, dearest, if you
will not correct the man?’

‘Correct the man, my soul’s delight!’

‘Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,’ said Madame,
pouting.

‘Then do not vex itself,’ said Mr. Mantalini; ‘he shall be horse-whipped
till he cries out demnebly.’ With this promise Mr. Mantalini kissed
Madame Mantalini, and, after that performance, Madame Mantalini pulled
Mr. Mantalini playfully by the ear: which done, they descended to
business.

‘Now, ma’am,’ said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, with such
scorn as few men can express in looks, ‘this is my niece.’

‘Just so, Mr. Nickleby,’ replied Madame Mantalini, surveying Kate from
head to foot, and back again. ‘Can you speak French, child?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she felt that the
eyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown were directed towards her.

‘Like a demd native?’ asked the husband.

Miss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned her back upon
the questioner, as if addressing herself to make answer to what his wife
might demand.

‘We keep twenty young women constantly employed in the establishment,’
said Madame.

‘Indeed, ma’am!’ replied Kate, timidly.

‘Yes; and some of ‘em demd handsome, too,’ said the master.

‘Mantalini!’ exclaimed his wife, in an awful voice.

‘My senses’ idol!’ said Mantalini.

‘Do you wish to break my heart?’

‘Not for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with--with--with little
ballet-dancers,’ replied Mantalini in a poetical strain.

‘Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking,’ said his
wife. ‘What can Mr. Nickleby think when he hears you?’

‘Oh! Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘I know his amiable
nature, and yours,--mere little remarks that give a zest to your daily
intercourse--lovers’ quarrels that add sweetness to those domestic joys
which promise to last so long--that’s all; that’s all.’

If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges, and to
make a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to
powder in the process, it would emit a pleasanter sound in so doing,
than did these words in the rough and bitter voice in which they were
uttered by Ralph. Even Mr. Mantalini felt their influence, and turning
affrighted round, exclaimed: ‘What a demd horrid croaking!’

‘You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr. Mantalini says,’
observed his wife, addressing Miss Nickleby.

‘I do not, ma’am,’ said Kate, with quiet contempt.

‘Mr. Mantalini knows nothing whatever about any of the young women,’
continued Madame, looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate. ‘If he
has seen any of them, he must have seen them in the street, going to, or
returning from, their work, and not here. He was never even in the room.
I do not allow it. What hours of work have you been accustomed to?’

‘I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma’am,’ replied Kate,
in a low voice.

‘For which reason she’ll work all the better now,’ said Ralph, putting
in a word, lest this confession should injure the negotiation.

‘I hope so,’ returned Madame Mantalini; ‘our hours are from nine to
nine, with extra work when we’re very full of business, for which I
allow payment as overtime.’

Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and was satisfied.

‘Your meals,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘that is, dinner and tea, you
will take here. I should think your wages would average from five to
seven shillings a week; but I can’t give you any certain information on
that point, until I see what you can do.’

Kate bowed her head again.

‘If you’re ready to come,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘you had better begin
on Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knag the forewoman shall
then have directions to try you with some easy work at first. Is there
anything more, Mr. Nickleby?’

‘Nothing more, ma’am,’ replied Ralph, rising.

‘Then I believe that’s all,’ said the lady. Having arrived at this
natural conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to be
gone, but hesitated notwithstanding, as though unwilling to leave to Mr
Mantalini the sole honour of showing them downstairs. Ralph relieved
her from her perplexity by taking his departure without delay: Madame
Mantalini making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them;
and Mr. Mantalini anathematising the stairs with great volubility as he
followed them down, in the hope of inducing Kate to look round,--a hope,
however, which was destined to remain ungratified.

‘There!’ said Ralph when they got into the street; ‘now you’re provided
for.’

Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.

‘I had some idea,’ he said, ‘of providing for your mother in a pleasant
part of the country--(he had a presentation to some almshouses on the
borders of Cornwall, which had occurred to him more than once)--but as
you want to be together, I must do something else for her. She has a
little money?’

‘A very little,’ replied Kate.

‘A little will go a long way if it’s used sparingly,’ said Ralph. ‘She
must see how long she can make it last, living rent free. You leave your
lodgings on Saturday?’

‘You told us to do so, uncle.’

‘Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can put you
into till it is let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I shall
have another. You must live there.’

‘Is it far from here, sir?’ inquired Kate.

‘Pretty well,’ said Ralph; ‘in another quarter of the town--at the East
end; but I’ll send my clerk down to you, at five o’clock on Saturday, to
take you there. Goodbye. You know your way? Straight on.’

Coldly shaking his niece’s hand, Ralph left her at the top of Regent
Street, and turned down a by-thoroughfare, intent on schemes of
money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to their lodgings in the Strand.



CHAPTER 11

Newman Noggs inducts Mrs. and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in
the City


Miss Nickleby’s reflections, as she wended her way homewards, were of
that desponding nature which the occurrences of the morning had been
sufficiently calculated to awaken. Her uncle’s was not a manner likely
to dispel any doubts or apprehensions she might have formed, in the
outset, neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame Mantalini’s
establishment by any means encouraging. It was with many gloomy
forebodings and misgivings, therefore, that she looked forward, with a
heavy heart, to the opening of her new career.

If her mother’s consolations could have restored her to a pleasanter and
more enviable state of mind, there were abundance of them to produce the
effect. By the time Kate reached home, the good lady had called to mind
two authentic cases of milliners who had been possessed of considerable
property, though whether they had acquired it all in business, or had
had a capital to start with, or had been lucky and married to advantage,
she could not exactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked,
there must have been SOME young person in that way of business who had
made a fortune without having anything to begin with, and that being
taken for granted, why should not Kate do the same? Miss La Creevy, who
was a member of the little council, ventured to insinuate some doubts
relative to the probability of Miss Nickleby’s arriving at this happy
consummation in the compass of an ordinary lifetime; but the good lady
set that question entirely at rest, by informing them that she had a
presentiment on the subject--a species of second-sight with which she
had been in the habit of clenching every argument with the deceased
Mr. Nickleby, and, in nine cases and three-quarters out of every ten,
determining it the wrong way.

‘I am afraid it is an unhealthy occupation,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘I
recollect getting three young milliners to sit to me, when I first began
to paint, and I remember that they were all very pale and sickly.’

‘Oh! that’s not a general rule by any means,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby;
‘for I remember, as well as if it was only yesterday, employing one that
I was particularly recommended to, to make me a scarlet cloak at the
time when scarlet cloaks were fashionable, and she had a very red
face--a very red face, indeed.’

‘Perhaps she drank,’ suggested Miss La Creevy.

‘I don’t know how that may have been,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby: ‘but I
know she had a very red face, so your argument goes for nothing.’

In this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did the worthy matron
meet every little objection that presented itself to the new scheme of
the morning. Happy Mrs. Nickleby! A project had but to be new, and it
came home to her mind, brightly varnished and gilded as a glittering
toy.

This question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle’s desire about
the empty house, to which Mrs. Nickleby assented with equal readiness,
characteristically remarking, that, on the fine evenings, it would be a
pleasant amusement for her to walk to the West end to fetch her daughter
home; and no less characteristically forgetting, that there were such
things as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every
week of the year.

‘I shall be sorry--truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend,’ said Kate,
on whom the good feeling of the poor miniature painter had made a deep
impression.

‘You shall not shake me off, for all that,’ replied Miss La Creevy, with
as much sprightliness as she could assume. ‘I shall see you very often,
and come and hear how you get on; and if, in all London, or all the wide
world besides, there is no other heart that takes an interest in your
welfare, there will be one little lonely woman that prays for it night
and day.’

With this, the poor soul, who had a heart big enough for Gog, the
guardian genius of London, and enough to spare for Magog to boot, after
making a great many extraordinary faces which would have secured her an
ample fortune, could she have transferred them to ivory or canvas, sat
down in a corner, and had what she termed ‘a real good cry.’

But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep off the
dreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his
time, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiff of cordial gin through
the keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in the neighbourhood
as agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited
for the last stroke, and then knocked.

‘From Mr. Ralph Nickleby,’ said Newman, announcing his errand, when he
got upstairs, with all possible brevity.

‘We shall be ready directly,’ said Kate. ‘We have not much to carry, but
I fear we must have a coach.’

‘I’ll get one,’ replied Newman.

‘Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘I will,’ said Newman.

‘I can’t suffer you to think of such a thing,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘You can’t help it,’ said Newman.

‘Not help it!’

‘No; I thought of it as I came along; but didn’t get one, thinking you
mightn’t be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent
that.’

‘Oh yes, I understand you, Mr. Noggs,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Our thoughts
are free, of course. Everybody’s thoughts are their own, clearly.’

‘They wouldn’t be, if some people had their way,’ muttered Newman.

‘Well, no more they would, Mr. Noggs, and that’s very true,’ rejoined Mrs
Nickleby. ‘Some people to be sure are such--how’s your master?’

Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with a strong
emphasis on the last word of his answer, that Mr. Ralph Nickleby was
well, and sent his LOVE.

‘I am sure we are very much obliged to him,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Very,’ said Newman. ‘I’ll tell him so.’

It was no very easy matter to mistake Newman Noggs, after having once
seen him, and as Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner (in
which on this occasion, however, there was something respectful and even
delicate, notwithstanding the abruptness of his speech), looked at him
more closely, she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that
strange figure before.

‘Excuse my curiosity,’ she said, ‘but did I not see you in the
coachyard, on the morning my brother went away to Yorkshire?’

Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs. Nickleby and said ‘No,’ most
unblushingly.

‘No!’ exclaimed Kate, ‘I should have said so anywhere.’

‘You’d have said wrong,’ rejoined Newman. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been
out for three weeks. I’ve had the gout.’

Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject,
and so Kate could not help thinking; but the conference was cut short by
Mrs. Nickleby’s insisting on having the door shut, lest Mr. Noggs should
take cold, and further persisting in sending the servant girl for a
coach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To
both conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach
came; and, after many sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running
backwards and forwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La
Creevy, in the course of which the yellow turban came into violent
contact with sundry foot-passengers, it (that is to say the coach,
not the turban) went away again, with the two ladies and their luggage
inside; and Newman, despite all Mrs. Nickleby’s assurances that it would
be his death--on the box beside the driver.

They went into the city, turning down by the river side; and, after a
long and very slow drive, the streets being crowded at that hour with
vehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a large old dingy house in
Thames Street: the door and windows of which were so bespattered with
mud, that it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years.

The door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a key which he took
out of his hat--in which, by-the-bye, in consequence of the dilapidated
state of his pockets, he deposited everything, and would most
likely have carried his money if he had had any--and the coach being
discharged, he led the way into the interior of the mansion.

Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and dark were
the rooms, once so bustling with life and enterprise. There was a
wharf behind, opening on the Thames. An empty dog-kennel, some bones of
animals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks, lay strewn
about, but no life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent
decay.

‘This house depresses and chills one,’ said Kate, ‘and seems as if some
blight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost
inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had been perpetrated within
these old walls, and that the place had never prospered since. How
frowning and how dark it looks!’

‘Lord, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, ‘don’t talk in that way, or
you’ll frighten me to death.’

‘It is only my foolish fancy, mama,’ said Kate, forcing a smile.

‘Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to
yourself, and not wake up MY foolish fancy to keep it company,’ retorted
Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Why didn’t you think of all this before--you are so
careless--we might have asked Miss La Creevy to keep us company or
borrowed a dog, or a thousand things--but it always was the way, and
was just the same with your poor dear father. Unless I thought of
everything--’ This was Mrs. Nickleby’s usual commencement of a general
lamentation, running through a dozen or so of complicated sentences
addressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched until
her breath was exhausted.

Newman appeared not to hear these remarks, but preceded them to a couple
of rooms on the first floor, which some kind of attempt had been made to
render habitable. In one, were a few chairs, a table, an old hearth-rug,
and some faded baize; and a fire was ready laid in the grate. In the
other stood an old tent bedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber
furniture.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, trying to be pleased, ‘now isn’t
this thoughtful and considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not have
had anything but the bed we bought yesterday, to lie down upon, if it
hadn’t been for his thoughtfulness!’

‘Very kind, indeed,’ replied Kate, looking round.

Newman Noggs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture they
saw, from attic and cellar; or that he had taken in the halfpennyworth
of milk for tea that stood upon a shelf, or filled the rusty kettle on
the hob, or collected the woodchips from the wharf, or begged the coals.
But the notion of Ralph Nickleby having directed it to be done, tickled
his fancy so much, that he could not refrain from cracking all his ten
fingers in succession: at which performance Mrs. Nickleby was rather
startled at first, but supposing it to be in some remote manner
connected with the gout, did not remark upon.

‘We need detain you no longer, I think,’ said Kate.

‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked Newman.

‘Nothing, thank you,’ rejoined Miss Nickleby.

‘Perhaps, my dear, Mr. Noggs would like to drink our healths,’ said Mrs
Nickleby, fumbling in her reticule for some small coin.

‘I think, mama,’ said Kate hesitating, and remarking Newman’s averted
face, ‘you would hurt his feelings if you offered it.’

Newman Noggs, bowing to the young lady more like a gentleman than
the miserable wretch he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast, and,
pausing for a moment, with the air of a man who struggles to speak but
is uncertain what to say, quitted the room.

As the jarring echoes of the heavy house-door, closing on its latch,
reverberated dismally through the building, Kate felt half tempted to
call him back, and beg him to remain a little while; but she was ashamed
to own her fears, and Newman Noggs was on his road homewards.



CHAPTER 12

Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of
Miss Fanny Squeer’s Love, and to ascertain whether it ran smooth or
otherwise.


It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when her
worthy papa returned home on the night of the small tea-party, he was
what the initiated term ‘too far gone’ to observe the numerous tokens
of extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly visible in her
countenance. Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrelsome mood in
his cups, it is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her,
either on this or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with
a foresight and prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose,
to bear the first brunt of the good gentleman’s anger; which, having
vented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to
admit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots
on, and an umbrella under his arm.

The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according
to custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little offices of her
toilet, and administer as much flattery as she could get up, for the
purpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain
and frivolous withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only the
arbitrary distinctions of rank and station which prevented her from
being one.

‘How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!’ said the handmaiden. ‘I
declare if it isn’t a pity and a shame to brush it out!’

‘Hold your tongue!’ replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.

Some considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all
surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of Miss Squeers.
Having a half-perception of what had occurred in the course of the
evening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable, and proceeded
on the indirect tack.

‘Well, I couldn’t help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,’ said
the attendant, ‘that I never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price
this night.’

Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.

‘I know it’s very wrong in me to say so, miss,’ continued the girl,
delighted to see the impression she was making, ‘Miss Price being a
friend of your’n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and go on
in such a manner to get noticed, that--oh--well, if people only saw
themselves!’

‘What do you mean, Phib?’ asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own little
glass, where, like most of us, she saw--not herself, but the reflection
of some pleasant image in her own brain. ‘How you talk!’

‘Talk, miss! It’s enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar, only to
see how she tosses her head,’ replied the handmaid.

‘She DOES toss her head,’ observed Miss Squeers, with an air of
abstraction.

‘So vain, and so very--very plain,’ said the girl.

‘Poor ‘Tilda!’ sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately.

‘And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,’ pursued the
servant. ‘Oh, dear! It’s positive indelicate.’

‘I can’t allow you to talk in that way, Phib,’ said Miss Squeers.
‘’Tilda’s friends are low people, and if she don’t know any better, it’s
their fault, and not hers.’

‘Well, but you know, miss,’ said Phoebe, for which name ‘Phib’ was
used as a patronising abbreviation, ‘if she was only to take copy by
a friend--oh! if she only knew how wrong she was, and would but set
herself right by you, what a nice young woman she might be in time!’

‘Phib,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, ‘it’s not proper
for me to hear these comparisons drawn; they make ‘Tilda look a coarse
improper sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me to listen to
them. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at the same time,
I must say, that if ‘Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody--not me
particularly--’

‘Oh yes; you, miss,’ interposed Phib.

‘Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,’ said Miss Squeers. ‘I must
say, that if she would, she would be all the better for it.’

‘So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,’ said the girl
mysteriously.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Miss Squeers.

‘Never mind, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘I know what I know; that’s all.’

‘Phib,’ said Miss Squeers dramatically, ‘I insist upon your explaining
yourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.’

‘Why, if you will have it, miss, it’s this,’ said the servant girl. ‘Mr
John Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn’t too far gone to do
it creditable, he’d be very glad to be off with Miss Price, and on with
Miss Squeers.’

‘Gracious heavens!’ exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with
great dignity. ‘What is this?’

‘Truth, ma’am, and nothing but truth,’ replied the artful Phib.

‘What a situation!’ cried Miss Squeers; ‘on the brink of unconsciously
destroying the peace and happiness of my own ‘Tilda. What is the reason
that men fall in love with me, whether I like it or not, and desert
their chosen intendeds for my sake?’

‘Because they can’t help it, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘the reason’s
plain.’ (If Miss Squeers were the reason, it was very plain.)

‘Never let me hear of it again,’ retorted Miss Squeers. ‘Never! Do you
hear? ‘Tilda Price has faults--many faults--but I wish her well, and
above all I wish her married; for I think it highly desirable--most
desirable from the very nature of her failings--that she should be
married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have Mr. Browdie. I may
pity HIM, poor fellow; but I have a great regard for ‘Tilda, and only
hope she may make a better wife than I think she will.’

With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.

Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble of
feelings, and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in the language.
Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts that what the miserable
serving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying flattery, as did the girl
herself; yet the mere opportunity of venting a little ill-nature against
the offending Miss Price, and affecting to compassionate her weaknesses
and foibles, though only in the presence of a solitary dependant, was
almost as great a relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel
truth. Nay, more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion
when they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite
high-minded and great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie’s
hand, and looked down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness and
tranquillity, that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled feelings.

This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a
reconciliation; for, when a knock came at the front-door next day, and
the miller’s daughter was announced, Miss Squeers betook herself to the
parlour in a Christian frame of spirit, perfectly beautiful to behold.

‘Well, Fanny,’ said the miller’s daughter, ‘you see I have come to see
you, although we HAD some words last night.’

‘I pity your bad passions, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, ‘but I bear no
malice. I am above it.’

‘Don’t be cross, Fanny,’ said Miss Price. ‘I have come to tell you
something that I know will please you.’

‘What may that be, ‘Tilda?’ demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her lips,
and looking as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could afford
her the slightest gleam of satisfaction.

‘This,’ rejoined Miss Price. ‘After we left here last night John and I
had a dreadful quarrel.’

‘That doesn’t please me,’ said Miss Squeers--relaxing into a smile
though.

‘Lor! I wouldn’t think so bad of you as to suppose it did,’ rejoined her
companion. ‘That’s not it.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy. ‘Go on.’

‘After a great deal of wrangling, and saying we would never see each
other any more,’ continued Miss Price, ‘we made it up, and this morning
John went and wrote our names down to be put up, for the first time,
next Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and I give you
notice to get your frock made.’

There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. The prospect of
the friend’s being married so soon was the gall, and the certainty of
her not entertaining serious designs upon Nicholas was the honey. Upon
the whole, the sweet greatly preponderated over the bitter, so Miss
Squeers said she would get the frock made, and that she hoped ‘Tilda
might be happy, though at the same time she didn’t know, and would not
have her build too much upon it, for men were strange creatures, and
a great many married women were very miserable, and wished themselves
single again with all their hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers
added others equally calculated to raise her friend’s spirits and
promote her cheerfulness of mind.

‘But come now, Fanny,’ said Miss Price, ‘I want to have a word or two
with you about young Mr. Nickleby.’

‘He is nothing to me,’ interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical
symptoms. ‘I despise him too much!’

‘Oh, you don’t mean that, I am sure?’ replied her friend. ‘Confess,
Fanny; don’t you like him now?’

Without returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell into
a paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a wretched,
neglected, miserable castaway.

‘I hate everybody,’ said Miss Squeers, ‘and I wish that everybody was
dead--that I do.’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal of
misanthropical sentiments. ‘You are not serious, I am sure.’

‘Yes, I am,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her
pocket-handkerchief and clenching her teeth. ‘And I wish I was dead too.
There!’

‘Oh! you’ll think very differently in another five minutes,’ said
Matilda. ‘How much better to take him into favour again, than to hurt
yourself by going on in that way. Wouldn’t it be much nicer, now,
to have him all to yourself on good terms, in a company-keeping,
love-making, pleasant sort of manner?’

‘I don’t know but what it would,’ sobbed Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! ‘Tilda, how
could you have acted so mean and dishonourable! I wouldn’t have believed
it of you, if anybody had told me.’

‘Heyday!’ exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. ‘One would suppose I had been
murdering somebody at least.’

‘Very nigh as bad,’ said Miss Squeers passionately.

‘And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make
people civil to me,’ cried Miss Price. ‘Persons don’t make their own
faces, and it’s no more my fault if mine is a good one than it is other
people’s fault if theirs is a bad one.’

‘Hold your tongue,’ shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone; ‘or
you’ll make me slap you, ‘Tilda, and afterwards I should be sorry for
it!’

It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young lady
was in some slight degree affected by the tone of her conversation,
and that a dash of personality was infused into the altercation, in
consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a
considerable height, and was assuming a very violent complexion,
when both parties, falling into a great passion of tears, exclaimed
simultaneously, that they had never thought of being spoken to in that
way: which exclamation, leading to a remonstrance, gradually brought
on an explanation: and the upshot was, that they fell into each other’s
arms and vowed eternal friendship; the occasion in question making the
fifty-second time of repeating the same impressive ceremony within a
twelvemonth.

Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued
upon the number and nature of the garments which would be indispensable
for Miss Price’s entrance into the holy state of matrimony, when Miss
Squeers clearly showed that a great many more than the miller could,
or would, afford, were absolutely necessary, and could not decently
be dispensed with. The young lady then, by an easy digression, led
the discourse to her own wardrobe, and after recounting its principal
beauties at some length, took her friend upstairs to make inspection
thereof. The treasures of two drawers and a closet having been
displayed, and all the smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss
Price to return home; and as she had been in raptures with all the
frocks, and had been stricken quite dumb with admiration of a new pink
scarf, Miss Squeers said in high good humour, that she would walk part
of the way with her, for the pleasure of her company; and off they went
together: Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked along, upon her father’s
accomplishments: and multiplying his income by ten, to give her friend
some faint notion of the vast importance and superiority of her family.

It happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily
interval which was suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly called
the dinner of Mr. Squeers’s pupils, and their return to the pursuit of
useful knowledge, was precisely the hour when Nicholas was accustomed
to issue forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered
listlessly through the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers
knew this perfectly well, but had perhaps forgotten it, for when she
caught sight of that young gentleman advancing towards them, she evinced
many symptoms of surprise and consternation, and assured her friend that
she ‘felt fit to drop into the earth.’

‘Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?’ asked Miss Price. ‘He don’t
see us yet.’

‘No, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, ‘it is my duty to go through with
it, and I will!’

As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high moral
resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and catchings
of breath, indicative of feelings at a high pressure, her friend made no
further remark, and they bore straight down upon Nicholas, who, walking
with his eyes bent upon the ground, was not aware of their approach
until they were close upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken
shelter himself.

‘Good-morning,’ said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.

‘He is going,’ murmured Miss Squeers. ‘I shall choke, ‘Tilda.’

‘Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do!’ cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at her
friend’s threat, but really actuated by a malicious wish to hear what
Nicholas would say; ‘come back, Mr. Nickleby!’

Mr. Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he
inquired whether the ladies had any commands for him.

‘Don’t stop to talk,’ urged Miss Price, hastily; ‘but support her on the
other side. How do you feel now, dear?’

‘Better,’ sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of a reddish brown
with a green veil attached, on Mr. Nickleby’s shoulder. ‘This foolish
faintness!’

‘Don’t call it foolish, dear,’ said Miss Price: her bright eye dancing
with merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; ‘you have no
reason to be ashamed of it. It’s those who are too proud to come round
again, without all this to-do, that ought to be ashamed.’

‘You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,’ said Nicholas, smiling,
‘although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.’

‘There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,’ remarked the wicked Miss
Price. ‘Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it
was not his fault. You hear; I think that’s apology enough.’

‘You will not understand me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Pray dispense with this
jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to be the
subject or promoter of mirth just now.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.

‘Don’t ask him, ‘Tilda,’ cried Miss Squeers; ‘I forgive him.’

‘Dear me,’ said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder
again, ‘this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have
the goodness to hear me speak?’

Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned
astonishment a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a
few paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden, and went on to say:

‘I am very sorry--truly and sincerely sorry--for having been the
cause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself, most
bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the dissension
that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and
heedlessly.’

‘Well; that’s not all you have got to say surely,’ exclaimed Miss Price
as Nicholas paused.

‘I fear there is something more,’ stammered Nicholas with a half-smile,
and looking towards Miss Squeers, ‘it is a most awkward thing to
say--but--the very mention of such a supposition makes one look like a
puppy--still--may I ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any--in
short, does she think that I am in love with her?’

‘Delightful embarrassment,’ thought Miss Squeers, ‘I have brought him to
it, at last. Answer for me, dear,’ she whispered to her friend.

‘Does she think so?’ rejoined Miss Price; ‘of course she does.’

‘She does!’ exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as might
have been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.

‘Certainly,’ replied Miss Price

‘If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, ‘Tilda,’ said the blushing Miss
Squeers in soft accents, ‘he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments
are recipro--’

‘Stop,’ cried Nicholas hurriedly; ‘pray hear me. This is the grossest
and wildest delusion, the completest and most signal mistake, that ever
human being laboured under, or committed. I have scarcely seen the
young lady half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am
destined to see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely
the same. I have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her,
unless it be--and I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to impress
her with the real state of my own--unless it be the one object, dear to
my heart as life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon
this accursed place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it--even
think of it--but with loathing and disgust.’

With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which
he made with all the vehemence that his indignant and excited feelings
could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more,
retreated.

But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid
succession of bitter and passionate feelings that whirled through her
mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked
up by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at
indefinite periods, and ‘found’ in food and lodging like the very boys
themselves; and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller’s
daughter of eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks’ time,
to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have
choked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.

But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and
that was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness
of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of
Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in
every day she could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction
of some slight, or insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some
effect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so
sensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind,
Miss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing
that Mr. Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper,
that she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from
her.

And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her
affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything
better, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously
contemplated the possibility of his being of a different opinion
from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was
prepossessing and beautiful, and that her father was master, and
Nicholas man, and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had
none, all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the young man
should feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed
to recollect, either, how much more agreeable she could render his
situation if she were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she
were his enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlemen
than Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only
for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he had thought
proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.

‘Let him see,’ said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her
own room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, ‘if I
don’t set mother against him a little more when she comes back!’

It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as
her word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging,
and the being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid
misery, was treated with every special indignity that malice could
suggest, or the most grasping cupidity put upon him.

Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which
made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and
cruelty.

The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken
kindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an
ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little
wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near
him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face;
and a word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a
passing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an
object now; and that object was, to show his attachment to the only
person--that person a stranger--who had treated him, not to say with
kindness, but like a human creature.

Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be
vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been
nothing--Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without
cause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also
he had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner
observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and
blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only
portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon
acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas
saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and
cowardly attack.

He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as
he paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost
bursting to think that his protection and countenance should have
increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution
had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat
the object of his thoughts.

The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of
recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some
task which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers,
could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the
crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he
sat, patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish
ambition, for he was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth
objects that congregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire
to please his solitary friend.

Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.

‘I can’t do it,’ said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter
disappointment in every feature. ‘No, no.’

‘Do not try,’ replied Nicholas.

The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked
vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.

‘Do not for God’s sake,’ said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; ‘I cannot
bear to see you.’

‘They are more hard with me than ever,’ sobbed the boy.

‘I know it,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘They are.’

‘But for you,’ said the outcast, ‘I should die. They would kill me; they
would; I know they would.’

‘You will do better, poor fellow,’ replied Nicholas, shaking his head
mournfully, ‘when I am gone.’

‘Gone!’ cried the other, looking intently in his face.

‘Softly!’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you going?’ demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.

‘I cannot say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I was speaking more to my own
thoughts, than to you.’

‘Tell me,’ said the boy imploringly, ‘oh do tell me, WILL you go--WILL
you?’

‘I shall be driven to that at last!’ said Nicholas. ‘The world is before
me, after all.’

‘Tell me,’ urged Smike, ‘is the world as bad and dismal as this place?’

‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own
thoughts; ‘its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.’

‘Should I ever meet you there?’ demanded the boy, speaking with unusual
wildness and volubility.

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.

‘No, no!’ said the other, clasping him by the hand. ‘Should I--should
I--tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.’

‘You would,’ replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, ‘and I
would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done
here.’

The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately in his, and,
hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were
unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into
his old corner.



CHAPTER 13

Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and
remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance


The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the
windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself on
his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded
him, as though in search of some particular object.

It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of
sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed
together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with their patched and ragged
clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale
faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour;
with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by
no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness.
There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and
clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect
of dead bodies than of living creatures; and there were others coiled up
into strange and fantastic postures, such as might have been taken for
the uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than
the freaks of slumber. A few--and these were among the youngest of the
children--slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming
perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the
stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to
the misery of another day; and, as morning took the place of night, the
smiles gradually faded away, with the friendly darkness which had given
them birth.

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth
in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which
lights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the
world.

Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who
gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its
sorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, with a more intense
and searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed something his eye was
accustomed to meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied
in this search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his
quest, when the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of
the stairs.

‘Now then,’ cried that gentleman, ‘are you going to sleep all day, up
there--’

‘You lazy hounds?’ added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sentence, and
producing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which is
occasioned by the lacing of stays.

‘We shall be down directly, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Down directly!’ said Squeers. ‘Ah! you had better be down directly, or
I’ll be down upon some of you in less. Where’s that Smike?’

Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.

‘Smike!’ shouted Squeers.

‘Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?’ demanded his
amiable lady in the same key.

Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did
the greater part of the boys, who were by this time roused.

‘Confound his impudence!’ muttered Squeers, rapping the stair-rail
impatiently with his cane. ‘Nickleby!’

‘Well, sir.’

‘Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don’t you hear me calling?’

‘He is not here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Don’t tell me a lie,’ retorted the schoolmaster. ‘He is.’

‘He is not,’ retorted Nicholas angrily, ‘don’t tell me one.’

‘We shall soon see that,’ said Mr. Squeers, rushing upstairs. ‘I’ll find
him, I warrant you.’

With which assurance, Mr. Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and,
swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner
where the lean body of the drudge was usually stretched at night. The
cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There was nobody there.

‘What does this mean?’ said Squeers, turning round with a very pale
face. ‘Where have you hid him?’

‘I have seen nothing of him since last night,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Come,’ said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeavoured to
look otherwise, ‘you won’t save him this way. Where is he?’

‘At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,’ rejoined Nicholas
in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master’s face.

‘Damn you, what do you mean by that?’ retorted Squeers in great
perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys
whether any one among them knew anything of their missing schoolmate.

There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which, one
shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):

‘Please, sir, I think Smike’s run away, sir.’

‘Ha!’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round. ‘Who said that?’

‘Tomkins, please sir,’ rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. Squeers made
a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very little boy,
habited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression of whose
countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed to intimate that he was
as yet uncertain whether he was about to be punished or rewarded for the
suggestion. He was not long in doubt.

‘You think he has run away, do you, sir?’ demanded Squeers.

‘Yes, please sir,’ replied the little boy.

‘And what, sir,’ said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly by
the arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterous manner, ‘what
reason have you to suppose that any boy would want to run away from this
establishment? Eh, sir?’

The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr. Squeers,
throwing himself into the most favourable attitude for exercising his
strength, beat him until the little urchin in his writhings actually
rolled out of his hands, when he mercifully allowed him to roll away, as
he best could.

‘There,’ said Squeers. ‘Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away,
I shall be glad to have a talk with him.’

There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed
his disgust as plainly as looks could show it.

‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. ‘YOU think he
has run away, I suppose?’

‘I think it extremely likely,’ replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ sneered Squeers. ‘Maybe you know he has?’

‘I know nothing of the kind.’

‘He didn’t tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?’ sneered Squeers.

‘He did not,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I am very glad he did not, for it would
then have been my duty to have warned you in time.’

‘Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,’ said Squeers
in a taunting fashion.

‘I should indeed,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You interpret my feelings with
great accuracy.’

Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottom of
the stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed her
night-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.

‘What’s all this here to-do?’ said the lady, as the boys fell off right
and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny
arms. ‘What on earth are you a talking to him for, Squeery!’

‘Why, my dear,’ said Squeers, ‘the fact is, that Smike is not to be
found.’

‘Well, I know that,’ said the lady, ‘and where’s the wonder? If you
get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the young dogs a
rebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young man, you just have the
kindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take the boys off
with you, and don’t you stir out of there till you have leave given you,
or you and I may fall out in a way that’ll spoil your beauty, handsome
as you think yourself, and so I tell you.’

‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,’ said the excited
lady; ‘and I wouldn’t keep such as you in the house another hour, if I
had my way.’

‘Nor would you if I had mine,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Now, boys!’

‘Ah! Now, boys,’ said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as she could,
the voice and manner of the usher. ‘Follow your leader, boys, and take
pattern by Smike if you dare. See what he’ll get for himself, when he
is brought back; and, mind! I tell you that you shall have as bad, and
twice as bad, if you so much as open your mouths about him.’

‘If I catch him,’ said Squeers, ‘I’ll only stop short of flaying him
alive. I give you notice, boys.’

‘IF you catch him,’ retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuously; ‘you are sure
to; you can’t help it, if you go the right way to work. Come! Away with
you!’

With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and after a little
light skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressing forward to
get out of the way, but were detained for a few moments by the throng
in front, succeeded in clearing the room, when she confronted her spouse
alone.

‘He is off,’ said Mrs. Squeers. ‘The cow-house and stable are locked up,
so he can’t be there; and he’s not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has
looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road too.’

‘Why must he?’ inquired Squeers.

‘Stupid!’ said Mrs. Squeers angrily. ‘He hadn’t any money, had he?’

‘Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,’
replied Squeers.

‘To be sure,’ rejoined Mrs. Squeers, ‘and he didn’t take anything to eat
with him; that I’ll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Squeers.

‘Then, of course,’ said Mrs. S., ‘he must beg his way, and he could do
that, nowhere, but on the public road.’

‘That’s true,’ exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.

‘True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I
hadn’t said so,’ replied his wife. ‘Now, if you take the chaise and go
one road, and I borrow Swallow’s chaise, and go the other, what with
keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is
pretty certain to lay hold of him.’

The worthy lady’s plan was adopted and put in execution without a
moment’s delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of
some inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that
he was on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise,
intent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers,
arrayed in the white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and
handkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise and another direction,
taking with her a good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong
cord, and a stout labouring man: all provided and carried upon the
expedition, with the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once
caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.

Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever
might be the upshot of the boy’s flight, nothing but painful and
deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want
and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from
the protracted wandering of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and
unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was
little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender
mercies of the Yorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a
hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the
prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on, in
restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening
of next day, when Squeers returned, alone, and unsuccessful.

‘No news of the scamp!’ said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been
stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the
journey. ‘I’ll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if
Mrs. Squeers don’t hunt him down; so I give you warning.’

‘It is not in my power to console you, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is
nothing to me.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Squeers in a threatening manner. ‘We shall see!’

‘We shall,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Here’s the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home
with a hack cob, that’ll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,’
said Squeers; ‘who’s to pay for that, do you hear?’

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.

‘I’ll have it out of somebody, I tell you,’ said Squeers, his usual
harsh crafty manner changed to open bullying ‘None of your whining
vapourings here, Mr. Puppy, but be off to your kennel, for it’s past your
bedtime! Come! Get out!’

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his
fingerends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the
man was drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he
contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and
walked, as majestically as he could, upstairs: not a little nettled,
however, to observe that Miss Squeers and Master Squeers, and the
servant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snug corner; the two
former indulging in many edifying remarks about the presumption of poor
upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the
most miserable of all miserable servant girls joined: while Nicholas,
stung to the quick, drew over his head such bedclothes as he had, and
sternly resolved that the outstanding account between himself and
Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than the latter
anticipated.

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the
wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs
Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits
for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something
extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the
window; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was
the wretched Smike: so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn,
and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever
seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.

‘Lift him out,’ said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes,
in silence, upon the culprit. ‘Bring him in; bring him in!’

‘Take care,’ cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance.
‘We tied his legs under the apron and made’em fast to the chaise, to
prevent his giving us the slip again.’

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and
Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the
house and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers
should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in presence of the
assembled school.

Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may be matter of
surprise to some persons, that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so
much trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of which it was
their wont to complain so loudly; but their surprise will cease when
they are informed that the manifold services of the drudge, if performed
by anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve
shillings per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, that all
runaways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of, at
Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of
its attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful
impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs
and the power of using them, to remain.

The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran
like wild-fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on
tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however,
until afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner,
and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of
portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,
supple, wax-ended, and new,--in short, purchased that morning, expressly
for the occasion.

‘Is every boy here?’ asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers
glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.

‘Each boy keep his place,’ said Squeers, administering his favourite
blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal
start which it never failed to occasion. ‘Nickleby! to your desk, sir.’

It was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very
curious and unusual expression in the usher’s face; but he took his
seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant
glance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on
the boys, left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging
Smike by the collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was
nearest the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such
a decoration.

In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It
had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their
seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,
expressive of indignation and pity.

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.

‘Nothing, I suppose?’ said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.

Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas,
as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his
desk.

‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm
two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. ‘Stand a little
out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I’ve hardly got room enough.’

‘Spare me, sir!’ cried Smike.

‘Oh! that’s all, is it?’ said Squeers. ‘Yes, I’ll flog you within an
inch of your life, and spare you that.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mrs. Squeers, ‘that’s a good ‘un!’

‘I was driven to do it,’ said Smike faintly; and casting another
imploring look about him.

‘Driven to do it, were you?’ said Squeers. ‘Oh! it wasn’t your fault; it
was mine, I suppose--eh?’

‘A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking
dog,’ exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike’s head under her arm, and
administering a cuff at every epithet; ‘what does he mean by that?’

‘Stand aside, my dear,’ replied Squeers. ‘We’ll try and find out.’

Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers
caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his
body--he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain--it was
raised again, and again about to fall--when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly
starting up, cried ‘Stop!’ in a voice that made the rafters ring.

‘Who cried stop?’ said Squeers, turning savagely round.

‘I,’ said Nicholas, stepping forward. ‘This must not go on.’

‘Must not go on!’ cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

‘No!’ thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers
released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon
Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

‘I say must not,’ repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; ‘shall not. I will
prevent it.’

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his
head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of
speech.

‘You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad’s
behalf,’ said Nicholas; ‘you have returned no answer to the letter in
which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible
that he would remain quietly here. Don’t blame me for this public
interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.’

‘Sit down, beggar!’ screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage,
and seizing Smike as he spoke.

‘Wretch,’ rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, ‘touch him at your peril! I will
not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength
of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare
you, if you drive me on!’

‘Stand back,’ cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.

‘I have a long series of insults to avenge,’ said Nicholas, flushed with
passion; ‘and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties
practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you
do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon
your own head!’

He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath,
and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck
him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised
up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony
of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings
of rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the
weapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian
till he roared for mercy.

The boys--with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his
father’s assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear--moved not, hand or
foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail
of her partner’s coat, and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated
adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the
keyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very
beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands
at the usher’s head, beat Nicholas to her heart’s content; animating
herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her
proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which
(as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of
the weakest.

Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more
than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the
noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw
all his remaining strength into half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and flung
Squeers from him with all the force he could muster. The violence of
his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form; and
Squeers striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full
length on the ground, stunned and motionless.

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to
his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead
(upon which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas
left his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he
had better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the
room, but he was nowhere to be seen.

After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small
leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his
progress, marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortly afterwards,
struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.

When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his present
circumstances some little reflection, they did not appear in a very
encouraging light; he had only four shillings and a few pence in his
pocket, and was something more than two hundred and fifty miles
from London, whither he resolved to direct his steps, that he might
ascertain, among other things, what account of the morning’s proceedings
Mr. Squeers transmitted to his most affectionate uncle.

Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that there was no
remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld a horseman coming
towards him, whom, on nearer approach, he discovered, to his infinite
chagrin, to be no other than Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in cords and
leather leggings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash
stick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout sapling.

‘I am in no mood for more noise and riot,’ thought Nicholas, ‘and yet,
do what I will, I shall have an altercation with this honest blockhead,
and perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.’

In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such a result would
follow from the encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas
advancing, than he reined in his horse by the footpath, and waited until
such time as he should come up; looking meanwhile, very sternly between
the horse’s ears, at Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure.

‘Servant, young genelman,’ said John.

‘Yours,’ said Nicholas.

‘Weel; we ha’ met at last,’ observed John, making the stirrup ring under
a smart touch of the ash stick.

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, hesitating. ‘Come!’ he said, frankly, after a
moment’s pause, ‘we parted on no very good terms the last time we met;
it was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention of offending you, and
no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it, afterwards. Will
you shake hands?’

‘Shake honds!’ cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; ‘ah! that I weel;’
at the same time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas’s fist
a huge wrench: ‘but wa’at be the matther wi’ thy feace, mun? it be all
brokken loike.’

‘It is a cut,’ said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke,--‘a blow; but
I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.’

‘Noa, did ‘ee though?’ exclaimed John Browdie. ‘Well deane! I loike ‘un
for thot.’

‘The fact is,’ said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the
avowal, ‘the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.’

‘Noa!’ interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a
giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, in his eyes,
seemed a mere dwarf; ‘dean’t say thot.’

‘Yes, I have,’ replied Nicholas, ‘by that man Squeers, and I have beaten
him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.’

‘What!’ cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse
quite shied at it. ‘Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten the
schoolmeasther! who ever heard o’ the loike o’ that noo! Giv’ us thee
hond agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov’ thee
for’t.’

With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed and laughed
again--so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing but
jovial peals of merriment--and shook Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no
less heartily. When his mirth had subsided, he inquired what Nicholas
meant to do; on his informing him, to go straight to London, he shook
his head doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches
charged to carry passengers so far.

‘No, I do not,’ said Nicholas; ‘but it is of no great consequence to me,
for I intend walking.’

‘Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!’ cried John, in amazement.

‘Every step of the way,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I should be many steps
further on by this time, and so goodbye!’

‘Nay noo,’ replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient
horse, ‘stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?’

‘Not much,’ said Nicholas, colouring, ‘but I can make it enough. Where
there’s a will, there’s a way, you know.’

John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand
in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted
that Nicholas should borrow from him whatever he required for his
present necessities.

‘Dean’t be afeard, mun,’ he said; ‘tak’ eneaf to carry thee whoam.
Thee’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.’

Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a
sovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after many entreaties that he
would accept of more (observing, with a touch of Yorkshire caution, that
if he didn’t spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he had an
opportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.

‘Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’, mun,’ he added, pressing
his stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; ‘keep a good
heart, and bless thee. Beatten the schoolmeasther! ‘Cod it’s the best
thing a’ve heerd this twonty year!’

So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been
expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of
avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, John Browdie set spurs
to his horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking back, from time to
time, as Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily,
as if to encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider
until they disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set
forward on his journey.

He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly
dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered
the way toilsome, but the track uncertain and difficult to find, after
daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a
cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of
travellers; and, rising betimes next morning, made his way before night
to Boroughbridge. Passing through that town in search of some cheap
resting-place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred
yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary
limbs, and soon fell asleep.

When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had
been all connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat
up, rubbed his eyes and stared--not with the most composed countenance
possible--at some motionless object which seemed to be stationed within
a few yards in front of him.

‘Strange!’ cried Nicholas; ‘can this be some lingering creation of the
visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real--and yet I--I am
awake! Smike!’

The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet.
It was Smike indeed.

‘Why do you kneel to me?’ said Nicholas, hastily raising him.

‘To go with you--anywhere--everywhere--to the world’s end--to the
churchyard grave,’ replied Smike, clinging to his hand. ‘Let me, oh do
let me. You are my home--my kind friend--take me with you, pray.’

‘I am a friend who can do little for you,’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘How
came you here?’

He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way;
had watched while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and
had feared to appear before, lest he should be sent back. He had not
intended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he
looked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, ‘your hard fate denies you any friend but
one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.’

‘May I--may I go with you?’ asked Smike, timidly. ‘I will be your
faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,’ added
the poor creature, drawing his rags together; ‘these will do very well.
I only want to be near you.’

‘And you shall,’ cried Nicholas. ‘And the world shall deal by you as it
does by me, till one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!’

With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking
his stick in one hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and
so they passed out of the old barn, together.



CHAPTER 14

Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily
of a Mean and Vulgar Character


In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is
a bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two irregular rows of tall
meagre houses, which seem to have stared each other out of countenance
years ago. The very chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy,
from having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the
way. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and,
here and there, some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to
one side, and toppling over the roof, seems to meditate taking revenge
for half a century’s neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of the garrets
beneath.

The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and
thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt,
and which any country cock or hen would be puzzled to understand, are
perfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners. Dingy,
ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring
children, to get a livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to
stone, in forlorn search of some hidden eatable in the mud, and can
scarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything approaching
to a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker’s; and even he is hoarse, in
consequence of bad living in his last place.

To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time,
tenanted by persons of better condition than their present occupants;
but they are now let off, by the week, in floors or rooms, and every
door has almost as many plates or bell-handles as there are apartments
within. The windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified
in appearance, being ornamented with every variety of common blind and
curtain that can easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up,
and rendered nearly impassable, by a motley collection of children and
porter pots of all sizes, from the baby in arms and the half-pint pot,
to the full-grown girl and half-gallon can.

In the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought
dirtier than any of its neighbours; which exhibited more bell-handles,
children, and porter pots, and caught in all its freshness the first
gust of the thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a
large brewery hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one
room to let within its walls, though on what story the vacant room could
be--regard being had to the outward tokens of many lodgers which the
whole front displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the
flower-pots on the parapet--it would have been beyond the power of a
calculating boy to discover.

The common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a
curious visitor who had to climb his way to the top, might have observed
that there were not wanting indications of the progressive poverty
of the inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the first-floor
lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table--real
mahogany--on the landing-place outside, which was only taken in, when
occasion required. On the second story, the spare furniture dwindled
down to a couple of old deal chairs, of which one, belonging to the
back-room, was shorn of a leg, and bottomless. The story above,
boasted no greater excess than a worm-eaten wash-tub; and the garret
landing-place displayed no costlier articles than two crippled pitchers,
and some broken blacking-bottles.

It was on this garret landing-place that a hard-featured square-faced
man, elderly and shabby, stopped to unlock the door of the front attic,
into which, having surmounted the task of turning the rusty key in its
still more rusty wards, he walked with the air of legal owner.

This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he took off
with his hat, and hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a dirty
cotton nightcap, and groped about in the dark till he found a remnant of
candle, he knocked at the partition which divided the two garrets, and
inquired, in a loud voice, whether Mr. Noggs had a light.

The sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster, and it
seemed moreover as though the speaker had uttered them from the interior
of a mug or other drinking vessel; but they were in the voice of Newman,
and conveyed a reply in the affirmative.

‘A nasty night, Mr. Noggs!’ said the man in the nightcap, stepping in to
light his candle.

‘Does it rain?’ asked Newman.

‘Does it?’ replied the other pettishly. ‘I am wet through.’

‘It doesn’t take much to wet you and me through, Mr. Crowl,’ said Newman,
laying his hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.

‘Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,’ observed Mr. Crowl, in the
same pettish tone.

Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harsh countenance was
the very epitome of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out of
the grate, and, emptying the glass which Noggs had pushed towards him,
inquired where he kept his coals.

Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and Mr. Crowl, seizing
the shovel, threw on half the stock: which Noggs very deliberately took
off again, without saying a word.

‘You have not turned saving, at this time of day, I hope?’ said Crowl.

Newman pointed to the empty glass, as though it were a sufficient
refutation of the charge, and briefly said that he was going downstairs
to supper.

‘To the Kenwigses?’ asked Crowl.

Newman nodded assent.

‘Think of that now!’ said Crowl. ‘If I didn’t--thinking that you
were certain not to go, because you said you wouldn’t--tell Kenwigs I
couldn’t come, and make up my mind to spend the evening with you!’

‘I was obliged to go,’ said Newman. ‘They would have me.’

‘Well; but what’s to become of me?’ urged the selfish man, who never
thought of anybody else. ‘It’s all your fault. I’ll tell you what--I’ll
sit by your fire till you come back again.’

Newman cast a despairing glance at his small store of fuel, but, not
having the courage to say no--a word which in all his life he never had
said at the right time, either to himself or anyone else--gave way to
the proposed arrangement. Mr. Crowl immediately went about making himself
as comfortable, with Newman Nogg’s means, as circumstances would admit
of his being made.

The lodgers to whom Crowl had made allusion under the designation of
‘the Kenwigses,’ were the wife and olive branches of one Mr. Kenwigs, a
turner in ivory, who was looked upon as a person of some consideration
on the premises, inasmuch as he occupied the whole of the first floor,
comprising a suite of two rooms. Mrs. Kenwigs, too, was quite a lady in
her manners, and of a very genteel family, having an uncle who collected
a water-rate; besides which distinction, the two eldest of her little
girls went twice a week to a dancing school in the neighbourhood, and
had flaxen hair, tied with blue ribbons, hanging in luxuriant pigtails
down their backs; and wore little white trousers with frills round the
ankles--for all of which reasons, and many more equally valid but too
numerous to mention, Mrs. Kenwigs was considered a very desirable person
to know, and was the constant theme of all the gossips in the street,
and even three or four doors round the corner at both ends.

It was the anniversary of that happy day on which the Church of England
as by law established, had bestowed Mrs. Kenwigs upon Mr. Kenwigs; and in
grateful commemoration of the same, Mrs. Kenwigs had invited a few select
friends to cards and a supper in the first floor, and had put on a new
gown to receive them in: which gown, being of a flaming colour and made
upon a juvenile principle, was so successful that Mr. Kenwigs said the
eight years of matrimony and the five children seemed all a dream, and
Mrs. Kenwigs younger and more blooming than on the very first Sunday he
had kept company with her.

Beautiful as Mrs. Kenwigs looked when she was dressed though, and so
stately that you would have supposed she had a cook and housemaid
at least, and nothing to do but order them about, she had a world
of trouble with the preparations; more, indeed, than she, being of a
delicate and genteel constitution, could have sustained, had not the
pride of housewifery upheld her. At last, however, all the things that
had to be got together were got together, and all the things that had to
be got out of the way were got out of the way, and everything was ready,
and the collector himself having promised to come, fortune smiled upon
the occasion.

The party was admirably selected. There were, first of all, Mr. Kenwigs
and Mrs. Kenwigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat up to supper; firstly,
because it was but right that they should have a treat on such a day;
and secondly, because their going to bed, in presence of the company,
would have been inconvenient, not to say improper. Then, there was a
young lady who had made Mrs. Kenwigs’s dress, and who--it was the most
convenient thing in the world--living in the two-pair back, gave up her
bed to the baby, and got a little girl to watch it. Then, to match this
young lady, was a young man, who had known Mr. Kenwigs when he was a
bachelor, and was much esteemed by the ladies, as bearing the reputation
of a rake. To these were added a newly-married couple, who had visited
Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs in their courtship; and a sister of Mrs. Kenwigs’s,
who was quite a beauty; besides whom, there was another young man,
supposed to entertain honourable designs upon the lady last mentioned;
and Mr. Noggs, who was a genteel person to ask, because he had been a
gentleman once. There were also an elderly lady from the back-parlour,
and one more young lady, who, next to the collector, perhaps was the
great lion of the party, being the daughter of a theatrical fireman, who
‘went on’ in the pantomime, and had the greatest turn for the stage that
was ever known, being able to sing and recite in a manner that brought
the tears into Mrs. Kenwigs’s eyes. There was only one drawback upon
the pleasure of seeing such friends, and that was, that the lady in
the back-parlour, who was very fat, and turned of sixty, came in a
low book-muslin dress and short kid gloves, which so exasperated Mrs
Kenwigs, that that lady assured her visitors, in private, that if it
hadn’t happened that the supper was cooking at the back-parlour grate
at that moment, she certainly would have requested its representative to
withdraw.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘wouldn’t it be better to begin a round
game?’

‘Kenwigs, my dear,’ returned his wife, ‘I am surprised at you. Would you
begin without my uncle?’

‘I forgot the collector,’ said Kenwigs; ‘oh no, that would never do.’

‘He’s so particular,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, turning to the other married
lady, ‘that if we began without him, I should be out of his will for
ever.’

‘Dear!’ cried the married lady.

‘You’ve no idea what he is,’ replied Mrs. Kenwigs; ‘and yet as good a
creature as ever breathed.’

‘The kindest-hearted man as ever was,’ said Kenwigs.

‘It goes to his heart, I believe, to be forced to cut the water off,
when the people don’t pay,’ observed the bachelor friend, intending a
joke.

‘George,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, solemnly, ‘none of that, if you please.’

‘It was only my joke,’ said the friend, abashed.

‘George,’ rejoined Mr. Kenwigs, ‘a joke is a wery good thing--a wery
good thing--but when that joke is made at the expense of Mrs. Kenwigs’s
feelings, I set my face against it. A man in public life expects to
be sneered at--it is the fault of his elewated sitiwation, and not of
himself. Mrs. Kenwigs’s relation is a public man, and that he knows,
George, and that he can bear; but putting Mrs. Kenwigs out of the
question (if I COULD put Mrs. Kenwigs out of the question on such an
occasion as this), I have the honour to be connected with the collector
by marriage; and I cannot allow these remarks in my--’ Mr. Kenwigs was
going to say ‘house,’ but he rounded the sentence with ‘apartments’.

At the conclusion of these observations, which drew forth evidences
of acute feeling from Mrs. Kenwigs, and had the intended effect of
impressing the company with a deep sense of the collector’s dignity, a
ring was heard at the bell.

‘That’s him,’ whispered Mr. Kenwigs, greatly excited. ‘Morleena, my dear,
run down and let your uncle in, and kiss him directly you get the door
open. Hem! Let’s be talking.’

Adopting Mr. Kenwigs’s suggestion, the company spoke very loudly, to look
easy and unembarrassed; and almost as soon as they had begun to do so,
a short old gentleman in drabs and gaiters, with a face that might
have been carved out of LIGNUM VITAE, for anything that appeared to the
contrary, was led playfully in by Miss Morleena Kenwigs, regarding
whose uncommon Christian name it may be here remarked that it had been
invented and composed by Mrs. Kenwigs previous to her first lying-in, for
the special distinction of her eldest child, in case it should prove a
daughter.

‘Oh, uncle, I am SO glad to see you,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the
collector affectionately on both cheeks. ‘So glad!’

‘Many happy returns of the day, my dear,’ replied the collector,
returning the compliment.

Now, this was an interesting thing. Here was a collector of water-rates,
without his book, without his pen and ink, without his double knock,
without his intimidation, kissing--actually kissing--an agreeable
female, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices that he had called, or
announcements that he would never call again, for two quarters’ due,
wholly out of the question. It was pleasant to see how the company
looked on, quite absorbed in the sight, and to behold the nods and
winks with which they expressed their gratification at finding so much
humanity in a tax-gatherer.

‘Where will you sit, uncle?’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, in the full glow of
family pride, which the appearance of her distinguished relation
occasioned.

‘Anywheres, my dear,’ said the collector, ‘I am not particular.’

Not particular! What a meek collector! If he had been an author, who
knew his place, he couldn’t have been more humble.

‘Mr. Lillyvick,’ said Kenwigs, addressing the collector, ‘some friends
here, sir, are very anxious for the honour of--thank you--Mr. and Mrs
Cutler, Mr. Lillyvick.’

‘Proud to know you, sir,’ said Mr. Cutler; ‘I’ve heerd of you very
often.’ These were not mere words of ceremony; for, Mr. Cutler, having
kept house in Mr. Lillyvick’s parish, had heard of him very often indeed.
His attention in calling had been quite extraordinary.

‘George, you know, I think, Mr. Lillyvick,’ said Kenwigs; ‘lady from
downstairs--Mr. Lillyvick. Mr. Snewkes--Mr. Lillyvick. Miss Green--Mr
Lillyvick. Mr. Lillyvick--Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
Very glad to make two public characters acquainted! Mrs. Kenwigs, my
dear, will you sort the counters?’

Mrs. Kenwigs, with the assistance of Newman Noggs, (who, as he performed
sundry little acts of kindness for the children, at all times and
seasons, was humoured in his request to be taken no notice of, and was
merely spoken about, in a whisper, as the decayed gentleman), did as he
was desired; and the greater part of the guests sat down to speculation,
while Newman himself, Mrs. Kenwigs, and Miss Petowker of the Theatre
Royal Drury Lane, looked after the supper-table.

While the ladies were thus busying themselves, Mr. Lillyvick was intent
upon the game in progress, and as all should be fish that comes to a
water-collector’s net, the dear old gentleman was by no means scrupulous
in appropriating to himself the property of his neighbours, which, on
the contrary, he abstracted whenever an opportunity presented itself,
smiling good-humouredly all the while, and making so many condescending
speeches to the owners, that they were delighted with his amiability,
and thought in their hearts that he deserved to be Chancellor of the
Exchequer at least.

After a great deal of trouble, and the administration of many slaps on
the head to the infant Kenwigses, whereof two of the most rebellious
were summarily banished, the cloth was laid with much elegance, and a
pair of boiled fowls, a large piece of pork, apple-pie, potatoes and
greens, were served; at sight of which, the worthy Mr. Lillyvick vented a
great many witticisms, and plucked up amazingly: to the immense delight
and satisfaction of the whole body of admirers.

Very well and very fast the supper went off; no more serious
difficulties occurring, than those which arose from the incessant demand
for clean knives and forks; which made poor Mrs. Kenwigs wish, more
than once, that private society adopted the principle of schools, and
required that every guest should bring his own knife, fork, and spoon;
which doubtless would be a great accommodation in many cases, and to no
one more so than to the lady and gentleman of the house, especially
if the school principle were carried out to the full extent, and the
articles were expected, as a matter of delicacy, not to be taken away
again.

Everybody having eaten everything, the table was cleared in a most
alarming hurry, and with great noise; and the spirits, whereat the eyes
of Newman Noggs glistened, being arranged in order, with water both hot
and cold, the party composed themselves for conviviality; Mr. Lillyvick
being stationed in a large armchair by the fireside, and the four little
Kenwigses disposed on a small form in front of the company with their
flaxen tails towards them, and their faces to the fire; an arrangement
which was no sooner perfected, than Mrs. Kenwigs was overpowered by the
feelings of a mother, and fell upon the left shoulder of Mr. Kenwigs
dissolved in tears.

‘They are so beautiful!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, sobbing.

‘Oh, dear,’ said all the ladies, ‘so they are! it’s very natural you
should feel proud of that; but don’t give way, don’t.’

‘I can--not help it, and it don’t signify,’ sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs; ‘oh!
they’re too beautiful to live, much too beautiful!’

On hearing this alarming presentiment of their being doomed to an early
death in the flower of their infancy, all four little girls raised
a hideous cry, and burying their heads in their mother’s lap
simultaneously, screamed until the eight flaxen tails vibrated again;
Mrs. Kenwigs meanwhile clasping them alternately to her bosom, with
attitudes expressive of distraction, which Miss Petowker herself might
have copied.

At length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothed into a
more tranquil state, and the little Kenwigses, being also composed, were
distributed among the company, to prevent the possibility of Mrs. Kenwigs
being again overcome by the blaze of their combined beauty. This done,
the ladies and gentlemen united in prophesying that they would live for
many, many years, and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs. Kenwigs
to distress herself; which, in good truth, there did not appear to be;
the loveliness of the children by no means justifying her apprehensions.

‘This day eight year,’ said Mr. Kenwigs after a pause. ‘Dear me--ah!’

This reflection was echoed by all present, who said ‘Ah!’ first, and
‘dear me,’ afterwards.

‘I was younger then,’ tittered Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘No,’ said the collector.

‘Certainly not,’ added everybody.

‘I remember my niece,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, surveying his audience with
a grave air; ‘I remember her, on that very afternoon, when she first
acknowledged to her mother a partiality for Kenwigs. “Mother,” she says,
“I love him.”’

‘“Adore him,” I said, uncle,’ interposed Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘“Love him,” I think, my dear,’ said the collector, firmly.

‘Perhaps you are right, uncle,’ replied Mrs. Kenwigs, submissively. ‘I
thought it was “adore.”’

‘“Love,” my dear,’ retorted Mr. Lillyvick. ‘“Mother,” she says, “I love
him!” “What do I hear?” cries her mother; and instantly falls into
strong conwulsions.’

A general exclamation of astonishment burst from the company.

‘Into strong conwulsions,’ repeated Mr. Lillyvick, regarding them with a
rigid look. ‘Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in the presence of friends,
that there was a very great objection to him, on the ground that he was
beneath the family, and would disgrace it. You remember, Kenwigs?’

‘Certainly,’ replied that gentleman, in no way displeased at the
reminiscence, inasmuch as it proved, beyond all doubt, what a high
family Mrs. Kenwigs came of.

‘I shared in that feeling,’ said Mr. Lillyvick: ‘perhaps it was natural;
perhaps it wasn’t.’

A gentle murmur seemed to say, that, in one of Mr. Lillyvick’s station,
the objection was not only natural, but highly praiseworthy.

‘I came round to him in time,’ said Mr. Lillyvick. ‘After they were
married, and there was no help for it, I was one of the first to say
that Kenwigs must be taken notice of. The family DID take notice of him,
in consequence, and on my representation; and I am bound to say--and
proud to say--that I have always found him a very honest, well-behaved,
upright, respectable sort of man. Kenwigs, shake hands.’

‘I am proud to do it, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs.

‘So am I, Kenwigs,’ rejoined Mr. Lillyvick.

‘A very happy life I have led with your niece, sir,’ said Kenwigs.

‘It would have been your own fault if you had not, sir,’ remarked Mr
Lillyvick.

‘Morleena Kenwigs,’ cried her mother, at this crisis, much affected,
‘kiss your dear uncle!’

The young lady did as she was requested, and the three other little
girls were successively hoisted up to the collector’s countenance, and
subjected to the same process, which was afterwards repeated on them by
the majority of those present.

‘Oh dear, Mrs. Kenwigs,’ said Miss Petowker, ‘while Mr. Noggs is making
that punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that
figure dance before Mr. Lillyvick.’

‘No, no, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘it will only worry my uncle.’

‘It can’t worry him, I am sure,’ said Miss Petowker. ‘You will be very
much pleased, won’t you, sir?’

‘That I am sure I shall’ replied the collector, glancing at the
punch-mixer.

‘Well then, I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘Morleena shall
do the steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the
Blood-Drinker’s Burial, afterwards.’

There was a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet, at this
proposition; the subject whereof, gently inclined her head several
times, in acknowledgment of the reception.

‘You know,’ said Miss Petowker, reproachfully, ‘that I dislike doing
anything professional in private parties.’

‘Oh, but not here!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs. ‘We are all so very friendly and
pleasant, that you might as well be going through it in your own room;
besides, the occasion--’

‘I can’t resist that,’ interrupted Miss Petowker; ‘anything in my humble
power I shall be delighted to do.’

Mrs. Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged a small PROGRAMME of the
entertainments between them, of which this was the prescribed order,
but they had settled to have a little pressing on both sides, because it
looked more natural. The company being all ready, Miss Petowker hummed
a tune, and Morleena danced a dance; having previously had the soles
of her shoes chalked, with as much care as if she were going on the
tight-rope. It was a very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal of
work for the arms, and was received with unbounded applause.

‘If I was blessed with a--a child--’ said Miss Petowker, blushing, ‘of
such genius as that, I would have her out at the Opera instantly.’

Mrs. Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr. Kenwigs, who shook his head, and
observed that he was doubtful about it.

‘Kenwigs is afraid,’ said Mrs. K.

‘What of?’ inquired Miss Petowker, ‘not of her failing?’

‘Oh no,’ replied Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘but if she grew up what she is now,--only
think of the young dukes and marquises.’

‘Very right,’ said the collector.

‘Still,’ submitted Miss Petowker, ‘if she took a proper pride in
herself, you know--’

‘There’s a good deal in that,’ observed Mrs. Kenwigs, looking at her
husband.

‘I only know--’ faltered Miss Petowker,--‘it may be no rule to be
sure--but I have never found any inconvenience or unpleasantness of that
sort.’

Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said that settled the question at
once, and that he would take the subject into his serious consideration.
This being resolved upon, Miss Petowker was entreated to begin the
Blood-Drinker’s Burial; to which end, that young lady let down her back
hair, and taking up her position at the other end of the room, with the
bachelor friend posted in a corner, to rush out at the cue ‘in death
expire,’ and catch her in his arms when she died raving mad, went
through the performance with extraordinary spirit, and to the great
terror of the little Kenwigses, who were all but frightened into fits.

The ecstasies consequent upon the effort had not yet subsided, and
Newman (who had not been thoroughly sober at so late an hour for a long
long time,) had not yet been able to put in a word of announcement,
that the punch was ready, when a hasty knock was heard at the room-door,
which elicited a shriek from Mrs. Kenwigs, who immediately divined that
the baby had fallen out of bed.

‘Who is that?’ demanded Mr. Kenwigs, sharply.

‘Don’t be alarmed, it’s only me,’ said Crowl, looking in, in his
nightcap. ‘The baby is very comfortable, for I peeped into the room as
I came down, and it’s fast asleep, and so is the girl; and I don’t think
the candle will set fire to the bed-curtain, unless a draught was to get
into the room--it’s Mr. Noggs that’s wanted.’

‘Me!’ cried Newman, much astonished.

‘Why, it IS a queer hour, isn’t it?’ replied Crowl, who was not best
pleased at the prospect of losing his fire; ‘and they are queer-looking
people, too, all covered with rain and mud. Shall I tell them to go
away?’

‘No,’ said Newman, rising. ‘People? How many?’

‘Two,’ rejoined Crowl.

‘Want me? By name?’ asked Newman.

‘By name,’ replied Crowl. ‘Mr. Newman Noggs, as pat as need be.’

Newman reflected for a few seconds, and then hurried away, muttering
that he would be back directly. He was as good as his word; for, in an
exceedingly short time, he burst into the room, and seizing, without
a word of apology or explanation, a lighted candle and tumbler of hot
punch from the table, darted away like a madman.

‘What the deuce is the matter with him?’ exclaimed Crowl, throwing the
door open. ‘Hark! Is there any noise above?’

The guests rose in great confusion, and, looking in each other’s faces
with much perplexity and some fear, stretched their necks forward, and
listened attentively.



CHAPTER 15

Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption
described in the last Chapter, and with some other Matters necessary to
be known


Newman Noggs scrambled in violent haste upstairs with the steaming
beverage, which he had so unceremoniously snatched from the table of Mr
Kenwigs, and indeed from the very grasp of the water-rate collector, who
was eyeing the contents of the tumbler, at the moment of its unexpected
abstraction, with lively marks of pleasure visible in his countenance.
He bore his prize straight to his own back-garret, where, footsore and
nearly shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded, and disfigured with every mark of
fatiguing travel, sat Nicholas and Smike, at once the cause and partner
of his toil; both perfectly worn out by their unwonted and protracted
exertion.

Newman’s first act was to compel Nicholas, with gentle force, to swallow
half of the punch at a breath, nearly boiling as it was; and his next,
to pour the remainder down the throat of Smike, who, never having tasted
anything stronger than aperient medicine in his whole life, exhibited
various odd manifestations of surprise and delight, during the passage
of the liquor down his throat, and turned up his eyes most emphatically
when it was all gone.

‘You are wet through,’ said Newman, passing his hand hastily over the
coat which Nicholas had thrown off; ‘and I--I--haven’t even a change,’
he added, with a wistful glance at the shabby clothes he wore himself.

‘I have dry clothes, or at least such as will serve my turn well, in
my bundle,’ replied Nicholas. ‘If you look so distressed to see me, you
will add to the pain I feel already, at being compelled, for one night,
to cast myself upon your slender means for aid and shelter.’

Newman did not look the less distressed to hear Nicholas talking in this
strain; but, upon his young friend grasping him heartily by the hand,
and assuring him that nothing but implicit confidence in the sincerity
of his professions, and kindness of feeling towards himself, would have
induced him, on any consideration, even to have made him acquainted
with his arrival in London, Mr. Noggs brightened up again, and went about
making such arrangements as were in his power for the comfort of his
visitors, with extreme alacrity.

These were simple enough; poor Newman’s means halting at a very
considerable distance short of his inclinations; but, slight as they
were, they were not made without much bustling and running about. As
Nicholas had husbanded his scanty stock of money, so well that it was
not yet quite expended, a supper of bread and cheese, with some cold
beef from the cook’s shop, was soon placed upon the table; and these
viands being flanked by a bottle of spirits and a pot of porter, there
was no ground for apprehension on the score of hunger or thirst, at all
events. Such preparations as Newman had it in his power to make, for
the accommodation of his guests during the night, occupied no very great
time in completing; and as he had insisted, as an express preliminary,
that Nicholas should change his clothes, and that Smike should invest
himself in his solitary coat (which no entreaties would dissuade him
from stripping off for the purpose), the travellers partook of their
frugal fare, with more satisfaction than one of them at least had
derived from many a better meal.

They then drew near the fire, which Newman Noggs had made up as well as
he could, after the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel; and Nicholas, who
had hitherto been restrained by the extreme anxiety of his friend
that he should refresh himself after his journey, now pressed him with
earnest questions concerning his mother and sister.

‘Well,’ replied Newman, with his accustomed taciturnity; ‘both well.’

‘They are living in the city still?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘They are,’ said Newman.

‘And my sister,’--added Nicholas. ‘Is she still engaged in the business
which she wrote to tell me she thought she should like so much?’

Newman opened his eyes rather wider than usual, but merely replied by
a gasp, which, according to the action of the head that accompanied
it, was interpreted by his friends as meaning yes or no. In the present
instance, the pantomime consisted of a nod, and not a shake; so Nicholas
took the answer as a favourable one.

‘Now listen to me,’ said Nicholas, laying his hand on Newman’s shoulder.
‘Before I would make an effort to see them, I deemed it expedient to
come to you, lest, by gratifying my own selfish desire, I should inflict
an injury upon them which I can never repair. What has my uncle heard
from Yorkshire?’

Newman opened and shut his mouth, several times, as though he were
trying his utmost to speak, but could make nothing of it, and finally
fixed his eyes on Nicholas with a grim and ghastly stare.

‘What has he heard?’ urged Nicholas, colouring. ‘You see that I am
prepared to hear the very worst that malice can have suggested. Why
should you conceal it from me? I must know it sooner or later; and what
purpose can be gained by trifling with the matter for a few minutes,
when half the time would put me in possession of all that has occurred?
Tell me at once, pray.’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Newman; ‘hear it tomorrow.’

‘What purpose would that answer?’ urged Nicholas.

‘You would sleep the better,’ replied Newman.

‘I should sleep the worse,’ answered Nicholas, impatiently. ‘Sleep!
Exhausted as I am, and standing in no common need of rest, I cannot hope
to close my eyes all night, unless you tell me everything.’

‘And if I should tell you everything,’ said Newman, hesitating.

‘Why, then you may rouse my indignation or wound my pride,’ rejoined
Nicholas; ‘but you will not break my rest; for if the scene were acted
over again, I could take no other part than I have taken; and whatever
consequences may accrue to myself from it, I shall never regret doing as
I have done--never, if I starve or beg in consequence. What is a little
poverty or suffering, to the disgrace of the basest and most inhuman
cowardice! I tell you, if I had stood by, tamely and passively, I should
have hated myself, and merited the contempt of every man in existence.
The black-hearted scoundrel!’

With this gentle allusion to the absent Mr. Squeers, Nicholas repressed
his rising wrath, and relating to Newman exactly what had passed at
Dotheboys Hall, entreated him to speak out without more pressing. Thus
adjured, Mr. Noggs took, from an old trunk, a sheet of paper, which
appeared to have been scrawled over in great haste; and after sundry
extraordinary demonstrations of reluctance, delivered himself in the
following terms.

‘My dear young man, you mustn’t give way to--this sort of thing
will never do, you know--as to getting on in the world, if you take
everybody’s part that’s ill-treated--Damn it, I am proud to hear of it;
and would have done it myself!’

Newman accompanied this very unusual outbreak with a violent blow upon
the table, as if, in the heat of the moment, he had mistaken it for the
chest or ribs of Mr. Wackford Squeers. Having, by this open declaration
of his feelings, quite precluded himself from offering Nicholas any
cautious worldly advice (which had been his first intention), Mr. Noggs
went straight to the point.

‘The day before yesterday,’ said Newman, ‘your uncle received this
letter. I took a hasty copy of it, while he was out. Shall I read it?’

‘If you please,’ replied Nicholas. Newman Noggs accordingly read as
follows:

‘DOTHEBOYS HALL, ‘THURSDAY MORNING.

‘SIR,

‘My pa requests me to write to you, the doctors considering it doubtful
whether he will ever recuvver the use of his legs which prevents his
holding a pen.

‘We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and my pa is one mask of
brooses both blue and green likewise two forms are steepled in his Goar.
We were kimpelled to have him carried down into the kitchen where he now
lays. You will judge from this that he has been brought very low.

‘When your nevew that you recommended for a teacher had done this to
my pa and jumped upon his body with his feet and also langwedge which
I will not pollewt my pen with describing, he assaulted my ma with
dreadful violence, dashed her to the earth, and drove her back comb
several inches into her head. A very little more and it must have
entered her skull. We have a medical certifiket that if it had, the
tortershell would have affected the brain.

‘Me and my brother were then the victims of his feury since which we
have suffered very much which leads us to the arrowing belief that we
have received some injury in our insides, especially as no marks of
violence are visible externally. I am screaming out loud all the time
I write and so is my brother which takes off my attention rather and I
hope will excuse mistakes.

‘The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran away, taking with
him a boy of desperate character that he had excited to rebellyon, and a
garnet ring belonging to my ma, and not having been apprehended by the
constables is supposed to have been took up by some stage-coach. My pa
begs that if he comes to you the ring may be returned, and that you will
let the thief and assassin go, as if we prosecuted him he would only be
transported, and if he is let go he is sure to be hung before long which
will save us trouble and be much more satisfactory. Hoping to hear from
you when convenient

‘I remain ‘Yours and cetrer ‘FANNY SQUEERS.

‘P.S. I pity his ignorance and despise him.’

A profound silence succeeded to the reading of this choice epistle,
during which Newman Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of
grotesque pity at the boy of desperate character therein referred to;
who, having no more distinct perception of the matter in hand, than that
he had been the unfortunate cause of heaping trouble and falsehood
upon Nicholas, sat mute and dispirited, with a most woe-begone and
heart-stricken look.

‘Mr. Noggs,’ said Nicholas, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘I must go
out at once.’

‘Go out!’ cried Newman.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘to Golden Square. Nobody who knows me would
believe this story of the ring; but it may suit the purpose, or gratify
the hatred of Mr. Ralph Nickleby to feign to attach credence to it. It
is due--not to him, but to myself--that I should state the truth; and
moreover, I have a word or two to exchange with him, which will not keep
cool.’

‘They must,’ said Newman.

‘They must not, indeed,’ rejoined Nicholas firmly, as he prepared to
leave the house.

‘Hear me speak,’ said Newman, planting himself before his impetuous
young friend. ‘He is not there. He is away from town. He will not be
back for three days; and I know that letter will not be answered before
he returns.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Nicholas, chafing violently, and pacing
the narrow room with rapid strides.

‘Quite,’ rejoined Newman. ‘He had hardly read it when he was called
away. Its contents are known to nobody but himself and us.’

‘Are you certain?’ demanded Nicholas, precipitately; ‘not even to my
mother or sister? If I thought that they--I will go there--I must see
them. Which is the way? Where is it?’

‘Now, be advised by me,’ said Newman, speaking for the moment, in his
earnestness, like any other man--‘make no effort to see even them, till
he comes home. I know the man. Do not seem to have been tampering with
anybody. When he returns, go straight to him, and speak as boldly as you
like. Guessing at the real truth, he knows it as well as you or I. Trust
him for that.’

‘You mean well to me, and should know him better than I can,’ replied
Nicholas, after some consideration. ‘Well; let it be so.’

Newman, who had stood during the foregoing conversation with his back
planted against the door, ready to oppose any egress from the apartment
by force, if necessary, resumed his seat with much satisfaction; and
as the water in the kettle was by this time boiling, made a glassful
of spirits and water for Nicholas, and a cracked mug-full for the joint
accommodation of himself and Smike, of which the two partook in great
harmony, while Nicholas, leaning his head upon his hand, remained buried
in melancholy meditation.

Meanwhile, the company below stairs, after listening attentively and
not hearing any noise which would justify them in interfering for
the gratification of their curiosity, returned to the chamber of the
Kenwigses, and employed themselves in hazarding a great variety of
conjectures relative to the cause of Mr. Noggs’ sudden disappearance and
detention.

‘Lor, I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs. ‘Suppose it should be an
express sent up to say that his property has all come back again!’

‘Dear me,’ said Mr. Kenwigs; ‘it’s not impossible. Perhaps, in that case,
we’d better send up and ask if he won’t take a little more punch.’

‘Kenwigs!’ said Mr. Lillyvick, in a loud voice, ‘I’m surprised at you.’

‘What’s the matter, sir?’ asked Mr. Kenwigs, with becoming submission to
the collector of water-rates.

‘Making such a remark as that, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, angrily. ‘He
has had punch already, has he not, sir? I consider the way in which that
punch was cut off, if I may use the expression, highly disrespectful to
this company; scandalous, perfectly scandalous. It may be the custom to
allow such things in this house, but it’s not the kind of behaviour
that I’ve been used to see displayed, and so I don’t mind telling you,
Kenwigs. A gentleman has a glass of punch before him to which he is just
about to set his lips, when another gentleman comes and collars that
glass of punch, without a “with your leave”, or “by your leave”, and
carries that glass of punch away. This may be good manners--I dare say
it is--but I don’t understand it, that’s all; and what’s more, I don’t
care if I never do. It’s my way to speak my mind, Kenwigs, and that is
my mind; and if you don’t like it, it’s past my regular time for going
to bed, and I can find my way home without making it later.’

Here was an untoward event! The collector had sat swelling and fuming
in offended dignity for some minutes, and had now fairly burst out. The
great man--the rich relation--the unmarried uncle--who had it in his
power to make Morleena an heiress, and the very baby a legatee--was
offended. Gracious Powers, where was this to end!

‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, humbly.

‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry,’ retorted Mr. Lillyvick, with much
sharpness. ‘You should have prevented it, then.’

The company were quite paralysed by this domestic crash. The
back-parlour sat with her mouth wide open, staring vacantly at the
collector, in a stupor of dismay; the other guests were scarcely less
overpowered by the great man’s irritation. Mr. Kenwigs, not being skilful
in such matters, only fanned the flame in attempting to extinguish it.

‘I didn’t think of it, I am sure, sir,’ said that gentleman. ‘I didn’t
suppose that such a little thing as a glass of punch would have put you
out of temper.’

‘Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece of
impertinence, Mr. Kenwigs?’ said the collector. ‘Morleena, child--give me
my hat.’

‘Oh, you’re not going, Mr. Lillyvick, sir,’ interposed Miss Petowker,
with her most bewitching smile.

But still Mr. Lillyvick, regardless of the siren, cried obdurately,
‘Morleena, my hat!’ upon the fourth repetition of which demand, Mrs
Kenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry that might have softened a
water-butt, not to say a water-collector; while the four little girls
(privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle’s drab shorts
in their arms, and prayed him, in imperfect English, to remain.

‘Why should I stop here, my dears?’ said Mr. Lillyvick; ‘I’m not wanted
here.’

‘Oh, do not speak so cruelly, uncle,’ sobbed Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘unless you
wish to kill me.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if some people were to say I did,’ replied Mr
Lillyvick, glancing angrily at Kenwigs. ‘Out of temper!’

‘Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,’ cried Mrs
Kenwigs. ‘It’s so dreadful in families. Oh!’

‘Mr. Lillyvick,’ said Kenwigs, ‘I hope, for the sake of your niece, that
you won’t object to be reconciled.’

The collector’s features relaxed, as the company added their entreaties
to those of his nephew-in-law. He gave up his hat, and held out his
hand.

‘There, Kenwigs,’ said Mr. Lillyvick; ‘and let me tell you, at the same
time, to show you how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away
without another word, it would have made no difference respecting that
pound or two which I shall leave among your children when I die.’

‘Morleena Kenwigs,’ cried her mother, in a torrent of affection. ‘Go
down upon your knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all
his life through, for he’s more a angel than a man, and I’ve always said
so.’

Miss Morleena approaching to do homage, in compliance with this
injunction, was summarily caught up and kissed by Mr. Lillyvick; and
thereupon Mrs. Kenwigs darted forward and kissed the collector, and
an irrepressible murmur of applause broke from the company who had
witnessed his magnanimity.

The worthy gentleman then became once more the life and soul of the
society; being again reinstated in his old post of lion, from which high
station the temporary distraction of their thoughts had for a moment
dispossessed him. Quadruped lions are said to be savage, only when they
are hungry; biped lions are rarely sulky longer than when their appetite
for distinction remains unappeased. Mr. Lillyvick stood higher than ever;
for he had shown his power; hinted at his property and testamentary
intentions; gained great credit for disinterestedness and virtue; and,
in addition to all, was finally accommodated with a much larger tumbler
of punch than that which Newman Noggs had so feloniously made off with.

‘I say! I beg everybody’s pardon for intruding again,’ said Crowl,
looking in at this happy juncture; ‘but what a queer business this is,
isn’t it? Noggs has lived in this house, now going on for five years,
and nobody has ever been to see him before, within the memory of the
oldest inhabitant.’

‘It’s a strange time of night to be called away, sir, certainly,’ said
the collector; ‘and the behaviour of Mr. Noggs himself, is, to say the
least of it, mysterious.’

‘Well, so it is,’ rejoined Crowl; ‘and I’ll tell you what’s more--I
think these two geniuses, whoever they are, have run away from
somewhere.’

‘What makes you think that, sir?’ demanded the collector, who seemed, by
a tacit understanding, to have been chosen and elected mouthpiece to
the company. ‘You have no reason to suppose that they have run away from
anywhere without paying the rates and taxes due, I hope?’

Mr. Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was about to enter a general
protest against the payment of rates or taxes, under any circumstances,
when he was checked by a timely whisper from Kenwigs, and several frowns
and winks from Mrs. K., which providentially stopped him.

‘Why the fact is,’ said Crowl, who had been listening at Newman’s door
with all his might and main; ‘the fact is, that they have been talking
so loud, that they quite disturbed me in my room, and so I couldn’t
help catching a word here, and a word there; and all I heard, certainly
seemed to refer to their having bolted from some place or other. I don’t
wish to alarm Mrs. Kenwigs; but I hope they haven’t come from any jail or
hospital, and brought away a fever or some unpleasantness of that sort,
which might be catching for the children.’

Mrs. Kenwigs was so overpowered by this supposition, that it needed all
the tender attentions of Miss Petowker, of the Theatre Royal, Drury
Lane, to restore her to anything like a state of calmness; not to
mention the assiduity of Mr. Kenwigs, who held a fat smelling-bottle to
his lady’s nose, until it became matter of some doubt whether the tears
which coursed down her face were the result of feelings or SAL VOLATILE.

The ladies, having expressed their sympathy, singly and separately,
fell, according to custom, into a little chorus of soothing expressions,
among which, such condolences as ‘Poor dear!’--‘I should feel just the
same, if I was her’--‘To be sure, it’s a very trying thing’--and ‘Nobody
but a mother knows what a mother’s feelings is,’ were among the most
prominent, and most frequently repeated. In short, the opinion of the
company was so clearly manifested, that Mr. Kenwigs was on the point of
repairing to Mr. Noggs’s room, to demand an explanation, and had indeed
swallowed a preparatory glass of punch, with great inflexibility and
steadiness of purpose, when the attention of all present was diverted by
a new and terrible surprise.

This was nothing less than the sudden pouring forth of a rapid
succession of the shrillest and most piercing screams, from an upper
story; and to all appearance from the very two-pair back, in which
the infant Kenwigs was at that moment enshrined. They were no sooner
audible, than Mrs. Kenwigs, opining that a strange cat had come in, and
sucked the baby’s breath while the girl was asleep, made for the door,
wringing her hands, and shrieking dismally; to the great consternation
and confusion of the company.

‘Mr. Kenwigs, see what it is; make haste!’ cried the sister, laying
violent hands upon Mrs. Kenwigs, and holding her back by force. ‘Oh don’t
twist about so, dear, or I can never hold you.’

‘My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby!’ screamed Mrs
Kenwigs, making every blessed louder than the last. ‘My own darling,
sweet, innocent Lillyvick--Oh let me go to him. Let me go-o-o-o!’

Pending the utterance of these frantic cries, and the wails and
lamentations of the four little girls, Mr. Kenwigs rushed upstairs to the
room whence the sounds proceeded; at the door of which, he encountered
Nicholas, with the child in his arms, who darted out with such violence,
that the anxious father was thrown down six stairs, and alighted on the
nearest landing-place, before he had found time to open his mouth to ask
what was the matter.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ cried Nicholas, running down; ‘here it is; it’s all
out, it’s all over; pray compose yourselves; there’s no harm done;’
and with these, and a thousand other assurances, he delivered the baby
(whom, in his hurry, he had carried upside down), to Mrs. Kenwigs, and
ran back to assist Mr. Kenwigs, who was rubbing his head very hard, and
looking much bewildered by his tumble.

Reassured by this cheering intelligence, the company in some degree
recovered from their fears, which had been productive of some most
singular instances of a total want of presence of mind; thus, the
bachelor friend had, for a long time, supported in his arms Mrs
Kenwigs’s sister, instead of Mrs. Kenwigs; and the worthy Mr. Lillyvick
had been actually seen, in the perturbation of his spirits, to kiss Miss
Petowker several times, behind the room-door, as calmly as if nothing
distressing were going forward.

‘It is a mere nothing,’ said Nicholas, returning to Mrs. Kenwigs; ‘the
little girl, who was watching the child, being tired I suppose, fell
asleep, and set her hair on fire.’

‘Oh you malicious little wretch!’ cried Mrs. Kenwigs, impressively
shaking her forefinger at the small unfortunate, who might be thirteen
years old, and was looking on with a singed head and a frightened face.

‘I heard her cries,’ continued Nicholas, ‘and ran down, in time to
prevent her setting fire to anything else. You may depend upon it that
the child is not hurt; for I took it off the bed myself, and brought it
here to convince you.’

This brief explanation over, the infant, who, as he was christened after
the collector! rejoiced in the names of Lillyvick Kenwigs, was partially
suffocated under the caresses of the audience, and squeezed to his
mother’s bosom, until he roared again. The attention of the company was
then directed, by a natural transition, to the little girl who had had
the audacity to burn her hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small
slaps and pushes from the more energetic of the ladies, was mercifully
sent home: the ninepence, with which she was to have been rewarded,
being escheated to the Kenwigs family.

‘And whatever we are to say to you, sir,’ exclaimed Mrs. Kenwigs,
addressing young Lillyvick’s deliverer, ‘I am sure I don’t know.’

‘You need say nothing at all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I have done nothing to
found any very strong claim upon your eloquence, I am sure.’

‘He might have been burnt to death, if it hadn’t been for you, sir,’
simpered Miss Petowker.

‘Not very likely, I think,’ replied Nicholas; ‘for there was abundance
of assistance here, which must have reached him before he had been in
any danger.’

‘You will let us drink your health, anyvays, sir!’ said Mr. Kenwigs
motioning towards the table.

‘--In my absence, by all means,’ rejoined Nicholas, with a smile.
‘I have had a very fatiguing journey, and should be most indifferent
company--a far greater check upon your merriment, than a promoter of it,
even if I kept awake, which I think very doubtful. If you will allow
me, I’ll return to my friend, Mr. Noggs, who went upstairs again, when he
found nothing serious had occurred. Good-night.’

Excusing himself, in these terms, from joining in the festivities,
Nicholas took a most winning farewell of Mrs. Kenwigs and the other
ladies, and retired, after making a very extraordinary impression upon
the company.

‘What a delightful young man!’ cried Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘Uncommon gentlemanly, really,’ said Mr. Kenwigs. ‘Don’t you think so, Mr
Lillyvick?’

‘Yes,’ said the collector, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, ‘He is
gentlemanly, very gentlemanly--in appearance.’

‘I hope you don’t see anything against him, uncle?’ inquired Mrs
Kenwigs.

‘No, my dear,’ replied the collector, ‘no. I trust he may not turn
out--well--no matter--my love to you, my dear, and long life to the
baby!’

‘Your namesake,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, with a sweet smile.

‘And I hope a worthy namesake,’ observed Mr. Kenwigs, willing to
propitiate the collector. ‘I hope a baby as will never disgrace his
godfather, and as may be considered, in arter years, of a piece with the
Lillyvicks whose name he bears. I do say--and Mrs. Kenwigs is of the same
sentiment, and feels it as strong as I do--that I consider his being
called Lillyvick one of the greatest blessings and Honours of my
existence.’

‘THE greatest blessing, Kenwigs,’ murmured his lady.

‘THE greatest blessing,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, correcting himself. ‘A
blessing that I hope, one of these days, I may be able to deserve.’

This was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses, because it made Mr. Lillyvick
the great head and fountain of the baby’s importance. The good gentleman
felt the delicacy and dexterity of the touch, and at once proposed the
health of the gentleman, name unknown, who had signalised himself, that
night, by his coolness and alacrity.

‘Who, I don’t mind saying,’ observed Mr. Lillyvick, as a great
concession, ‘is a good-looking young man enough, with manners that I
hope his character may be equal to.’

‘He has a very nice face and style, really,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘He certainly has,’ added Miss Petowker. ‘There’s something in his
appearance quite--dear, dear, what’s that word again?’

‘What word?’ inquired Mr. Lillyvick.

‘Why--dear me, how stupid I am,’ replied Miss Petowker, hesitating.
‘What do you call it, when Lords break off door-knockers and beat
policemen, and play at coaches with other people’s money, and all that
sort of thing?’

‘Aristocratic?’ suggested the collector.

‘Ah! aristocratic,’ replied Miss Petowker; ‘something very aristocratic
about him, isn’t there?’

The gentleman held their peace, and smiled at each other, as who should
say, ‘Well! there’s no accounting for tastes;’ but the ladies resolved
unanimously that Nicholas had an aristocratic air; and nobody caring to
dispute the position, it was established triumphantly.

The punch being, by this time, drunk out, and the little Kenwigses (who
had for some time previously held their little eyes open with their
little forefingers) becoming fractious, and requesting rather urgently
to be put to bed, the collector made a move by pulling out his watch,
and acquainting the company that it was nigh two o’clock; whereat some
of the guests were surprised and others shocked, and hats and bonnets
being groped for under the tables, and in course of time found, their
owners went away, after a vast deal of shaking of hands, and many
remarks how they had never spent such a delightful evening, and how
they marvelled to find it so late, expecting to have heard that it was
half-past ten at the very latest, and how they wished that Mr. and Mrs
Kenwigs had a wedding-day once a week, and how they wondered by what
hidden agency Mrs. Kenwigs could possibly have managed so well; and
a great deal more of the same kind. To all of which flattering
expressions, Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs replied, by thanking every lady and
gentleman, SERIATIM, for the favour of their company, and hoping they
might have enjoyed themselves only half as well as they said they had.

As to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the impression he had produced, he
had long since fallen asleep, leaving Mr. Newman Noggs and Smike to empty
the spirit bottle between them; and this office they performed with
such extreme good-will, that Newman was equally at a loss to determine
whether he himself was quite sober, and whether he had ever seen any
gentleman so heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated as his new
acquaintance.



CHAPTER 16

Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being
unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family


The first care of Nicholas, next morning, was, to look after some room
in which, until better times dawned upon him, he could contrive to
exist, without trenching upon the hospitality of Newman Noggs, who would
have slept upon the stairs with pleasure, so that his young friend was
accommodated.

The vacant apartment to which the bill in the parlour window bore
reference, appeared, on inquiry, to be a small back-room on the second
floor, reclaimed from the leads, and overlooking a soot-bespeckled
prospect of tiles and chimney-pots. For the letting of this portion of
the house from week to week, on reasonable terms, the parlour lodger was
empowered to treat; he being deputed by the landlord to dispose of
the rooms as they became vacant, and to keep a sharp look-out that the
lodgers didn’t run away. As a means of securing the punctual discharge
of which last service he was permitted to live rent-free, lest he should
at any time be tempted to run away himself.

Of this chamber, Nicholas became the tenant; and having hired a few
common articles of furniture from a neighbouring broker, and paid
the first week’s hire in advance, out of a small fund raised by the
conversion of some spare clothes into ready money, he sat himself down
to ruminate upon his prospects, which, like the prospect outside his
window, were sufficiently confined and dingy. As they by no means
improved on better acquaintance, and as familiarity breeds contempt, he
resolved to banish them from his thoughts by dint of hard walking. So,
taking up his hat, and leaving poor Smike to arrange and rearrange the
room with as much delight as if it had been the costliest palace, he
betook himself to the streets, and mingled with the crowd which thronged
them.

Although a man may lose a sense of his own importance when he is a mere
unit among a busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by no means
follows that he can dispossess himself, with equal facility, of a very
strong sense of the importance and magnitude of his cares. The unhappy
state of his own affairs was the one idea which occupied the brain of
Nicholas, walk as fast as he would; and when he tried to dislodge it by
speculating on the situation and prospects of the people who surrounded
him, he caught himself, in a few seconds, contrasting their condition
with his own, and gliding almost imperceptibly back into his old train
of thought again.

Occupied in these reflections, as he was making his way along one of the
great public thoroughfares of London, he chanced to raise his eyes to
a blue board, whereon was inscribed, in characters of gold, ‘General
Agency Office; for places and situations of all kinds inquire within.’
It was a shop-front, fitted up with a gauze blind and an inner door;
and in the window hung a long and tempting array of written placards,
announcing vacant places of every grade, from a secretary’s to a
foot-boy’s.

Nicholas halted, instinctively, before this temple of promise, and ran
his eye over the capital-text openings in life which were so profusely
displayed. When he had completed his survey he walked on a little way,
and then back, and then on again; at length, after pausing irresolutely
several times before the door of the General Agency Office, he made up
his mind, and stepped in.

He found himself in a little floor-clothed room, with a high desk railed
off in one corner, behind which sat a lean youth with cunning eyes and a
protruding chin, whose performances in capital-text darkened the window.
He had a thick ledger lying open before him, and with the fingers of his
right hand inserted between the leaves, and his eyes fixed on a very
fat old lady in a mob-cap--evidently the proprietress of the
establishment--who was airing herself at the fire, seemed to be only
waiting her directions to refer to some entries contained within its
rusty clasps.

As there was a board outside, which acquainted the public that
servants-of-all-work were perpetually in waiting to be hired from ten
till four, Nicholas knew at once that some half-dozen strong young
women, each with pattens and an umbrella, who were sitting upon a form
in one corner, were in attendance for that purpose: especially as the
poor things looked anxious and weary. He was not quite so certain of the
callings and stations of two smart young ladies who were in conversation
with the fat lady before the fire, until--having sat himself down in a
corner, and remarked that he would wait until the other customers had
been served--the fat lady resumed the dialogue which his entrance had
interrupted.

‘Cook, Tom,’ said the fat lady, still airing herself as aforesaid.

‘Cook,’ said Tom, turning over some leaves of the ledger. ‘Well!’

‘Read out an easy place or two,’ said the fat lady.

‘Pick out very light ones, if you please, young man,’ interposed a
genteel female, in shepherd’s-plaid boots, who appeared to be the
client.

‘“Mrs. Marker,”’ said Tom, reading, ‘“Russell Place, Russell Square;
offers eighteen guineas; tea and sugar found. Two in family, and see
very little company. Five servants kept. No man. No followers.”’

‘Oh Lor!’ tittered the client. ‘THAT won’t do. Read another, young man,
will you?’

‘“Mrs. Wrymug,”’ said Tom, ‘“Pleasant Place, Finsbury. Wages, twelve
guineas. No tea, no sugar. Serious family--“’

‘Ah! you needn’t mind reading that,’ interrupted the client.

‘“Three serious footmen,”’ said Tom, impressively.

‘Three? did you say?’ asked the client in an altered tone.

‘Three serious footmen,’ replied Tom. ‘“Cook, housemaid, and nursemaid;
each female servant required to join the Little Bethel Congregation
three times every Sunday--with a serious footman. If the cook is more
serious than the footman, she will be expected to improve the footman;
if the footman is more serious than the cook, he will be expected to
improve the cook.”’

‘I’ll take the address of that place,’ said the client; ‘I don’t know
but what it mightn’t suit me pretty well.’

‘Here’s another,’ remarked Tom, turning over the leaves. ‘“Family of Mr
Gallanbile, MP. Fifteen guineas, tea and sugar, and servants allowed
to see male cousins, if godly. Note. Cold dinner in the kitchen on the
Sabbath, Mr. Gallanbile being devoted to the Observance question. No
victuals whatever cooked on the Lord’s Day, with the exception of dinner
for Mr. and Mrs. Gallanbile, which, being a work of piety and necessity,
is exempted. Mr. Gallanbile dines late on the day of rest, in order to
prevent the sinfulness of the cook’s dressing herself.”’

‘I don’t think that’ll answer as well as the other,’ said the client,
after a little whispering with her friend. ‘I’ll take the other
direction, if you please, young man. I can but come back again, if it
don’t do.’

Tom made out the address, as requested, and the genteel client,
having satisfied the fat lady with a small fee, meanwhile, went away
accompanied by her friend.

As Nicholas opened his mouth, to request the young man to turn to letter
S, and let him know what secretaryships remained undisposed of, there
came into the office an applicant, in whose favour he immediately
retired, and whose appearance both surprised and interested him.

This was a young lady who could be scarcely eighteen, of very slight and
delicate figure, but exquisitely shaped, who, walking timidly up to the
desk, made an inquiry, in a very low tone of voice, relative to some
situation as governess, or companion to a lady. She raised her veil, for
an instant, while she preferred the inquiry, and disclosed a countenance
of most uncommon beauty, though shaded by a cloud of sadness, which, in
one so young, was doubly remarkable. Having received a card of reference
to some person on the books, she made the usual acknowledgment, and
glided away.

She was neatly, but very quietly attired; so much so, indeed, that it
seemed as though her dress, if it had been worn by one who imparted
fewer graces of her own to it, might have looked poor and shabby. Her
attendant--for she had one--was a red-faced, round-eyed, slovenly girl,
who, from a certain roughness about the bare arms that peeped from under
her draggled shawl, and the half-washed-out traces of smut and
blacklead which tattooed her countenance, was clearly of a kin with the
servants-of-all-work on the form: between whom and herself there had
passed various grins and glances, indicative of the freemasonry of the
craft.

This girl followed her mistress; and, before Nicholas had recovered from
the first effects of his surprise and admiration, the young lady was
gone. It is not a matter of such complete and utter improbability as
some sober people may think, that he would have followed them out,
had he not been restrained by what passed between the fat lady and her
book-keeper.

‘When is she coming again, Tom?’ asked the fat lady.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ replied Tom, mending his pen.

‘Where have you sent her to?’ asked the fat lady.

‘Mrs. Clark’s,’ replied Tom.

‘She’ll have a nice life of it, if she goes there,’ observed the fat
lady, taking a pinch of snuff from a tin box.

Tom made no other reply than thrusting his tongue into his cheek,
and pointing the feather of his pen towards Nicholas--reminders which
elicited from the fat lady an inquiry, of ‘Now, sir, what can we do for
YOU?’

Nicholas briefly replied, that he wanted to know whether there was any
such post to be had, as secretary or amanuensis to a gentleman.

‘Any such!’ rejoined the mistress; ‘a-dozen-such. An’t there, Tom?’

‘I should think so,’ answered that young gentleman; and as he said it,
he winked towards Nicholas, with a degree of familiarity which he,
no doubt, intended for a rather flattering compliment, but with which
Nicholas was most ungratefully disgusted.

Upon reference to the book, it appeared that the dozen secretaryships
had dwindled down to one. Mr. Gregsbury, the great member of parliament,
of Manchester Buildings, Westminster, wanted a young man, to keep his
papers and correspondence in order; and Nicholas was exactly the sort of
young man that Mr. Gregsbury wanted.

‘I don’t know what the terms are, as he said he’d settle them himself
with the party,’ observed the fat lady; ‘but they must be pretty good
ones, because he’s a member of parliament.’

Inexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not feel quite assured of the
force of this reasoning, or the justice of this conclusion; but without
troubling himself to question it, he took down the address, and resolved
to wait upon Mr. Gregsbury without delay.

‘I don’t know what the number is,’ said Tom; ‘but Manchester Buildings
isn’t a large place; and if the worst comes to the worst it won’t take
you very long to knock at all the doors on both sides of the way till
you find him out. I say, what a good-looking gal that was, wasn’t she?’

‘What girl?’ demanded Nicholas, sternly.

‘Oh yes. I know--what gal, eh?’ whispered Tom, shutting one eye, and
cocking his chin in the air. ‘You didn’t see her, you didn’t--I say,
don’t you wish you was me, when she comes tomorrow morning?’

Nicholas looked at the ugly clerk, as if he had a mind to reward his
admiration of the young lady by beating the ledger about his ears,
but he refrained, and strode haughtily out of the office; setting at
defiance, in his indignation, those ancient laws of chivalry, which not
only made it proper and lawful for all good knights to hear the praise
of the ladies to whom they were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon
them to roam about the world, and knock at head all such matter-of-fact
and un-poetical characters, as declined to exalt, above all the earth,
damsels whom they had never chanced to look upon or hear of--as if that
were any excuse!

Thinking no longer of his own misfortunes, but wondering what could
be those of the beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, with many wrong
turns, and many inquiries, and almost as many misdirections, bent his
steps towards the place whither he had been directed.

Within the precincts of the ancient city of Westminster, and within
half a quarter of a mile of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrow and dirty
region, the sanctuary of the smaller members of Parliament in modern
days. It is all comprised in one street of gloomy lodging-houses, from
whose windows, in vacation-time, there frown long melancholy rows of
bills, which say, as plainly as did the countenances of their occupiers,
ranged on ministerial and opposition benches in the session which
slumbers with its fathers, ‘To Let’, ‘To Let’. In busier periods of the
year these bills disappear, and the houses swarm with legislators. There
are legislators in the parlours, in the first floor, in the second, in
the third, in the garrets; the small apartments reek with the breath of
deputations and delegates. In damp weather, the place is rendered close,
by the steams of moist acts of parliament and frouzy petitions; general
postmen grow faint as they enter its infected limits, and shabby figures
in quest of franks, flit restlessly to and fro like the troubled ghosts
of Complete Letter-writers departed. This is Manchester Buildings; and
here, at all hours of the night, may be heard the rattling of latch-keys
in their respective keyholes: with now and then--when a gust of wind
sweeping across the water which washes the Buildings’ feet, impels the
sound towards its entrance--the weak, shrill voice of some young member
practising tomorrow’s speech. All the livelong day, there is a grinding
of organs and clashing and clanging of little boxes of music; for
Manchester Buildings is an eel-pot, which has no outlet but its awkward
mouth--a case-bottle which has no thoroughfare, and a short and narrow
neck--and in this respect it may be typical of the fate of some few
among its more adventurous residents, who, after wriggling themselves
into Parliament by violent efforts and contortions, find that it, too,
is no thoroughfare for them; that, like Manchester Buildings, it leads
to nothing beyond itself; and that they are fain at last to back out, no
wiser, no richer, not one whit more famous, than they went in.

Into Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned, with the address of the great
Mr. Gregsbury in his hand. As there was a stream of people pouring into
a shabby house not far from the entrance, he waited until they had made
their way in, and then making up to the servant, ventured to inquire if
he knew where Mr. Gregsbury lived.

The servant was a very pale, shabby boy, who looked as if he had slept
underground from his infancy, as very likely he had. ‘Mr. Gregsbury?’
said he; ‘Mr. Gregsbury lodges here. It’s all right. Come in!’

Nicholas thought he might as well get in while he could, so in he
walked; and he had no sooner done so, than the boy shut the door, and
made off.

This was odd enough: but what was more embarrassing was, that all along
the passage, and all along the narrow stairs, blocking up the window,
and making the dark entry darker still, was a confused crowd of
persons with great importance depicted in their looks; who were, to all
appearance, waiting in silent expectation of some coming event. From
time to time, one man would whisper to his neighbour, or a little group
would whisper together, and then the whisperers would nod fiercely to
each other, or give their heads a relentless shake, as if they were bent
upon doing something very desperate, and were determined not to be put
off, whatever happened.

As a few minutes elapsed without anything occurring to explain this
phenomenon, and as he felt his own position a peculiarly uncomfortable
one, Nicholas was on the point of seeking some information from the man
next him, when a sudden move was visible on the stairs, and a voice was
heard to cry, ‘Now, gentleman, have the goodness to walk up!’

So far from walking up, the gentlemen on the stairs began to walk down
with great alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinary politeness, that
the gentlemen nearest the street would go first; the gentlemen nearest
the street retorted, with equal courtesy, that they couldn’t think of
such a thing on any account; but they did it, without thinking of it,
inasmuch as the other gentlemen pressing some half-dozen (among whom was
Nicholas) forward, and closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up the
stairs, but into the very sitting-room of Mr. Gregsbury, which they were
thus compelled to enter with most unseemly precipitation, and without
the means of retreat; the press behind them, more than filling the
apartment.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, ‘you are welcome. I am rejoiced to see
you.’

For a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a body of visitors, Mr. Gregsbury
looked as uncomfortable as might be; but perhaps this was occasioned by
senatorial gravity, and a statesmanlike habit of keeping his feelings
under control. He was a tough, burly, thick-headed gentleman, with a
loud voice, a pompous manner, a tolerable command of sentences with no
meaning in them, and, in short, every requisite for a very good member
indeed.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, tossing a great bundle of papers
into a wicker basket at his feet, and throwing himself back in his chair
with his arms over the elbows, ‘you are dissatisfied with my conduct, I
see by the newspapers.’

‘Yes, Mr. Gregsbury, we are,’ said a plump old gentleman in a violent
heat, bursting out of the throng, and planting himself in the front.

‘Do my eyes deceive me,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, looking towards the speaker,
‘or is that my old friend Pugstyles?’

‘I am that man, and no other, sir,’ replied the plump old gentleman.

‘Give me your hand, my worthy friend,’ said Mr. Gregsbury. ‘Pugstyles, my
dear friend, I am very sorry to see you here.’

‘I am very sorry to be here, sir,’ said Mr. Pugstyles; ‘but your conduct,
Mr. Gregsbury, has rendered this deputation from your constituents
imperatively necessary.’

‘My conduct, Pugstyles,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, looking round upon the
deputation with gracious magnanimity--‘my conduct has been, and ever
will be, regulated by a sincere regard for the true and real interests
of this great and happy country. Whether I look at home, or abroad;
whether I behold the peaceful industrious communities of our island
home: her rivers covered with steamboats, her roads with locomotives,
her streets with cabs, her skies with balloons of a power and magnitude
hitherto unknown in the history of aeronautics in this or any other
nation--I say, whether I look merely at home, or, stretching my
eyes farther, contemplate the boundless prospect of conquest and
possession--achieved by British perseverance and British valour--which
is outspread before me, I clasp my hands, and turning my eyes to the
broad expanse above my head, exclaim, “Thank Heaven, I am a Briton!”’

The time had been, when this burst of enthusiasm would have been cheered
to the very echo; but now, the deputation received it with chilling
coldness. The general impression seemed to be, that as an explanation
of Mr. Gregsbury’s political conduct, it did not enter quite enough into
detail; and one gentleman in the rear did not scruple to remark aloud,
that, for his purpose, it savoured rather too much of a ‘gammon’
tendency.

‘The meaning of that term--gammon,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, ‘is unknown
to me. If it means that I grow a little too fervid, or perhaps even
hyperbolical, in extolling my native land, I admit the full justice of
the remark. I AM proud of this free and happy country. My form dilates,
my eye glistens, my breast heaves, my heart swells, my bosom burns, when
I call to mind her greatness and her glory.’

‘We wish, sir,’ remarked Mr. Pugstyles, calmly, ‘to ask you a few
questions.’

‘If you please, gentlemen; my time is yours--and my country’s--and my
country’s--’ said Mr. Gregsbury.

This permission being conceded, Mr. Pugstyles put on his spectacles, and
referred to a written paper which he drew from his pocket; whereupon
nearly every other member of the deputation pulled a written paper from
HIS pocket, to check Mr. Pugstyles off, as he read the questions.

This done, Mr. Pugstyles proceeded to business.

‘Question number one.--Whether, sir, you did not give a voluntary pledge
previous to your election, that in event of your being returned, you
would immediately put down the practice of coughing and groaning in
the House of Commons. And whether you did not submit to be coughed and
groaned down in the very first debate of the session, and have since
made no effort to effect a reform in this respect? Whether you did not
also pledge yourself to astonish the government, and make them shrink in
their shoes? And whether you have astonished them, and made them shrink
in their shoes, or not?’

‘Go on to the next one, my dear Pugstyles,’ said Mr. Gregsbury.

‘Have you any explanation to offer with reference to that question,
sir?’ asked Mr. Pugstyles.

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Gregsbury.

The members of the deputation looked fiercely at each other, and
afterwards at the member. ‘Dear Pugstyles’ having taken a very long
stare at Mr. Gregsbury over the tops of his spectacles, resumed his list
of inquiries.

‘Question number two.--Whether, sir, you did not likewise give a
voluntary pledge that you would support your colleague on every
occasion; and whether you did not, the night before last, desert him
and vote upon the other side, because the wife of a leader on that other
side had invited Mrs. Gregsbury to an evening party?’

‘Go on,’ said Mr. Gregsbury.

‘Nothing to say on that, either, sir?’ asked the spokesman.

‘Nothing whatever,’ replied Mr. Gregsbury. The deputation, who had
only seen him at canvassing or election time, were struck dumb by his
coolness. He didn’t appear like the same man; then he was all milk and
honey; now he was all starch and vinegar. But men ARE so different at
different times!

‘Question number three--and last,’ said Mr. Pugstyles, emphatically.
‘Whether, sir, you did not state upon the hustings, that it was your
firm and determined intention to oppose everything proposed; to divide
the house upon every question, to move for returns on every subject,
to place a motion on the books every day, and, in short, in your own
memorable words, to play the very devil with everything and everybody?’
With this comprehensive inquiry, Mr. Pugstyles folded up his list of
questions, as did all his backers.

Mr. Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw himself further back in
his chair, came forward again, leaning his elbows on the table, made a
triangle with his two thumbs and his two forefingers, and tapping his
nose with the apex thereof, replied (smiling as he said it), ‘I deny
everything.’

At this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur arose from the deputation;
and the same gentleman who had expressed an opinion relative to the
gammoning nature of the introductory speech, again made a monosyllabic
demonstration, by growling out ‘Resign!’ Which growl being taken up by
his fellows, swelled into a very earnest and general remonstrance.

‘I am requested, sir, to express a hope,’ said Mr. Pugstyles, with a
distant bow, ‘that on receiving a requisition to that effect from a
great majority of your constituents, you will not object at once to
resign your seat in favour of some candidate whom they think they can
better trust.’

To this, Mr. Gregsbury read the following reply, which, anticipating the
request, he had composed in the form of a letter, whereof copies had
been made to send round to the newspapers.

‘MY DEAR MR PUGSTYLES,

‘Next to the welfare of our beloved island--this great and free and
happy country, whose powers and resources are, I sincerely believe,
illimitable--I value that noble independence which is an Englishman’s
proudest boast, and which I fondly hope to bequeath to my children,
untarnished and unsullied. Actuated by no personal motives, but moved
only by high and great constitutional considerations; which I will not
attempt to explain, for they are really beneath the comprehension of
those who have not made themselves masters, as I have, of the intricate
and arduous study of politics; I would rather keep my seat, and intend
doing so.

‘Will you do me the favour to present my compliments to the constituent
body, and acquaint them with this circumstance?

‘With great esteem, ‘My dear Mr. Pugstyles, ‘&c.&c.’

‘Then you will not resign, under any circumstances?’ asked the
spokesman.

Mr. Gregsbury smiled, and shook his head.

‘Then, good-morning, sir,’ said Pugstyles, angrily.

‘Heaven bless you!’ said Mr. Gregsbury. And the deputation, with many
growls and scowls, filed off as quickly as the narrowness of the
staircase would allow of their getting down.

The last man being gone, Mr. Gregsbury rubbed his hands and chuckled, as
merry fellows will, when they think they have said or done a more than
commonly good thing; he was so engrossed in this self-congratulation,
that he did not observe that Nicholas had been left behind in the shadow
of the window-curtains, until that young gentleman, fearing he might
otherwise overhear some soliloquy intended to have no listeners, coughed
twice or thrice, to attract the member’s notice.

‘What’s that?’ said Mr. Gregsbury, in sharp accents.

Nicholas stepped forward, and bowed.

‘What do you do here, sir?’ asked Mr. Gregsbury; ‘a spy upon my privacy!
A concealed voter! You have heard my answer, sir. Pray follow the
deputation.’

‘I should have done so, if I had belonged to it, but I do not,’ said
Nicholas.

‘Then how came you here, sir?’ was the natural inquiry of Mr. Gregsbury,
MP. ‘And where the devil have you come from, sir?’ was the question
which followed it.

‘I brought this card from the General Agency Office, sir,’ said
Nicholas, ‘wishing to offer myself as your secretary, and understanding
that you stood in need of one.’

‘That’s all you have come for, is it?’ said Mr. Gregsbury, eyeing him in
some doubt.

Nicholas replied in the affirmative.

‘You have no connection with any of those rascally papers have you?’
said Mr. Gregsbury. ‘You didn’t get into the room, to hear what was going
forward, and put it in print, eh?’

‘I have no connection, I am sorry to say, with anything at present,’
rejoined Nicholas,--politely enough, but quite at his ease.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Gregsbury. ‘How did you find your way up here, then?’

Nicholas related how he had been forced up by the deputation.

‘That was the way, was it?’ said Mr. Gregsbury. ‘Sit down.’

Nicholas took a chair, and Mr. Gregsbury stared at him for a long time,
as if to make certain, before he asked any further questions, that there
were no objections to his outward appearance.

‘You want to be my secretary, do you?’ he said at length.

‘I wish to be employed in that capacity, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Gregsbury; ‘now what can you do?’

‘I suppose,’ replied Nicholas, smiling, ‘that I can do what usually
falls to the lot of other secretaries.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired Mr. Gregsbury.

‘What is it?’ replied Nicholas.

‘Ah! What is it?’ retorted the member, looking shrewdly at him, with his
head on one side.

‘A secretary’s duties are rather difficult to define, perhaps,’ said
Nicholas, considering. ‘They include, I presume, correspondence?’

‘Good,’ interposed Mr. Gregsbury.

‘The arrangement of papers and documents?’

‘Very good.’

‘Occasionally, perhaps, the writing from your dictation; and possibly,
sir,’ said Nicholas, with a half-smile, ‘the copying of your speech
for some public journal, when you have made one of more than usual
importance.’

‘Certainly,’ rejoined Mr. Gregsbury. ‘What else?’

‘Really,’ said Nicholas, after a moment’s reflection, ‘I am not able, at
this instant, to recapitulate any other duty of a secretary, beyond the
general one of making himself as agreeable and useful to his employer
as he can, consistently with his own respectability, and without
overstepping that line of duties which he undertakes to perform, and
which the designation of his office is usually understood to imply.’

Mr. Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas for a short time, and then
glancing warily round the room, said in a suppressed voice:

‘This is all very well, Mr--what is your name?’

‘Nickleby.’

‘This is all very well, Mr. Nickleby, and very proper, so far as it
goes--so far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough. There are other
duties, Mr. Nickleby, which a secretary to a parliamentary gentleman must
never lose sight of. I should require to be crammed, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Nicholas, doubtful whether he had heard
aright.

‘--To be crammed, sir,’ repeated Mr. Gregsbury.

‘May I beg your pardon again, if I inquire what you mean, sir?’ said
Nicholas.

‘My meaning, sir, is perfectly plain,’ replied Mr. Gregsbury with a
solemn aspect. ‘My secretary would have to make himself master of the
foreign policy of the world, as it is mirrored in the newspapers; to run
his eye over all accounts of public meetings, all leading articles,
and accounts of the proceedings of public bodies; and to make notes
of anything which it appeared to him might be made a point of, in any
little speech upon the question of some petition lying on the table, or
anything of that kind. Do you understand?’

‘I think I do, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, ‘it would be necessary for him to make
himself acquainted, from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs on
passing events; such as “Mysterious disappearance, and supposed suicide
of a potboy,” or anything of that sort, upon which I might found a
question to the Secretary of State for the Home Department. Then, he
would have to copy the question, and as much as I remembered of the
answer (including a little compliment about independence and good
sense); and to send the manuscript in a frank to the local paper, with
perhaps half-a-dozen lines of leader, to the effect, that I was always
to be found in my place in parliament, and never shrunk from the
responsible and arduous duties, and so forth. You see?’

Nicholas bowed.

‘Besides which,’ continued Mr. Gregsbury, ‘I should expect him, now and
then, to go through a few figures in the printed tables, and to pick
out a few results, so that I might come out pretty well on timber duty
questions, and finance questions, and so on; and I should like him to
get up a few little arguments about the disastrous effects of a return
to cash payments and a metallic currency, with a touch now and then
about the exportation of bullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank
notes, and all that kind of thing, which it’s only necessary to talk
fluently about, because nobody understands it. Do you take me?’

‘I think I understand,’ said Nicholas.

‘With regard to such questions as are not political,’ continued Mr
Gregsbury, warming; ‘and which one can’t be expected to care a curse
about, beyond the natural care of not allowing inferior people to be as
well off as ourselves--else where are our privileges?--I should wish
my secretary to get together a few little flourishing speeches, of a
patriotic cast. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought
forward, for giving poor grubbing devils of authors a right to their own
property, I should like to say, that I for one would never consent to
opposing an insurmountable bar to the diffusion of literature among THE
PEOPLE,--you understand?--that the creations of the pocket, being man’s,
might belong to one man, or one family; but that the creations of the
brain, being God’s, ought as a matter of course to belong to the people
at large--and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should like to make a joke
about posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity should be
content to be rewarded by the approbation OF posterity; it might take
with the house, and could never do me any harm, because posterity can’t
be expected to know anything about me or my jokes either--do you see?’

‘I see that, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘You must always bear in mind, in such cases as this, where our
interests are not affected,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, ‘to put it very strong
about the people, because it comes out very well at election-time; and
you could be as funny as you liked about the authors; because I believe
the greater part of them live in lodgings, and are not voters. This is
a hasty outline of the chief things you’d have to do, except waiting in
the lobby every night, in case I forgot anything, and should want fresh
cramming; and, now and then, during great debates, sitting in the
front row of the gallery, and saying to the people about--‘You see that
gentleman, with his hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the
pillar--that’s Mr. Gregsbury--the celebrated Mr. Gregsbury,’--with any
other little eulogium that might strike you at the moment. And for
salary,’ said Mr. Gregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for he was
out of breath--‘and for salary, I don’t mind saying at once in round
numbers, to prevent any dissatisfaction--though it’s more than I’ve been
accustomed to give--fifteen shillings a week, and find yourself. There!’

With this handsome offer, Mr. Gregsbury once more threw himself back in
his chair, and looked like a man who had been most profligately liberal,
but is determined not to repent of it notwithstanding.

‘Fifteen shillings a week is not much,’ said Nicholas, mildly.

‘Not much! Fifteen shillings a week not much, young man?’ cried Mr
Gregsbury. ‘Fifteen shillings a--’

‘Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the sum, sir,’ replied
Nicholas; ‘for I am not ashamed to confess, that whatever it may be in
itself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties and responsibilities
make the recompense small, and they are so very heavy that I fear to
undertake them.’

‘Do you decline to undertake them, sir?’ inquired Mr. Gregsbury, with his
hand on the bell-rope.

‘I fear they are too great for my powers, however good my will may be,
sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept the place,
and that you consider fifteen shillings a week too little,’ said Mr
Gregsbury, ringing. ‘Do you decline it, sir?’

‘I have no alternative but to do so,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Door, Matthews!’ said Mr. Gregsbury, as the boy appeared.

‘I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘I am sorry you have,’ rejoined Mr. Gregsbury, turning his back upon him.
‘Door, Matthews!’

‘Good-morning, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘Door, Matthews!’ cried Mr. Gregsbury.

The boy beckoned Nicholas, and tumbling lazily downstairs before him,
opened the door, and ushered him into the street. With a sad and pensive
air, he retraced his steps homewards.

Smike had scraped a meal together from the remnant of last night’s
supper, and was anxiously awaiting his return. The occurrences of the
morning had not improved Nicholas’s appetite, and, by him, the dinner
remained untasted. He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, with the
plate which the poor fellow had assiduously filled with the choicest
morsels, untouched, by his side, when Newman Noggs looked into the room.

‘Come back?’ asked Newman.

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, ‘tired to death: and, what is worse, might have
remained at home for all the good I have done.’

‘Couldn’t expect to do much in one morning,’ said Newman.

‘Maybe so, but I am sanguine, and did expect,’ said Nicholas, ‘and am
proportionately disappointed.’ Saying which, he gave Newman an account
of his proceedings.

‘If I could do anything,’ said Nicholas, ‘anything, however slight,
until Ralph Nickleby returns, and I have eased my mind by confronting
him, I should feel happier. I should think it no disgrace to work,
Heaven knows. Lying indolently here, like a half-tamed sullen beast,
distracts me.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Newman; ‘small things offer--they would pay the
rent, and more--but you wouldn’t like them; no, you could hardly be
expected to undergo it--no, no.’

‘What could I hardly be expected to undergo?’ asked Nicholas, raising
his eyes. ‘Show me, in this wide waste of London, any honest means by
which I could even defray the weekly hire of this poor room, and see if
I shrink from resorting to them! Undergo! I have undergone too much,
my friend, to feel pride or squeamishness now. Except--’ added Nicholas
hastily, after a short silence, ‘except such squeamishness as is common
honesty, and so much pride as constitutes self-respect. I see little
to choose, between assistant to a brutal pedagogue, and toad-eater to a
mean and ignorant upstart, be he member or no member.’

‘I hardly know whether I should tell you what I heard this morning, or
not,’ said Newman.

‘Has it reference to what you said just now?’ asked Nicholas.

‘It has.’

‘Then in Heaven’s name, my good friend, tell it me,’ said Nicholas. ‘For
God’s sake consider my deplorable condition; and, while I promise to
take no step without taking counsel with you, give me, at least, a vote
in my own behalf.’

Moved by this entreaty, Newman stammered forth a variety of most
unaccountable and entangled sentences, the upshot of which was, that
Mrs. Kenwigs had examined him, at great length that morning, touching
the origin of his acquaintance with, and the whole life, adventures, and
pedigree of, Nicholas; that Newman had parried these questions as
long as he could, but being, at length, hard pressed and driven into a
corner, had gone so far as to admit, that Nicholas was a tutor of
great accomplishments, involved in some misfortunes which he was not at
liberty to explain, and bearing the name of Johnson. That Mrs. Kenwigs,
impelled by gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or maternal love,
or all four powerful motives conjointly, had taken secret conference
with Mr. Kenwigs, and had finally returned to propose that Mr. Johnson
should instruct the four Miss Kenwigses in the French language as spoken
by natives, at the weekly stipend of five shillings, current coin of
the realm; being at the rate of one shilling per week, per each Miss
Kenwigs, and one shilling over, until such time as the baby might be
able to take it out in grammar.

‘Which, unless I am very much mistaken,’ observed Mrs. Kenwigs in making
the proposition, ‘will not be very long; for such clever children, Mr
Noggs, never were born into this world, I do believe.’

‘There,’ said Newman, ‘that’s all. It’s beneath you, I know; but I
thought that perhaps you might--’

‘Might!’ cried Nicholas, with great alacrity; ‘of course I shall. I
accept the offer at once. Tell the worthy mother so, without delay, my
dear fellow; and that I am ready to begin whenever she pleases.’

Newman hastened, with joyful steps, to inform Mrs. Kenwigs of his
friend’s acquiescence, and soon returning, brought back word that they
would be happy to see him in the first floor as soon as convenient;
that Mrs. Kenwigs had, upon the instant, sent out to secure a second-hand
French grammar and dialogues, which had long been fluttering in the
sixpenny box at the bookstall round the corner; and that the family,
highly excited at the prospect of this addition to their gentility,
wished the initiatory lesson to come off immediately.

And here it may be observed, that Nicholas was not, in the ordinary
sense of the word, a young man of high spirit. He would resent an
affront to himself, or interpose to redress a wrong offered to another,
as boldly and freely as any knight that ever set lance in rest; but he
lacked that peculiar excess of coolness and great-minded selfishness,
which invariably distinguish gentlemen of high spirit. In truth, for our
own part, we are disposed to look upon such gentleman as being rather
incumbrances than otherwise in rising families: happening to be
acquainted with several whose spirit prevents their settling down to
any grovelling occupation, and only displays itself in a tendency to
cultivate moustachios, and look fierce; and although moustachios and
ferocity are both very pretty things in their way, and very much to be
commended, we confess to a desire to see them bred at the owner’s proper
cost, rather than at the expense of low-spirited people.

Nicholas, therefore, not being a high-spirited young man according to
common parlance, and deeming it a greater degradation to borrow, for the
supply of his necessities, from Newman Noggs, than to teach French to
the little Kenwigses for five shillings a week, accepted the offer with
the alacrity already described, and betook himself to the first floor
with all convenient speed.

Here, he was received by Mrs. Kenwigs with a genteel air, kindly intended
to assure him of her protection and support; and here, too, he found Mr
Lillyvick and Miss Petowker; the four Miss Kenwigses on their form of
audience; and the baby in a dwarf porter’s chair with a deal tray before
it, amusing himself with a toy horse without a head; the said horse
being composed of a small wooden cylinder, not unlike an Italian iron,
supported on four crooked pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of
red wafers set in blacking.

‘How do you do, Mr. Johnson?’ said Mrs. Kenwigs. ‘Uncle--Mr. Johnson.’

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Mr. Lillyvick--rather sharply; for he had not
known what Nicholas was, on the previous night, and it was rather an
aggravating circumstance if a tax collector had been too polite to a
teacher.

‘Mr. Johnson is engaged as private master to the children, uncle,’ said
Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘So you said just now, my dear,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick.

‘But I hope,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, drawing herself up, ‘that that will not
make them proud; but that they will bless their own good fortune,
which has born them superior to common people’s children. Do you hear,
Morleena?’

‘Yes, ma,’ replied Miss Kenwigs.

‘And when you go out in the streets, or elsewhere, I desire that you
don’t boast of it to the other children,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs; ‘and that if
you must say anything about it, you don’t say no more than “We’ve got a
private master comes to teach us at home, but we ain’t proud, because ma
says it’s sinful.” Do you hear, Morleena?’

‘Yes, ma,’ replied Miss Kenwigs again.

‘Then mind you recollect, and do as I tell you,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs.
‘Shall Mr. Johnson begin, uncle?’

‘I am ready to hear, if Mr. Johnson is ready to commence, my dear,’ said
the collector, assuming the air of a profound critic. ‘What sort of
language do you consider French, sir?’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Do you consider it a good language, sir?’ said the collector; ‘a pretty
language, a sensible language?’

‘A pretty language, certainly,’ replied Nicholas; ‘and as it has a name
for everything, and admits of elegant conversation about everything, I
presume it is a sensible one.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, doubtfully. ‘Do you call it a
cheerful language, now?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I should say it was, certainly.’

‘It’s very much changed since my time, then,’ said the collector, ‘very
much.’

‘Was it a dismal one in your time?’ asked Nicholas, scarcely able to
repress a smile.

‘Very,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. ‘It’s the
war time that I speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language.
I should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can only say that I’ve
heard the French prisoners, who were natives, and ought to know how to
speak it, talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable to
hear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir--fifty times!’

Mr. Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs. Kenwigs thought it expedient
to motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss
Petowker had practised several blandishments, to soften the excellent
old gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by asking,

‘What’s the water in French, sir?’

‘L’EAU,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, ‘I thought as
much. Lo, eh? I don’t think anything of that language--nothing at all.’

‘I suppose the children may begin, uncle?’ said Mrs. Kenwigs.

‘Oh yes; they may begin, my dear,’ replied the collector,
discontentedly. ‘I have no wish to prevent them.’

This permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row,
with their tails all one way, and Morleena at the top: while Nicholas,
taking the book, began his preliminary explanations. Miss Petowker
and Mrs. Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only by the
whispered assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by
heart in no time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and
attentive eyes, lying in wait for something upon which he could open a
fresh discussion on the language.



CHAPTER 17

Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby


It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort
could banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the
commencement of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when
its clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her
way alone, amid the noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west
end of London.

At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the
poor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks
the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets, making towards the
scene of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their
hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight
which cheer their monotonous existence during the long train of hours
that make a working day. As she drew nigh to the more fashionable
quarter of the town, Kate marked many of this class as they passed by,
hurrying like herself to their painful occupation, and saw, in their
unhealthy looks and feeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her
misgivings were not wholly groundless.

She arrived at Madame Mantalini’s some minutes before the appointed
hour, and after walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some
other female might arrive and spare her the embarrassment of stating her
business to the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which, after some
delay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped
jacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.

‘Is Madame Mantalini in?’ faltered Kate.

‘Not often out at this time, miss,’ replied the man in a tone which
rendered “Miss,” something more offensive than “My dear.”

‘Can I see her?’ asked Kate.

‘Eh?’ replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the
inquirer with a stare and a broad grin, ‘Lord, no.’

‘I came by her own appointment,’ said Kate; ‘I am--I am--to be employed
here.’

‘Oh! you should have rung the worker’s bell,’ said the footman, touching
the handle of one in the door-post. ‘Let me see, though, I forgot--Miss
Nickleby, is it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Kate.

‘You’re to walk upstairs then, please,’ said the man. ‘Madame Mantalini
wants to see you--this way--take care of these things on the floor.’

Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter
of pastry-cook’s trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of
rout seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeaking a late
party on the previous night, the man led the way to the second story,
and ushered Kate into a back-room, communicating by folding-doors
with the apartment in which she had first seen the mistress of the
establishment.

‘If you’ll wait here a minute,’ said the man, ‘I’ll tell her presently.’
Having made this promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate
alone.

There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive
feature was, a half-length portrait in oil, of Mr. Mantalini, whom the
artist had depicted scratching his head in an easy manner, and thus
displaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini
before her marriage. There was, however, the sound of voices in
conversation in the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the
partition thin, Kate could not help discovering that they belonged to Mr
and Mrs. Mantalini.

‘If you will be odiously, demnebly, outr_i_geously jealous, my soul,’ said
Mr. Mantalini, ‘you will be very miserable--horrid miserable--demnition
miserable.’ And then, there was a sound as though Mr. Mantalini were
sipping his coffee.

‘I AM miserable,’ returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.

‘Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,’
said Mr. Mantalini.

‘I am not,’ returned Madame, with a sob.

‘Do not put itself out of humour,’ said Mr. Mantalini, breaking an egg.
‘It is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not
be out of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makes it cross and
gloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.’

‘I am not to be brought round in that way, always,’ rejoined Madame,
sulkily.

‘It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought
round at all if it likes that better,’ retorted Mr. Mantalini, with his
egg-spoon in his mouth.

‘It’s very easy to talk,’ said Mrs. Mantalini.

‘Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,’ replied Mr. Mantalini;
‘for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match
any waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.’

‘You were flirting with her during the whole night,’ said Madame
Mantalini, apparently desirous to lead the conversation back to the
point from which it had strayed.

‘No, no, my life.’

‘You were,’ said Madame; ‘I had my eye upon you all the time.’

‘Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!’
cried Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture. ‘Oh, demmit!’

‘And I say once more,’ resumed Madame, ‘that you ought not to waltz with
anybody but your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini, if I take
poison first.’

‘She will not take poison and have horrid pains, will she?’ said
Mantalini; who, by the altered sound of his voice, seemed to have moved
his chair, and taken up his position nearer to his wife. ‘She will not
take poison, because she had a demd fine husband who might have married
two countesses and a dowager--’

‘Two countesses,’ interposed Madame. ‘You told me one before!’

‘Two!’ cried Mantalini. ‘Two demd fine women, real countesses and
splendid fortunes, demmit.’

‘And why didn’t you?’ asked Madame, playfully.

‘Why didn’t I!’ replied her husband. ‘Had I not seen, at a morning
concert, the demdest little fascinator in all the world, and while that
little fascinator is my wife, may not all the countesses and dowagers in
England be--’

Mr. Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave Madame Mantalini
a very loud kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned; after which, there
seemed to be some more kissing mixed up with the progress of the
breakfast.

‘And what about the cash, my existence’s jewel?’ said Mantalini, when
these endearments ceased. ‘How much have we in hand?’

‘Very little indeed,’ replied Madame.

‘We must have some more,’ said Mantalini; ‘we must have some discount
out of old Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.’

‘You can’t want any more just now,’ said Madame coaxingly.

‘My life and soul,’ returned her husband, ‘there is a horse for sale
at Scrubbs’s, which it would be a sin and a crime to lose--going, my
senses’ joy, for nothing.’

‘For nothing,’ cried Madame, ‘I am glad of that.’

‘For actually nothing,’ replied Mantalini. ‘A hundred guineas down will
buy him; mane, and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest beauty.
I will ride him in the park before the very chariots of the rejected
countesses. The demd old dowager will faint with grief and rage; the
other two will say “He is married, he has made away with himself, it
is a demd thing, it is all up!” They will hate each other demnebly, and
wish you dead and buried. Ha! ha! Demmit.’

Madame Mantalini’s prudence, if she had any, was not proof against these
triumphal pictures; after a little jingling of keys, she observed that
she would see what her desk contained, and rising for that purpose,
opened the folding-door, and walked into the room where Kate was seated.

‘Dear me, child!’ exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling in surprise.
‘How came you here?’

‘Child!’ cried Mantalini, hurrying in. ‘How came--eh!--oh--demmit, how
d’ye do?’

‘I have been waiting, here some time, ma’am,’ said Kate, addressing
Madame Mantalini. ‘The servant must have forgotten to let you know that
I was here, I think.’

‘You really must see to that man,’ said Madame, turning to her husband.
‘He forgets everything.’

‘I will twist his demd nose off his countenance for leaving such a very
pretty creature all alone by herself,’ said her husband.

‘Mantalini,’ cried Madame, ‘you forget yourself.’

‘I don’t forget you, my soul, and never shall, and never can,’ said
Mantalini, kissing his wife’s hand, and grimacing aside, to Miss
Nickleby, who turned away.

Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the business took some papers
from her desk which she handed over to Mr. Mantalini, who received them
with great delight. She then requested Kate to follow her, and after
several feints on the part of Mr. Mantalini to attract the young lady’s
attention, they went away: leaving that gentleman extended at full
length on the sofa, with his heels in the air and a newspaper in his
hand.

Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, and through a
passage, to a large room at the back of the premises where were a number
of young women employed in sewing, cutting out, making up, altering, and
various other processes known only to those who are cunning in the arts
of millinery and dressmaking. It was a close room with a skylight, and
as dull and quiet as a room need be.

On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short, bustling,
over-dressed female, full of importance, presented herself, and all the
young ladies suspending their operations for the moment, whispered
to each other sundry criticisms upon the make and texture of Miss
Nickleby’s dress, her complexion, cast of features, and personal
appearance, with as much good breeding as could have been displayed by
the very best society in a crowded ball-room.

‘Oh, Miss Knag,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘this is the young person I
spoke to you about.’

Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon Madame Mantalini, which
she dexterously transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and said that
certainly, although it was a great deal of trouble to have young people
who were wholly unused to the business, still, she was sure the young
person would try to do her best--impressed with which conviction she
(Miss Knag) felt an interest in her, already.

‘I think that, for the present at all events, it will be better for
Miss Nickleby to come into the show-room with you, and try things on for
people,’ said Madame Mantalini. ‘She will not be able for the present to
be of much use in any other way; and her appearance will--’

‘Suit very well with mine, Madame Mantalini,’ interrupted Miss Knag. ‘So
it will; and to be sure I might have known that you would not be long in
finding that out; for you have so much taste in all those matters, that
really, as I often say to the young ladies, I do not know how, when, or
where, you possibly could have acquired all you know--hem--Miss Nickleby
and I are quite a pair, Madame Mantalini, only I am a little darker than
Miss Nickleby, and--hem--I think my foot may be a little smaller. Miss
Nickleby, I am sure, will not be offended at my saying that, when she
hears that our family always have been celebrated for small feet ever
since--hem--ever since our family had any feet at all, indeed, I think.
I had an uncle once, Madame Mantalini, who lived in Cheltenham, and
had a most excellent business as a tobacconist--hem--who had such small
feet, that they were no bigger than those which are usually joined to
wooden legs--the most symmetrical feet, Madame Mantalini, that even you
can imagine.’

‘They must have had something of the appearance of club feet, Miss
Knag,’ said Madame.

‘Well now, that is so like you,’ returned Miss Knag, ‘Ha! ha! ha! Of
club feet! Oh very good! As I often remark to the young ladies, “Well
I must say, and I do not care who knows it, of all the ready
humour--hem--I ever heard anywhere”--and I have heard a good deal; for
when my dear brother was alive (I kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we
had to supper once a week two or three young men, highly celebrated
in those days for their humour, Madame Mantalini--“Of all the ready
humour,” I say to the young ladies, “I ever heard, Madame Mantalini’s
is the most remarkable--hem. It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so
good-natured (as I was observing to Miss Simmonds only this morning),
that how, or when, or by what means she acquired it, is to me a mystery
indeed.”’

Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may be
observed--not that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously
deferential to Madame Mantalini, since these are facts which require no
comment; but that every now and then, she was accustomed, in the torrent
of her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear ‘hem!’ the import
and meaning of which, was variously interpreted by her acquaintance;
some holding that Miss Knag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the
monosyllable when any fresh invention was in course of coinage in her
brain; others, that when she wanted a word, she threw it in to gain
time, and prevent anybody else from striking into the conversation. It
may be further remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although
she had shot beyond it, years ago; and that she was weak and vain, and
one of those people who are best described by the axiom, that you may
trust them as far as you can see them, and no farther.

‘You’ll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, and so
forth,’ said Madame Mantalini; ‘and so I’ll leave her with you. You’ll
not forget my directions, Miss Knag?’

Miss Knag of course replied, that to forget anything Madame Mantalini
had directed, was a moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a
general good-morning among her assistants, sailed away.

‘Charming creature, isn’t she, Miss Nickleby?’ said Miss Knag, rubbing
her hands together.

‘I have seen very little of her,’ said Kate. ‘I hardly know yet.’

‘Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?’ inquired Miss Knag.

‘Yes; I have seen him twice.’

‘Isn’t HE a charming creature?’

‘Indeed he does not strike me as being so, by any means,’ replied Kate.

‘No, my dear!’ cried Miss Knag, elevating her hands. ‘Why, goodness
gracious mercy, where’s your taste? Such a fine tall, full-whiskered
dashing gentlemanly man, with such teeth and hair, and--hem--well now,
you DO astonish me.’

‘I dare say I am very foolish,’ replied Kate, laying aside her bonnet;
‘but as my opinion is of very little importance to him or anyone else,
I do not regret having formed it, and shall be slow to change it, I
think.’

‘He is a very fine man, don’t you think so?’ asked one of the young
ladies.

‘Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,’ replied
Kate.

‘And drives very beautiful horses, doesn’t he?’ inquired another.

‘I dare say he may, but I never saw them,’ answered Kate.

‘Never saw them!’ interposed Miss Knag. ‘Oh, well! There it is at
once you know; how can you possibly pronounce an opinion about a
gentleman--hem--if you don’t see him as he turns out altogether?’

There was so much of the world--even of the little world of the country
girl--in this idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who was anxious, for
every reason, to change the subject, made no further remark, and left
Miss Knag in possession of the field.

After a short silence, during which most of the young people made a
closer inspection of Kate’s appearance, and compared notes respecting
it, one of them offered to help her off with her shawl, and the
offer being accepted, inquired whether she did not find black very
uncomfortable wear.

‘I do indeed,’ replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.

‘So dusty and hot,’ observed the same speaker, adjusting her dress for
her.

Kate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldest wear which
mortals can assume; that it not only chills the breasts of those it
clothes, but extending its influence to summer friends, freezes up their
sources of good-will and kindness, and withering all the buds of promise
they once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing but bared and rotten
hearts exposed. There are few who have lost a friend or relative
constituting in life their sole dependence, who have not keenly felt
this chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt it acutely,
and feeling it at the moment, could not quite restrain her tears.

‘I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtless speech,’ said
her companion. ‘I did not think of it. You are in mourning for some near
relation?’

‘For my father,’ answered Kate.

‘For what relation, Miss Simmonds?’ asked Miss Knag, in an audible
voice.

‘Her father,’ replied the other softly.

‘Her father, eh?’ said Miss Knag, without the slightest depression of
her voice. ‘Ah! A long illness, Miss Simmonds?’

‘Hush,’ replied the girl; ‘I don’t know.’

‘Our misfortune was very sudden,’ said Kate, turning away, ‘or I might
perhaps, at a time like this, be enabled to support it better.’

There had existed not a little desire in the room, according to
invariable custom, when any new ‘young person’ came, to know who Kate
was, and what she was, and all about her; but, although it might
have been very naturally increased by her appearance and emotion, the
knowledge that it pained her to be questioned, was sufficient to repress
even this curiosity; and Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt
extracting any further particulars just then, reluctantly commanded
silence, and bade the work proceed.

In silence, then, the tasks were plied until half-past one, when a baked
leg of mutton, with potatoes to correspond, were served in the kitchen.
The meal over, and the young ladies having enjoyed the additional
relaxation of washing their hands, the work began again, and was again
performed in silence, until the noise of carriages rattling through the
streets, and of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day’s
work of the more fortunate members of society was proceeding in its
turn.

One of these double knocks at Madame Mantalini’s door, announced
the equipage of some great lady--or rather rich one, for there is
occasionally a distinction between riches and greatness--who had come
with her daughter to approve of some court-dresses which had been a long
time preparing, and upon whom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by
Miss Knag, and officered of course by Madame Mantalini.

Kate’s part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties being limited
to holding articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them on,
and now and then tying a string, or fastening a hook-and-eye. She
might, not unreasonably, have supposed herself beneath the reach of any
arrogance, or bad humour; but it happened that the lady and daughter
were both out of temper that day, and the poor girl came in for
her share of their revilings. She was awkward--her hands were
cold--dirty--coarse--she could do nothing right; they wondered how
Madame Mantalini could have such people about her; requested they might
see some other young woman the next time they came; and so forth.

So common an occurrence would be hardly deserving of mention, but for
its effect. Kate shed many bitter tears when these people were gone,
and felt, for the first time, humbled by her occupation. She had, it is
true, quailed at the prospect of drudgery and hard service; but she had
felt no degradation in working for her bread, until she found herself
exposed to insolence and pride. Philosophy would have taught her that
the degradation was on the side of those who had sunk so low as to
display such passions habitually, and without cause: but she was too
young for such consolation, and her honest feeling was hurt. May not the
complaint, that common people are above their station, often take its
rise in the fact of UNcommon people being below theirs?

In such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nine o’clock, when
Kate, jaded and dispirited with the occurrences of the day, hastened
from the confinement of the workroom, to join her mother at the street
corner, and walk home:--the more sadly, from having to disguise her real
feelings, and feign to participate in all the sanguine visions of her
companion.

‘Bless my soul, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘I’ve been thinking all day
what a delightful thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take you
into partnership--such a likely thing too, you know! Why, your poor
dear papa’s cousin’s sister-in-law--a Miss Browndock--was taken into
partnership by a lady that kept a school at Hammersmith, and made her
fortune in no time at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss
Browndock was the same lady that got the ten thousand pounds prize in
the lottery, but I think she was; indeed, now I come to think of it, I
am sure she was. “Mantalini and Nickleby”, how well it would sound!--and
if Nicholas has any good fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the
head-master of Westminster School, living in the same street.’

‘Dear Nicholas!’ cried Kate, taking from her reticule her brother’s
letter from Dotheboys Hall. ‘In all our misfortunes, how happy it makes
me, mama, to hear he is doing well, and to find him writing in such
good spirits! It consoles me for all we may undergo, to think that he is
comfortable and happy.’

Poor Kate! she little thought how weak her consolation was, and how soon
she would be undeceived.



CHAPTER 18

Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes
up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to
form this Resolution


There are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering, which,
having no stirring interest for any but those who lead them, are
disregarded by persons who do not want thought or feeling, but who
pamper their compassion and need high stimulants to rouse it.

There are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their
vocation, scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in
theirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy and compassion are every
day expended on out-of-the-way objects, when only too many demands upon
the legitimate exercise of the same virtues in a healthy state, are
constantly within the sight and hearing of the most unobservant person
alive. In short, charity must have its romance, as the novelist or
playwright must have his. A thief in fustian is a vulgar character,
scarcely to be thought of by persons of refinement; but dress him in
green velvet, with a high-crowned hat, and change the scene of his
operations, from a thickly-peopled city, to a mountain road, and you
shall find in him the very soul of poetry and adventure. So it is with
the one great cardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exercised,
leads to, if it does not necessarily include, all the others. It must
have its romance; and the less of real, hard, struggling work-a-day life
there is in that romance, the better.

The life to which poor Kate Nickleby was devoted, in consequence of the
unforeseen train of circumstances already developed in this narrative,
was a hard one; but lest the very dulness, unhealthy confinement, and
bodily fatigue, which made up its sum and substance, should deprive it
of any interest with the mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would
rather keep Miss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in
the outset, by a minute and lengthened description of the establishment
presided over by Madame Mantalini.

‘Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,’ said Miss Knag, as Kate was
taking her weary way homewards on the first night of her novitiate;
‘that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable young person--a very creditable
young person indeed--hem--upon my word, Madame Mantalini, it does very
extraordinary credit even to your discrimination that you should
have found such a very excellent, very well-behaved, very--hem--very
unassuming young woman to assist in the fitting on. I have seen some
young women when they had the opportunity of displaying before their
betters, behave in such a--oh, dear--well--but you’re always right,
Madame Mantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies,
how you do contrive to be always right, when so many people are so often
wrong, is to me a mystery indeed.’

‘Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has
not done anything very remarkable today--that I am aware of, at least,’
said Madame Mantalini in reply.

‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Knag; ‘but you must allow a great deal for
inexperience, you know.’

‘And youth?’ inquired Madame.

‘Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,’ replied Miss Knag,
reddening; ‘because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn’t have--’

‘Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,’ suggested Madame.

‘Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,’ rejoined
Miss Knag most complacently, ‘and that’s the fact, for you know what
one’s going to say, before it has time to rise to one’s lips. Oh, very
good! Ha, ha, ha!’

‘For myself,’ observed Madame Mantalini, glancing with affected
carelessness at her assistant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, ‘I
consider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I ever saw in my life.’

‘Poor dear thing,’ said Miss Knag, ‘it’s not her fault. If it was, we
might hope to cure it; but as it’s her misfortune, Madame Mantalini,
why really you know, as the man said about the blind horse, we ought to
respect it.’

‘Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,’ remarked Madame
Mantalini. ‘I think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever met with.’

‘Ordinary!’ cried Miss Knag with a countenance beaming delight; ‘and
awkward! Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that I quite love the
poor girl; and that if she was twice as indifferent-looking, and twice
as awkward as she is, I should be only so much the more her friend, and
that’s the truth of it.’

In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for Kate
Nickleby, after witnessing her failure that morning, and this short
conversation with her superior increased the favourable prepossession
to a most surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as when she
first scanned that young lady’s face and figure, she had entertained
certain inward misgivings that they would never agree.

‘But now,’ said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herself in a
mirror at no great distance, ‘I love her--I quite love her--I declare I
do!’

Of such a highly disinterested quality was this devoted friendship, and
so superior was it to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill-nature,
that the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidly informed Kate Nickleby, next
day, that she saw she would never do for the business, but that she need
not give herself the slightest uneasiness on this account, for that she
(Miss Knag), by increased exertions on her own part, would keep her as
much as possible in the background, and that all she would have to do,
would be to remain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink from
attracting notice by every means in her power. This last suggestion was
so much in accordance with the timid girl’s own feelings and wishes,
that she readily promised implicit reliance on the excellent spinster’s
advice: without questioning, or indeed bestowing a moment’s reflection
upon, the motives that dictated it.

‘I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon my word,’
said Miss Knag; ‘a sister’s interest, actually. It’s the most singular
circumstance I ever knew.’

Undoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a strong
interest in Kate Nickleby, it should not rather have been the interest
of a maiden aunt or grandmother; that being the conclusion to which the
difference in their respective ages would have naturally tended. But
Miss Knag wore clothes of a very youthful pattern, and perhaps her
feelings took the same shape.

‘Bless you!’ said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at the
conclusion of the second day’s work, ‘how very awkward you have been all
day.’

‘I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more
painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me,’ sighed
Kate.

‘No, no, I dare say not,’ rejoined Miss Knag, in a most uncommon flow of
good humour. ‘But how much better that you should know it at first,
and so be able to go on, straight and comfortable! Which way are you
walking, my love?’

‘Towards the city,’ replied Kate.

‘The city!’ cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favour in the
glass as she tied her bonnet. ‘Goodness gracious me! now do you really
live in the city?’

‘Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?’ asked Kate, half
smiling.

‘I couldn’t have believed it possible that any young woman could have
lived there, under any circumstances whatever, for three days together,’
replied Miss Knag.

‘Reduced--I should say poor people,’ answered Kate, correcting herself
hastily, for she was afraid of appearing proud, ‘must live where they
can.’

‘Ah! very true, so they must; very proper indeed!’ rejoined Miss Knag
with that sort of half-sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight
nods of the head, is pity’s small change in general society; ‘and that’s
what I very often tell my brother, when our servants go away ill, one
after another, and he thinks the back-kitchen’s rather too damp for
‘em to sleep in. These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to sleep
anywhere! Heaven suits the back to the burden. What a nice thing it is
to think that it should be so, isn’t it?’

‘Very,’ replied Kate.

‘I’ll walk with you part of the way, my dear,’ said Miss Knag, ‘for
you must go very near our house; and as it’s quite dark, and our last
servant went to the hospital a week ago, with St Anthony’s fire in her
face, I shall be glad of your company.’

Kate would willingly have excused herself from this flattering
companionship; but Miss Knag having adjusted her bonnet to her entire
satisfaction, took her arm with an air which plainly showed how much
she felt the compliment she was conferring, and they were in the street
before she could say another word.

‘I fear,’ said Kate, hesitating, ‘that mama--my mother, I mean--is
waiting for me.’

‘You needn’t make the least apology, my dear,’ said Miss Knag, smiling
sweetly as she spoke; ‘I dare say she is a very respectable old person,
and I shall be quite--hem--quite pleased to know her.’

As poor Mrs. Nickleby was cooling--not her heels alone, but her limbs
generally at the street corner, Kate had no alternative but to make
her known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last new carriage customer
at second-hand, acknowledged the introduction with condescending
politeness. The three then walked away, arm in arm: with Miss Knag in
the middle, in a special state of amiability.

‘I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs. Nickleby, you can’t
think,’ said Miss Knag, after she had proceeded a little distance in
dignified silence.

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘though it is nothing
new to me, that even strangers should like Kate.’

‘Hem!’ cried Miss Knag.

‘You will like her better when you know how good she is,’ said Mrs
Nickleby. ‘It is a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to have a
child, who knows neither pride nor vanity, and whose bringing-up might
very well have excused a little of both at first. You don’t know what it
is to lose a husband, Miss Knag.’

As Miss Knag had never yet known what it was to gain one, it followed,
very nearly as a matter of course, that she didn’t know what it was to
lose one; so she said, in some haste, ‘No, indeed I don’t,’ and said it
with an air intending to signify that she should like to catch herself
marrying anybody--no, no, she knew better than that.

‘Kate has improved even in this little time, I have no doubt,’ said Mrs
Nickleby, glancing proudly at her daughter.

‘Oh! of course,’ said Miss Knag.

‘And will improve still more,’ added Mrs. Nickleby.

‘That she will, I’ll be bound,’ replied Miss Knag, squeezing Kate’s arm
in her own, to point the joke.

‘She always was clever,’ said poor Mrs. Nickleby, brightening up,
‘always, from a baby. I recollect when she was only two years and a
half old, that a gentleman who used to visit very much at our house--Mr
Watkins, you know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went bail for,
who afterwards ran away to the United States, and sent us a pair of
snow shoes, with such an affectionate letter that it made your poor dear
father cry for a week. You remember the letter? In which he said that he
was very sorry he couldn’t repay the fifty pounds just then, because
his capital was all out at interest, and he was very busy making his
fortune, but that he didn’t forget you were his god-daughter, and he
should take it very unkind if we didn’t buy you a silver coral and put
it down to his old account? Dear me, yes, my dear, how stupid you are!
and spoke so affectionately of the old port wine that he used to drink a
bottle and a half of every time he came. You must remember, Kate?’

‘Yes, yes, mama; what of him?’

‘Why, that Mr. Watkins, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby slowly, as if she
were making a tremendous effort to recollect something of paramount
importance; ‘that Mr. Watkins--he wasn’t any relation, Miss Knag will
understand, to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the village;
by-the-bye, I don’t remember whether it was the Old Boar or the
George the Third, but it was one of the two, I know, and it’s much the
same--that Mr. Watkins said, when you were only two years and a half old,
that you were one of the most astonishing children he ever saw. He did
indeed, Miss Knag, and he wasn’t at all fond of children, and couldn’t
have had the slightest motive for doing it. I know it was he who said
so, because I recollect, as well as if it was only yesterday,
his borrowing twenty pounds of her poor dear papa the very moment
afterwards.’

Having quoted this extraordinary and most disinterested testimony to her
daughter’s excellence, Mrs. Nickleby stopped to breathe; and Miss Knag,
finding that the discourse was turning upon family greatness, lost no
time in striking in, with a small reminiscence on her own account.

‘Don’t talk of lending money, Mrs. Nickleby,’ said Miss Knag, ‘or you’ll
drive me crazy, perfectly crazy. My mama--hem--was the most lovely and
beautiful creature, with the most striking and exquisite--hem--the most
exquisite nose that ever was put upon a human face, I do believe, Mrs
Nickleby (here Miss Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically); the most
delightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she
had that one failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extent
that she lent--hem--oh! thousands of pounds, all our little fortunes,
and what’s more, Mrs. Nickleby, I don’t think, if we were to live
till--till--hem--till the very end of time, that we should ever get them
back again. I don’t indeed.’

After concluding this effort of invention without being interrupted,
Miss Knag fell into many more recollections, no less interesting than
true, the full tide of which, Mrs. Nickleby in vain attempting to stem,
at length sailed smoothly down by adding an under-current of her own
recollections; and so both ladies went on talking together in perfect
contentment; the only difference between them being, that whereas Miss
Knag addressed herself to Kate, and talked very loud, Mrs. Nickleby kept
on in one unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly satisfied to be talking
and caring very little whether anybody listened or not.

In this manner they walked on, very amicably, until they arrived at Miss
Knag’s brother’s, who was an ornamental stationer and small circulating
library keeper, in a by-street off Tottenham Court Road; and who let
out by the day, week, month, or year, the newest old novels, whereof
the titles were displayed in pen-and-ink characters on a sheet of
pasteboard, swinging at his door-post. As Miss Knag happened, at the
moment, to be in the middle of an account of her twenty-second offer
from a gentleman of large property, she insisted upon their all going in
to supper together; and in they went.

‘Don’t go away, Mortimer,’ said Miss Knag as they entered the shop.
‘It’s only one of our young ladies and her mother. Mrs. and Miss
Nickleby.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mr. Mortimer Knag. ‘Ah!’

Having given utterance to these ejaculations with a very profound
and thoughtful air, Mr. Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the
counter, and two more in the window, and then snuffed himself from a box
in his waistcoat pocket.

There was something very impressive in the ghostly air with which
all this was done; and as Mr. Knag was a tall lank gentleman of solemn
features, wearing spectacles, and garnished with much less hair than
a gentleman bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually boasts, Mrs
Nickleby whispered her daughter that she thought he must be literary.

‘Past ten,’ said Mr. Knag, consulting his watch. ‘Thomas, close the
warehouse.’

Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and the warehouse was
a shop about the size of three hackney coaches.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as he restored to its
parent shelf the book he had been reading. ‘Well--yes--I believe supper
is ready, sister.’

With another sigh Mr. Knag took up the kitchen candles from the counter,
and preceded the ladies with mournful steps to a back-parlour, where a
charwoman, employed in the absence of the sick servant, and remunerated
with certain eighteenpences to be deducted from her wages due, was
putting the supper out.

‘Mrs. Blockson,’ said Miss Knag, reproachfully, ‘how very often I have
begged you not to come into the room with your bonnet on!’

‘I can’t help it, Miss Knag,’ said the charwoman, bridling up on the
shortest notice. ‘There’s been a deal o’cleaning to do in this house,
and if you don’t like it, I must trouble you to look out for somebody
else, for it don’t hardly pay me, and that’s the truth, if I was to be
hung this minute.’

‘I don’t want any remarks if YOU please,’ said Miss Knag, with a strong
emphasis on the personal pronoun. ‘Is there any fire downstairs for some
hot water presently?’

‘No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,’ replied the substitute; ‘and so I
won’t tell you no stories about it.’

‘Then why isn’t there?’ said Miss Knag.

‘Because there arn’t no coals left out, and if I could make coals I
would, but as I can’t I won’t, and so I make bold to tell you, Mem,’
replied Mrs. Blockson.

‘Will you hold your tongue--female?’ said Mr. Mortimer Knag, plunging
violently into this dialogue.

‘By your leave, Mr. Knag,’ retorted the charwoman, turning sharp round.
‘I’m only too glad not to speak in this house, excepting when and where
I’m spoke to, sir; and with regard to being a female, sir, I should wish
to know what you considered yourself?’

‘A miserable wretch,’ exclaimed Mr. Knag, striking his forehead. ‘A
miserable wretch.’

‘I’m very glad to find that you don’t call yourself out of your name,
sir,’ said Mrs. Blockson; ‘and as I had two twin children the day before
yesterday was only seven weeks, and my little Charley fell down a airy
and put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it as a favour if
you’ll send nine shillings, for one week’s work, to my house, afore the
clock strikes ten tomorrow.’

With these parting words, the good woman quitted the room with great
ease of manner, leaving the door wide open; Mr. Knag, at the same moment,
flung himself into the ‘warehouse,’ and groaned aloud.

‘What is the matter with that gentleman, pray?’ inquired Mrs. Nickleby,
greatly disturbed by the sound.

‘Is he ill?’ inquired Kate, really alarmed.

‘Hush!’ replied Miss Knag; ‘a most melancholy history. He was once most
devotedly attached to--hem--to Madame Mantalini.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Yes,’ continued Miss Knag, ‘and received great encouragement too,
and confidently hoped to marry her. He has a most romantic heart,
Mrs. Nickleby, as indeed--hem--as indeed all our family have, and the
disappointment was a dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully accomplished
man--most extraordinarily accomplished--reads--hem--reads every novel
that comes out; I mean every novel that--hem--that has any fashion in
it, of course. The fact is, that he did find so much in the books he
read, applicable to his own misfortunes, and did find himself in every
respect so much like the heroes--because of course he is conscious of
his own superiority, as we all are, and very naturally--that he took to
scorning everything, and became a genius; and I am quite sure that he
is, at this very present moment, writing another book.’

‘Another book!’ repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left for
somebody to say something.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Knag, nodding in great triumph; ‘another book, in three
volumes post octavo. Of course it’s a great advantage to him, in all his
little fashionable descriptions, to have the benefit of my--hem--of my
experience, because, of course, few authors who write about such things
can have such opportunities of knowing them as I have. He’s so wrapped
up in high life, that the least allusion to business or worldly
matters--like that woman just now, for instance--quite distracts him;
but, as I often say, I think his disappointment a great thing for him,
because if he hadn’t been disappointed he couldn’t have written about
blighted hopes and all that; and the fact is, if it hadn’t happened as
it has, I don’t believe his genius would ever have come out at all.’

How much more communicative Miss Knag might have become under more
favourable circumstances, it is impossible to divine, but as the gloomy
one was within ear-shot, and the fire wanted making up, her disclosures
stopped here. To judge from all appearances, and the difficulty of
making the water warm, the last servant could not have been much
accustomed to any other fire than St Anthony’s; but a little brandy and
water was made at last, and the guests, having been previously regaled
with cold leg of mutton and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took
leave; Kate amusing herself, all the way home, with the recollection of
her last glimpse of Mr. Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; and
Mrs. Nickleby by debating within herself whether the dressmaking firm
would ultimately become ‘Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby’, or ‘Mantalini,
Nickleby, and Knag’.

At this high point, Miss Knag’s friendship remained for three whole
days, much to the wonderment of Madame Mantalini’s young ladies who had
never beheld such constancy in that quarter, before; but on the fourth,
it received a check no less violent than sudden, which thus occurred.

It happened that an old lord of great family, who was going to marry a
young lady of no family in particular, came with the young lady, and the
young lady’s sister, to witness the ceremony of trying on two nuptial
bonnets which had been ordered the day before, and Madame Mantalini
announcing the fact, in a shrill treble, through the speaking-pipe,
which communicated with the workroom, Miss Knag darted hastily upstairs
with a bonnet in each hand, and presented herself in the show-room, in a
charming state of palpitation, intended to demonstrate her enthusiasm
in the cause. The bonnets were no sooner fairly on, than Miss Knag and
Madame Mantalini fell into convulsions of admiration.

‘A most elegant appearance,’ said Madame Mantalini.

‘I never saw anything so exquisite in all my life,’ said Miss Knag.

Now, the old lord, who was a VERY old lord, said nothing, but mumbled
and chuckled in a state of great delight, no less with the nuptial
bonnets and their wearers, than with his own address in getting such a
fine woman for his wife; and the young lady, who was a very lively young
lady, seeing the old lord in this rapturous condition, chased the old
lord behind a cheval-glass, and then and there kissed him, while Madame
Mantalini and the other young lady looked, discreetly, another way.

But, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who was tinged with curiosity,
stepped accidentally behind the glass, and encountered the lively young
lady’s eye just at the very moment when she kissed the old lord; upon
which the young lady, in a pouting manner, murmured something about ‘an
old thing,’ and ‘great impertinence,’ and finished by darting a look of
displeasure at Miss Knag, and smiling contemptuously.

‘Madame Mantalini,’ said the young lady.

‘Ma’am,’ said Madame Mantalini.

‘Pray have up that pretty young creature we saw yesterday.’

‘Oh yes, do,’ said the sister.

‘Of all things in the world, Madame Mantalini,’ said the lord’s
intended, throwing herself languidly on a sofa, ‘I hate being waited
upon by frights or elderly persons. Let me always see that young
creature, I beg, whenever I come.’

‘By all means,’ said the old lord; ‘the lovely young creature, by all
means.’

‘Everybody is talking about her,’ said the young lady, in the same
careless manner; ‘and my lord, being a great admirer of beauty, must
positively see her.’

‘She IS universally admired,’ replied Madame Mantalini. ‘Miss Knag, send
up Miss Nickleby. You needn’t return.’

‘I beg your pardon, Madame Mantalini, what did you say last?’ asked Miss
Knag, trembling.

‘You needn’t return,’ repeated the superior, sharply. Miss Knag vanished
without another word, and in all reasonable time was replaced by Kate,
who took off the new bonnets and put on the old ones: blushing very much
to find that the old lord and the two young ladies were staring her out
of countenance all the time.

‘Why, how you colour, child!’ said the lord’s chosen bride.

‘She is not quite so accustomed to her business, as she will be in a
week or two,’ interposed Madame Mantalini with a gracious smile.

‘I am afraid you have been giving her some of your wicked looks, my
lord,’ said the intended.

‘No, no, no,’ replied the old lord, ‘no, no, I’m going to be married,
and lead a new life. Ha, ha, ha! a new life, a new life! ha, ha, ha!’

It was a satisfactory thing to hear that the old gentleman was going to
lead a new life, for it was pretty evident that his old one would not
last him much longer. The mere exertion of protracted chuckling reduced
him to a fearful ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some minutes
before he could find breath to remark that the girl was too pretty for a
milliner.

‘I hope you don’t think good looks a disqualification for the business,
my lord,’ said Madame Mantalini, simpering.

‘Not by any means,’ replied the old lord, ‘or you would have left it
long ago.’

‘You naughty creature,’ said the lively lady, poking the peer with her
parasol; ‘I won’t have you talk so. How dare you?’

This playful inquiry was accompanied with another poke, and another,
and then the old lord caught the parasol, and wouldn’t give it up again,
which induced the other lady to come to the rescue, and some very pretty
sportiveness ensued.

‘You will see that those little alterations are made, Madame Mantalini,’
said the lady. ‘Nay, you bad man, you positively shall go first; I
wouldn’t leave you behind with that pretty girl, not for half a second.
I know you too well. Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall be
quite sure of him.’

The old lord, evidently much flattered by this suspicion, bestowed a
grotesque leer upon Kate as he passed; and, receiving another tap with
the parasol for his wickedness, tottered downstairs to the door, where
his sprightly body was hoisted into the carriage by two stout footmen.

‘Foh!’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘how he ever gets into a carriage without
thinking of a hearse, I can’t think. There, take the things away, my
dear, take them away.’

Kate, who had remained during the whole scene with her eyes modestly
fixed upon the ground, was only too happy to avail herself of the
permission to retire, and hasten joyfully downstairs to Miss Knag’s
dominion.

The circumstances of the little kingdom had greatly changed, however,
during the short period of her absence. In place of Miss Knag being
stationed in her accustomed seat, preserving all the dignity and
greatness of Madame Mantalini’s representative, that worthy soul was
reposing on a large box, bathed in tears, while three or four of the
young ladies in close attendance upon her, together with the presence
of hartshorn, vinegar, and other restoratives, would have borne ample
testimony, even without the derangement of the head-dress and front row
of curls, to her having fainted desperately.

‘Bless me!’ said Kate, stepping hastily forward, ‘what is the matter?’

This inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent symptoms of a relapse; and
several young ladies, darting angry looks at Kate, applied more vinegar
and hartshorn, and said it was ‘a shame.’

‘What is a shame?’ demanded Kate. ‘What is the matter? What has
happened? tell me.’

‘Matter!’ cried Miss Knag, coming, all at once, bolt upright, to the
great consternation of the assembled maidens; ‘matter! Fie upon you, you
nasty creature!’

‘Gracious!’ cried Kate, almost paralysed by the violence with which the
adjective had been jerked out from between Miss Knag’s closed teeth;
‘have I offended you?’

‘YOU offended me!’ retorted Miss Knag, ‘YOU! a chit, a child, an upstart
nobody! Oh, indeed! Ha, ha!’

Now, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed, that something struck her as
being exceedingly funny; and as the young ladies took their tone from
Miss Knag--she being the chief--they all got up a laugh without
a moment’s delay, and nodded their heads a little, and smiled
sarcastically to each other, as much as to say how very good that was!

‘Here she is,’ continued Miss Knag, getting off the box, and introducing
Kate with much ceremony and many low curtseys to the delighted throng;
‘here she is--everybody is talking about her--the belle, ladies--the
beauty, the--oh, you bold-faced thing!’

At this crisis, Miss Knag was unable to repress a virtuous shudder,
which immediately communicated itself to all the young ladies; after
which, Miss Knag laughed, and after that, cried.

‘For fifteen years,’ exclaimed Miss Knag, sobbing in a most affecting
manner, ‘for fifteen years have I been the credit and ornament of this
room and the one upstairs. Thank God,’ said Miss Knag, stamping first
her right foot and then her left with remarkable energy, ‘I have never
in all that time, till now, been exposed to the arts, the vile arts, of
a creature, who disgraces us with all her proceedings, and makes proper
people blush for themselves. But I feel it, I do feel it, although I am
disgusted.’

Miss Knag here relapsed into softness, and the young ladies renewing
their attentions, murmured that she ought to be superior to such things,
and that for their part they despised them, and considered them beneath
their notice; in witness whereof, they called out, more emphatically
than before, that it was a shame, and that they felt so angry, they did,
they hardly knew what to do with themselves.

‘Have I lived to this day to be called a fright!’ cried Miss Knag,
suddenly becoming convulsive, and making an effort to tear her front
off.

‘Oh no, no,’ replied the chorus, ‘pray don’t say so; don’t now!’

‘Have I deserved to be called an elderly person?’ screamed Miss Knag,
wrestling with the supernumeraries.

‘Don’t think of such things, dear,’ answered the chorus.

‘I hate her,’ cried Miss Knag; ‘I detest and hate her. Never let her
speak to me again; never let anybody who is a friend of mine speak to
her; a slut, a hussy, an impudent artful hussy!’ Having denounced the
object of her wrath, in these terms, Miss Knag screamed once, hiccuped
thrice, gurgled in her throat several times, slumbered, shivered, woke,
came to, composed her head-dress, and declared herself quite well again.

Poor Kate had regarded these proceedings, at first, in perfect
bewilderment. She had then turned red and pale by turns, and once
or twice essayed to speak; but, as the true motives of this altered
behaviour developed themselves, she retired a few paces, and looked
calmly on without deigning a reply. Nevertheless, although she walked
proudly to her seat, and turned her back upon the group of little
satellites who clustered round their ruling planet in the remotest
corner of the room, she gave way, in secret, to some such bitter tears
as would have gladdened Miss Knag’s inmost soul, if she could have seen
them fall.



CHAPTER 19

Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr. Ralph Nickleby’s, and of the Manner in
which the Company entertained themselves, before Dinner, at Dinner, and
after Dinner.


The bile and rancour of the worthy Miss Knag undergoing no diminution
during the remainder of the week, but rather augmenting with every
successive hour; and the honest ire of all the young ladies rising, or
seeming to rise, in exact proportion to the good spinster’s indignation,
and both waxing very hot every time Miss Nickleby was called upstairs;
it will be readily imagined that that young lady’s daily life was
none of the most cheerful or enviable kind. She hailed the arrival of
Saturday night, as a prisoner would a few delicious hours’ respite from
slow and wearing torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her first
week’s labour would have been dearly and hardly earned, had its amount
been trebled.

When she joined her mother, as usual, at the street corner, she was not
a little surprised to find her in conversation with Mr. Ralph Nickleby;
but her surprise was soon redoubled, no less by the matter of their
conversation, than by the smoothed and altered manner of Mr. Nickleby
himself.

‘Ah! my dear!’ said Ralph; ‘we were at that moment talking about you.’

‘Indeed!’ replied Kate, shrinking, though she scarce knew why, from her
uncle’s cold glistening eye.

‘That instant,’ said Ralph. ‘I was coming to call for you, making sure
to catch you before you left; but your mother and I have been talking
over family affairs, and the time has slipped away so rapidly--’

‘Well, now, hasn’t it?’ interposed Mrs. Nickleby, quite insensible to the
sarcastic tone of Ralph’s last remark. ‘Upon my word, I couldn’t have
believed it possible, that such a--Kate, my dear, you’re to dine with
your uncle at half-past six o’clock tomorrow.’

Triumphing in having been the first to communicate this extraordinary
intelligence, Mrs. Nickleby nodded and smiled a great many times, to
impress its full magnificence on Kate’s wondering mind, and then flew
off, at an acute angle, to a committee of ways and means.

‘Let me see,’ said the good lady. ‘Your black silk frock will be quite
dress enough, my dear, with that pretty little scarf, and a plain band
in your hair, and a pair of black silk stock--Dear, dear,’ cried Mrs
Nickleby, flying off at another angle, ‘if I had but those unfortunate
amethysts of mine--you recollect them, Kate, my love--how they used to
sparkle, you know--but your papa, your poor dear papa--ah! there
never was anything so cruelly sacrificed as those jewels were, never!’
Overpowered by this agonising thought, Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, in a
melancholy manner, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

I don’t want them, mama, indeed,’ said Kate. ‘Forget that you ever had
them.’

‘Lord, Kate, my dear,’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby, pettishly, ‘how like a
child you talk! Four-and-twenty silver tea-spoons, brother-in-law,
two gravies, four salts, all the amethysts--necklace, brooch, and
ear-rings--all made away with, at the same time, and I saying, almost
on my bended knees, to that poor good soul, “Why don’t you do something,
Nicholas? Why don’t you make some arrangement?” I am sure that anybody
who was about us at that time, will do me the justice to own, that if
I said that once, I said it fifty times a day. Didn’t I, Kate, my dear?
Did I ever lose an opportunity of impressing it on your poor papa?’

‘No, no, mama, never,’ replied Kate. And to do Mrs. Nickleby justice, she
never had lost--and to do married ladies as a body justice, they seldom
do lose--any occasion of inculcating similar golden percepts, whose only
blemish is, the slight degree of vagueness and uncertainty in which they
are usually enveloped.

‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with great fervour, ‘if my advice had been
taken at the beginning--Well, I have always done MY duty, and that’s
some comfort.’

When she had arrived at this reflection, Mrs. Nickleby sighed, rubbed her
hands, cast up her eyes, and finally assumed a look of meek composure;
thus importing that she was a persecuted saint, but that she wouldn’t
trouble her hearers by mentioning a circumstance which must be so
obvious to everybody.

‘Now,’ said Ralph, with a smile, which, in common with all other tokens
of emotion, seemed to skulk under his face, rather than play boldly over
it--‘to return to the point from which we have strayed. I have a little
party of--of--gentlemen with whom I am connected in business just now,
at my house tomorrow; and your mother has promised that you shall
keep house for me. I am not much used to parties; but this is one of
business, and such fooleries are an important part of it sometimes. You
don’t mind obliging me?’

‘Mind!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘My dear Kate, why--’

‘Pray,’ interrupted Ralph, motioning her to be silent. ‘I spoke to my
niece.’

‘I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,’ replied Kate; ‘but I am afraid
you will find me awkward and embarrassed.’

‘Oh no,’ said Ralph; ‘come when you like, in a hackney coach--I’ll pay
for it. Good-night--a--a--God bless you.’

The blessing seemed to stick in Mr. Ralph Nickleby’s throat, as if it
were not used to the thoroughfare, and didn’t know the way out. But it
got out somehow, though awkwardly enough; and having disposed of it, he
shook hands with his two relatives, and abruptly left them.

‘What a very strongly marked countenance your uncle has!’ said Mrs
Nickleby, quite struck with his parting look. ‘I don’t see the slightest
resemblance to his poor brother.’

‘Mama!’ said Kate reprovingly. ‘To think of such a thing!’

‘No,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, musing. ‘There certainly is none. But it’s a
very honest face.’

The worthy matron made this remark with great emphasis and elocution,
as if it comprised no small quantity of ingenuity and research; and,
in truth, it was not unworthy of being classed among the extraordinary
discoveries of the age. Kate looked up hastily, and as hastily looked
down again.

‘What has come over you, my dear, in the name of goodness?’ asked Mrs
Nickleby, when they had walked on, for some time, in silence.

‘I was only thinking, mama,’ answered Kate.

‘Thinking!’ repeated Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Ay, and indeed plenty to think
about, too. Your uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that’s quite
clear; and if some extraordinary good fortune doesn’t come to you, after
this, I shall be a little surprised, that’s all.’

With this she launched out into sundry anecdotes of young ladies, who
had had thousand-pound notes given them in reticules, by eccentric
uncles; and of young ladies who had accidentally met amiable gentlemen
of enormous wealth at their uncles’ houses, and married them, after
short but ardent courtships; and Kate, listening first in apathy, and
afterwards in amusement, felt, as they walked home, something of her
mother’s sanguine complexion gradually awakening in her own bosom, and
began to think that her prospects might be brightening, and that better
days might be dawning upon them. Such is hope, Heaven’s own gift to
struggling mortals; pervading, like some subtle essence from the
skies, all things, both good and bad; as universal as death, and more
infectious than disease!

The feeble winter’s sun--and winter’s suns in the city are very feeble
indeed--might have brightened up, as he shone through the dim windows
of the large old house, on witnessing the unusual sight which one
half-furnished room displayed. In a gloomy corner, where, for years, had
stood a silent dusty pile of merchandise, sheltering its colony of mice,
and frowning, a dull and lifeless mass, upon the panelled room, save
when, responding to the roll of heavy waggons in the street without,
it quaked with sturdy tremblings and caused the bright eyes of its tiny
citizens to grow brighter still with fear, and struck them motionless,
with attentive ear and palpitating heart, until the alarm had passed
away--in this dark corner, was arranged, with scrupulous care, all
Kate’s little finery for the day; each article of dress partaking of
that indescribable air of jauntiness and individuality which empty
garments--whether by association, or that they become moulded, as
it were, to the owner’s form--will take, in eyes accustomed to, or
picturing, the wearer’s smartness. In place of a bale of musty goods,
there lay the black silk dress: the neatest possible figure in itself.
The small shoes, with toes delicately turned out, stood upon the very
pressure of some old iron weight; and a pile of harsh discoloured
leather had unconsciously given place to the very same little pair
of black silk stockings, which had been the objects of Mrs. Nickleby’s
peculiar care. Rats and mice, and such small gear, had long ago been
starved, or had emigrated to better quarters: and, in their stead,
appeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hair-pins, and many other little
devices, almost as ingenious in their way as rats and mice themselves,
for the tantalisation of mankind. About and among them all, moved Kate
herself, not the least beautiful or unwonted relief to the stern, old,
gloomy building.

In good time, or in bad time, as the reader likes to take it--for Mrs
Nickleby’s impatience went a great deal faster than the clocks at that
end of the town, and Kate was dressed to the very last hair-pin a full
hour and a half before it was at all necessary to begin to think about
it--in good time, or in bad time, the toilet was completed; and it being
at length the hour agreed upon for starting, the milkman fetched a coach
from the nearest stand, and Kate, with many adieux to her mother, and
many kind messages to Miss La Creevy, who was to come to tea, seated
herself in it, and went away in state, if ever anybody went away in
state in a hackney coach yet. And the coach, and the coachman, and the
horses, rattled, and jangled, and whipped, and cursed, and swore, and
tumbled on together, until they came to Golden Square.

The coachman gave a tremendous double knock at the door, which was
opened long before he had done, as quickly as if there had been a man
behind it, with his hand tied to the latch. Kate, who had expected no
more uncommon appearance than Newman Noggs in a clean shirt, was not a
little astonished to see that the opener was a man in handsome livery,
and that there were two or three others in the hall. There was no doubt
about its being the right house, however, for there was the name upon
the door; so she accepted the laced coat-sleeve which was tendered her,
and entering the house, was ushered upstairs, into a back drawing-room,
where she was left alone.

If she had been surprised at the apparition of the footman, she was
perfectly absorbed in amazement at the richness and splendour of the
furniture. The softest and most elegant carpets, the most exquisite
pictures, the costliest mirrors; articles of richest ornament, quite
dazzling from their beauty and perplexing from the prodigality with
which they were scattered around; encountered her on every side. The
very staircase nearly down to the hall-door, was crammed with beautiful
and luxurious things, as though the house were brimful of riches, which,
with a very trifling addition, would fairly run over into the street.

Presently, she heard a series of loud double knocks at the street-door,
and after every knock some new voice in the next room; the tones of Mr
Ralph Nickleby were easily distinguishable at first, but by degrees
they merged into the general buzz of conversation, and all she could
ascertain was, that there were several gentlemen with no very musical
voices, who talked very loud, laughed very heartily, and swore more
than she would have thought quite necessary. But this was a question of
taste.

At length, the door opened, and Ralph himself, divested of his boots,
and ceremoniously embellished with black silks and shoes, presented his
crafty face.

‘I couldn’t see you before, my dear,’ he said, in a low tone, and
pointing, as he spoke, to the next room. ‘I was engaged in receiving
them. Now--shall I take you in?’

‘Pray, uncle,’ said Kate, a little flurried, as people much more
conversant with society often are, when they are about to enter a room
full of strangers, and have had time to think of it previously, ‘are
there any ladies here?’

‘No,’ said Ralph, shortly, ‘I don’t know any.’

‘Must I go in immediately?’ asked Kate, drawing back a little.

‘As you please,’ said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders. ‘They are all
come, and dinner will be announced directly afterwards--that’s all.’

Kate would have entreated a few minutes’ respite, but reflecting that
her uncle might consider the payment of the hackney-coach fare a sort
of bargain for her punctuality, she suffered him to draw her arm through
his, and to lead her away.

Seven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire when they went in,
and, as they were talking very loud, were not aware of their entrance
until Mr. Ralph Nickleby, touching one on the coat-sleeve, said in a
harsh emphatic voice, as if to attract general attention--

‘Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.’

The group dispersed, as if in great surprise, and the gentleman
addressed, turning round, exhibited a suit of clothes of the most
superlative cut, a pair of whiskers of similar quality, a moustache, a
head of hair, and a young face.

‘Eh!’ said the gentleman. ‘What--the--deyvle!’

With which broken ejaculations, he fixed his glass in his eye, and
stared at Miss Nickleby in great surprise.

‘My niece, my lord,’ said Ralph.

‘Then my ears did not deceive me, and it’s not wa-a-x work,’ said his
lordship. ‘How de do? I’m very happy.’ And then his lordship turned
to another superlative gentleman, something older, something stouter,
something redder in the face, and something longer upon town, and said
in a loud whisper that the girl was ‘deyvlish pitty.’

‘Introduce me, Nickleby,’ said this second gentleman, who was lounging
with his back to the fire, and both elbows on the chimneypiece.

‘Sir Mulberry Hawk,’ said Ralph.

‘Otherwise the most knowing card in the pa-ack, Miss Nickleby,’ said
Lord Frederick Verisopht.

‘Don’t leave me out, Nickleby,’ cried a sharp-faced gentleman, who was
sitting on a low chair with a high back, reading the paper.

‘Mr. Pyke,’ said Ralph.

‘Nor me, Nickleby,’ cried a gentleman with a flushed face and a flash
air, from the elbow of Sir Mulberry Hawk.

‘Mr. Pluck,’ said Ralph. Then wheeling about again, towards a gentleman
with the neck of a stork and the legs of no animal in particular, Ralph
introduced him as the Honourable Mr. Snobb; and a white-headed person
at the table as Colonel Chowser. The colonel was in conversation with
somebody, who appeared to be a make-weight, and was not introduced at
all.

There were two circumstances which, in this early stage of the party,
struck home to Kate’s bosom, and brought the blood tingling to her face.
One was the flippant contempt with which the guests evidently regarded
her uncle, and the other, the easy insolence of their manner towards
herself. That the first symptom was very likely to lead to the
aggravation of the second, it needed no great penetration to foresee.
And here Mr. Ralph Nickleby had reckoned without his host; for however
fresh from the country a young lady (by nature) may be, and however
unacquainted with conventional behaviour, the chances are, that she will
have quite as strong an innate sense of the decencies and proprieties of
life as if she had run the gauntlet of a dozen London seasons--possibly
a stronger one, for such senses have been known to blunt in this
improving process.

When Ralph had completed the ceremonial of introduction, he led his
blushing niece to a seat. As he did so, he glanced warily round as
though to assure himself of the impression which her unlooked-for
appearance had created.

‘An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,’ said Lord Frederick Verisopht,
taking his glass out of his right eye, where it had, until now, done
duty on Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring it to bear on Ralph.

‘Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,’ said Mr. Pluck.

‘Not a bad idea,’ said his lordship, ‘and one that would almost warrant
the addition of an extra two and a half per cent.’

‘Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk, in a thick coarse voice, ‘take the
hint, and tack it on the other five-and-twenty, or whatever it is, and
give me half for the advice.’

Sir Mulberry garnished this speech with a hoarse laugh, and terminated
it with a pleasant oath regarding Mr. Nickleby’s limbs, whereat Messrs
Pyke and Pluck laughed consumedly.

These gentlemen had not yet quite recovered the jest, when dinner was
announced, and then they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar
cause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an excess of humour, shot dexterously
past Lord Frederick Verisopht who was about to lead Kate downstairs, and
drew her arm through his up to the elbow.

‘No, damn it, Verisopht,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘fair play’s a jewel, and
Miss Nickleby and I settled the matter with our eyes ten minutes ago.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the honourable Mr. Snobb, ‘very good, very good.’

Rendered additionally witty by this applause, Sir Mulberry Hawk leered
upon his friends most facetiously, and led Kate downstairs with an
air of familiarity, which roused in her gentle breast such burning
indignation, as she felt it almost impossible to repress. Nor was the
intensity of these feelings at all diminished, when she found herself
placed at the top of the table, with Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord
Frederick Verisopht on either side.

‘Oh, you’ve found your way into our neighbourhood, have you?’ said Sir
Mulberry as his lordship sat down.

‘Of course,’ replied Lord Frederick, fixing his eyes on Miss Nickleby,
‘how can you a-ask me?’

‘Well, you attend to your dinner,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘and don’t mind
Miss Nickleby and me, for we shall prove very indifferent company, I
dare say.’

‘I wish you’d interfere here, Nickleby,’ said Lord Frederick.

‘What is the matter, my lord?’ demanded Ralph from the bottom of the
table, where he was supported by Messrs Pyke and Pluck.

‘This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your niece,’ said Lord Frederick.

‘He has a tolerable share of everything that you lay claim to, my lord,’
said Ralph with a sneer.

‘’Gad, so he has,’ replied the young man; ‘deyvle take me if I know
which is master in my house, he or I.’

‘I know,’ muttered Ralph.

‘I think I shall cut him off with a shilling,’ said the young nobleman,
jocosely.

‘No, no, curse it,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘When you come to the
shilling--the last shilling--I’ll cut you fast enough; but till then,
I’ll never leave you--you may take your oath of it.’

This sally (which was strictly founded on fact) was received with a
general roar, above which, was plainly distinguishable the laughter
of Mr. Pyke and Mr. Pluck, who were, evidently, Sir Mulberry’s toads in
ordinary. Indeed, it was not difficult to see, that the majority of the
company preyed upon the unfortunate young lord, who, weak and silly as
he was, appeared by far the least vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry
Hawk was remarkable for his tact in ruining, by himself and his
creatures, young gentlemen of fortune--a genteel and elegant profession,
of which he had undoubtedly gained the head. With all the boldness of an
original genius, he had struck out an entirely new course of treatment
quite opposed to the usual method; his custom being, when he had gained
the ascendancy over those he took in hand, rather to keep them down
than to give them their own way; and to exercise his vivacity upon
them openly, and without reserve. Thus, he made them butts, in a double
sense, and while he emptied them with great address, caused them to ring
with sundry well-administered taps, for the diversion of society.

The dinner was as remarkable for the splendour and completeness of its
appointments as the mansion itself, and the company were remarkable
for doing it ample justice, in which respect Messrs Pyke and Pluck
particularly signalised themselves; these two gentlemen eating of every
dish, and drinking of every bottle, with a capacity and perseverance
truly astonishing. They were remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding
their great exertions: for, on the appearance of the dessert, they broke
out again, as if nothing serious had taken place since breakfast.

‘Well,’ said Lord Frederick, sipping his first glass of port, ‘if this
is a discounting dinner, all I have to say is, deyvle take me, if it
wouldn’t be a good pla-an to get discount every day.’

‘You’ll have plenty of it, in your time,’ returned Sir Mulberry Hawk;
‘Nickleby will tell you that.’

‘What do you say, Nickleby?’ inquired the young man; ‘am I to be a good
customer?’

‘It depends entirely on circumstances, my lord,’ replied Ralph.

‘On your lordship’s circumstances,’ interposed Colonel Chowser of the
Militia--and the race-courses.

The gallant colonel glanced at Messrs Pyke and Pluck as if he thought
they ought to laugh at his joke; but those gentlemen, being only engaged
to laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk, were, to his signal discomfiture, as
grave as a pair of undertakers. To add to his defeat, Sir Mulberry,
considering any such efforts an invasion of his peculiar privilege,
eyed the offender steadily, through his glass, as if astonished at his
presumption, and audibly stated his impression that it was an ‘infernal
liberty,’ which being a hint to Lord Frederick, he put up HIS glass,
and surveyed the object of censure as if he were some extraordinary wild
animal then exhibiting for the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs
Pyke and Pluck stared at the individual whom Sir Mulberry Hawk stared
at; so, the poor colonel, to hide his confusion, was reduced to the
necessity of holding his port before his right eye and affecting to
scrutinise its colour with the most lively interest.

All this while, Kate had sat as silently as she could, scarcely daring
to raise her eyes, lest they should encounter the admiring gaze of Lord
Frederick Verisopht, or, what was still more embarrassing, the bold
looks of his friend Sir Mulberry. The latter gentleman was obliging
enough to direct general attention towards her.

‘Here is Miss Nickleby,’ observed Sir Mulberry, ‘wondering why the deuce
somebody doesn’t make love to her.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Kate, looking hastily up, ‘I--’ and then she stopped,
feeling it would have been better to have said nothing at all.

‘I’ll hold any man fifty pounds,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘that Miss Nickleby
can’t look in my face, and tell me she wasn’t thinking so.’

‘Done!’ cried the noble gull. ‘Within ten minutes.’

‘Done!’ responded Sir Mulberry. The money was produced on both sides,
and the Honourable Mr. Snobb was elected to the double office of
stake-holder and time-keeper.

‘Pray,’ said Kate, in great confusion, while these preliminaries were
in course of completion. ‘Pray do not make me the subject of any bets.
Uncle, I cannot really--’

‘Why not, my dear?’ replied Ralph, in whose grating voice, however,
there was an unusual huskiness, as though he spoke unwillingly, and
would rather that the proposition had not been broached. ‘It is done in
a moment; there is nothing in it. If the gentlemen insist on it--’

‘I don’t insist on it,’ said Sir Mulberry, with a loud laugh. ‘That is,
I by no means insist upon Miss Nickleby’s making the denial, for if she
does, I lose; but I shall be glad to see her bright eyes, especially as
she favours the mahogany so much.’

‘So she does, and it’s too ba-a-d of you, Miss Nickleby,’ said the noble
youth.

‘Quite cruel,’ said Mr. Pyke.

‘Horrid cruel,’ said Mr. Pluck.

‘I don’t care if I do lose,’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘for one tolerable look
at Miss Nickleby’s eyes is worth double the money.’

‘More,’ said Mr. Pyke.

‘Far more,’ said Mr. Pluck.

‘How goes the enemy, Snobb?’ asked Sir Mulberry Hawk.

‘Four minutes gone.’

‘Bravo!’

‘Won’t you ma-ake one effort for me, Miss Nickleby?’ asked Lord
Frederick, after a short interval.

‘You needn’t trouble yourself to inquire, my buck,’ said Sir Mulberry;
‘Miss Nickleby and I understand each other; she declares on my side, and
shows her taste. You haven’t a chance, old fellow. Time, Snobb?’

‘Eight minutes gone.’

‘Get the money ready,’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘you’ll soon hand over.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Pyke.

Mr. Pluck, who always came second, and topped his companion if he could,
screamed outright.

The poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with confusion that she scarcely
knew what she did, had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but fearing
that by so doing she might seem to countenance Sir Mulberry’s boast,
which had been uttered with great coarseness and vulgarity of manner,
raised her eyes, and looked him in the face. There was something so
odious, so insolent, so repulsive in the look which met her, that,
without the power to stammer forth a syllable, she rose and hurried from
the room. She restrained her tears by a great effort until she was alone
upstairs, and then gave them vent.

‘Capital!’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk, putting the stakes in his pocket.

‘That’s a girl of spirit, and we’ll drink her health.’

It is needless to say, that Pyke and Co. responded, with great warmth of
manner, to this proposal, or that the toast was drunk with many
little insinuations from the firm, relative to the completeness of Sir
Mulberry’s conquest. Ralph, who, while the attention of the other guests
was attracted to the principals in the preceding scene, had eyed them
like a wolf, appeared to breathe more freely now his niece was gone; the
decanters passing quickly round, he leaned back in his chair, and turned
his eyes from speaker to speaker, as they warmed with wine, with looks
that seemed to search their hearts, and lay bare, for his distempered
sport, every idle thought within them.

Meanwhile Kate, left wholly to herself, had, in some degree, recovered
her composure. She had learnt from a female attendant, that her uncle
wished to see her before she left, and had also gleaned the satisfactory
intelligence, that the gentlemen would take coffee at table. The
prospect of seeing them no more, contributed greatly to calm her
agitation, and, taking up a book, she composed herself to read.

She started sometimes, when the sudden opening of the dining-room door
let loose a wild shout of noisy revelry, and more than once rose in
great alarm, as a fancied footstep on the staircase impressed her
with the fear that some stray member of the party was returning
alone. Nothing occurring, however, to realise her apprehensions, she
endeavoured to fix her attention more closely on her book, in which
by degrees she became so much interested, that she had read on through
several chapters without heed of time or place, when she was terrified
by suddenly hearing her name pronounced by a man’s voice close at her
ear.

The book fell from her hand. Lounging on an ottoman close beside her,
was Sir Mulberry Hawk, evidently the worse--if a man be a ruffian at
heart, he is never the better--for wine.

‘What a delightful studiousness!’ said this accomplished gentleman. ‘Was
it real, now, or only to display the eyelashes?’

Kate, looking anxiously towards the door, made no reply.

‘I have looked at ‘em for five minutes,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘Upon my
soul, they’re perfect. Why did I speak, and destroy such a pretty little
picture?’

‘Do me the favour to be silent now, sir,’ replied Kate.

‘No, don’t,’ said Sir Mulberry, folding his crushed hat to lay his elbow
on, and bringing himself still closer to the young lady; ‘upon my life,
you oughtn’t to. Such a devoted slave of yours, Miss Nickleby--it’s an
infernal thing to treat him so harshly, upon my soul it is.’

‘I wish you to understand, sir,’ said Kate, trembling in spite of
herself, but speaking with great indignation, ‘that your behaviour
offends and disgusts me. If you have a spark of gentlemanly feeling
remaining, you will leave me.’

‘Now why,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘why will you keep up this appearance of
excessive rigour, my sweet creature? Now, be more natural--my dear Miss
Nickleby, be more natural--do.’

Kate hastily rose; but as she rose, Sir Mulberry caught her dress, and
forcibly detained her.

‘Let me go, sir,’ she cried, her heart swelling with anger. ‘Do you
hear? Instantly--this moment.’

‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Unhand me, sir, this instant,’ cried Kate.

‘Not for the world,’ rejoined Sir Mulberry. Thus speaking, he leaned
over, as if to replace her in her chair; but the young lady, making a
violent effort to disengage herself, he lost his balance, and measured
his length upon the ground. As Kate sprung forward to leave the room, Mr
Ralph Nickleby appeared in the doorway, and confronted her.

‘What is this?’ said Ralph.

‘It is this, sir,’ replied Kate, violently agitated: ‘that beneath the
roof where I, a helpless girl, your dead brother’s child, should most
have found protection, I have been exposed to insult which should make
you shrink to look upon me. Let me pass you.’

Ralph DID shrink, as the indignant girl fixed her kindling eye upon him;
but he did not comply with her injunction, nevertheless: for he led her
to a distant seat, and returning, and approaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who
had by this time risen, motioned towards the door.

‘Your way lies there, sir,’ said Ralph, in a suppressed voice, that some
devil might have owned with pride.

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded his friend, fiercely.

The swoln veins stood out like sinews on Ralph’s wrinkled forehead, and
the nerves about his mouth worked as though some unendurable emotion
wrung them; but he smiled disdainfully, and again pointed to the door.

‘Do you know me, you old madman?’ asked Sir Mulberry.

‘Well,’ said Ralph. The fashionable vagabond for the moment quite
quailed under the steady look of the older sinner, and walked towards
the door, muttering as he went.

‘You wanted the lord, did you?’ he said, stopping short when he reached
the door, as if a new light had broken in upon him, and confronting
Ralph again. ‘Damme, I was in the way, was I?’

Ralph smiled again, but made no answer.

‘Who brought him to you first?’ pursued Sir Mulberry; ‘and how, without
me, could you ever have wound him in your net as you have?’

‘The net is a large one, and rather full,’ said Ralph. ‘Take care that
it chokes nobody in the meshes.’

‘You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if you have
not already made a bargain with the devil,’ retorted the other. ‘Do you
mean to tell me that your pretty niece was not brought here as a decoy
for the drunken boy downstairs?’

Although this hurried dialogue was carried on in a suppressed tone on
both sides, Ralph looked involuntarily round to ascertain that Kate had
not moved her position so as to be within hearing. His adversary saw the
advantage he had gained, and followed it up.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he asked again, ‘that it is not so? Do you
mean to say that if he had found his way up here instead of me, you
wouldn’t have been a little more blind, and a little more deaf, and a
little less flourishing, than you have been? Come, Nickleby, answer me
that.’

‘I tell you this,’ replied Ralph, ‘that if I brought her here, as a
matter of business--’

‘Ay, that’s the word,’ interposed Sir Mulberry, with a laugh. ‘You’re
coming to yourself again now.’

‘--As a matter of business,’ pursued Ralph, speaking slowly and firmly,
as a man who has made up his mind to say no more, ‘because I thought she
might make some impression on the silly youth you have taken in hand
and are lending good help to ruin, I knew--knowing him--that it would be
long before he outraged her girl’s feelings, and that unless he offended
by mere puppyism and emptiness, he would, with a little management,
respect the sex and conduct even of his usurer’s niece. But if I thought
to draw him on more gently by this device, I did not think of subjecting
the girl to the licentiousness and brutality of so old a hand as you.
And now we understand each other.’

‘Especially as there was nothing to be got by it--eh?’ sneered Sir
Mulberry.

‘Exactly so,’ said Ralph. He had turned away, and looked over his
shoulder to make this last reply. The eyes of the two worthies met,
with an expression as if each rascal felt that there was no disguising
himself from the other; and Sir Mulberry Hawk shrugged his shoulders and
walked slowly out.

His friend closed the door, and looked restlessly towards the spot where
his niece still remained in the attitude in which he had left her. She
had flung herself heavily upon the couch, and with her head drooping
over the cushion, and her face hidden in her hands, seemed to be still
weeping in an agony of shame and grief.

Ralph would have walked into any poverty-stricken debtor’s house, and
pointed him out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child’s
death-bed, without the smallest concern, because it would have been a
matter quite in the ordinary course of business, and the man would have
been an offender against his only code of morality. But, here was a
young girl, who had done no wrong save that of coming into the world
alive; who had patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried hard
to please him--above all, who didn’t owe him money--and he felt awkward
and nervous.

Ralph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a little
nearer; then, moved a little nearer still; then, nearer again, and
finally sat himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on Kate’s arm.

‘Hush, my dear!’ he said, as she drew it back, and her sobs burst out
afresh. ‘Hush, hush! Don’t mind it, now; don’t think of it.’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, let me go home,’ cried Kate. ‘Let me leave this
house, and go home.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Ralph. ‘You shall. But you must dry your eyes first,
and compose yourself. Let me raise your head. There--there.’

‘Oh, uncle!’ exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. ‘What have I done--what
have I done--that you should subject me to this? If I had wronged you in
thought, or word, or deed, it would have been most cruel to me, and the
memory of one you must have loved in some old time; but--’

‘Only listen to me for a moment,’ interrupted Ralph, seriously alarmed
by the violence of her emotions. ‘I didn’t know it would be so; it was
impossible for me to foresee it. I did all I could.--Come, let us walk
about. You are faint with the closeness of the room, and the heat of
these lamps. You will be better now, if you make the slightest effort.’

‘I will do anything,’ replied Kate, ‘if you will only send me home.’

‘Well, well, I will,’ said Ralph; ‘but you must get back your own looks;
for those you have, will frighten them, and nobody must know of this but
you and I. Now let us walk the other way. There. You look better even
now.’

With such encouragements as these, Ralph Nickleby walked to and fro,
with his niece leaning on his arm; actually trembling beneath her touch.

In the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her to depart, he
supported her downstairs, after adjusting her shawl and performing such
little offices, most probably for the first time in his life. Across
the hall, and down the steps, Ralph led her too; nor did he withdraw his
hand until she was seated in the coach.

As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate’s
hair, close at her uncle’s feet; and as he picked it up, and returned it
into her hand, the light from a neighbouring lamp shone upon her face.
The lock of hair that had escaped and curled loosely over her brow, the
traces of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of sorrow,
all fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man’s breast;
and the face of his dead brother seemed present before him, with the
very look it bore on some occasion of boyish grief, of which every
minutest circumstance flashed upon his mind, with the distinctness of a
scene of yesterday.

Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood
and kindred--who was steeled against every tale of sorrow and
distress--staggered while he looked, and went back into his house, as a
man who had seen a spirit from some world beyond the grave.



CHAPTER 20

Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses
his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.


Little Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streets at the
west end of the town, early on Monday morning--the day after the
dinner--charged with the important commission of acquainting Madame
Mantalini that Miss Nickleby was too unwell to attend that day, but
hoped to be enabled to resume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La
Creevy walked along, revolving in her mind various genteel forms and
elegant turns of expression, with a view to the selection of the very
best in which to couch her communication, she cogitated a good deal upon
the probable causes of her young friend’s indisposition.

‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘Her eyes were
decidedly red last night. She said she had a headache; headaches don’t
occasion red eyes. She must have been crying.’

Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had established to her
perfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on
to consider--as she had done nearly all night--what new cause of
unhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.

‘I can’t think of anything,’ said the little portrait painter. ‘Nothing
at all, unless it was the behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I
suppose? Unpleasant brute!’

Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was vented upon empty
air, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini’s; and being informed
that the governing power was not yet out of bed, requested an interview
with the second in command; whereupon Miss Knag appeared.

‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Miss Knag, when the message had been
delivered, with many ornaments of speech; ‘I could spare Miss Nickleby
for evermore.’

‘Oh, indeed, ma’am!’ rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended. ‘But,
you see, you are not mistress of the business, and therefore it’s of no
great consequence.’

‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Miss Knag. ‘Have you any further commands for
me?’

‘No, I have not, ma’am,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

‘Then good-morning, ma’am,’ said Miss Knag.

‘Good-morning to you, ma’am; and many obligations for your extreme
politeness and good breeding,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

Thus terminating the interview, during which both ladies had trembled
very much, and been marvellously polite--certain indications that they
were within an inch of a very desperate quarrel--Miss La Creevy bounced
out of the room, and into the street.

‘I wonder who that is,’ said the queer little soul. ‘A nice person
to know, I should think! I wish I had the painting of her: I’D do her
justice.’ So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said a very cutting
thing at Miss Knag’s expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty laugh, and
went home to breakfast in great good humour.

Here was one of the advantages of having lived alone so long! The little
bustling, active, cheerful creature existed entirely within herself,
talked to herself, made a confidante of herself, was as sarcastic as she
could be, on people who offended her, by herself; pleased herself, and
did no harm. If she indulged in scandal, nobody’s reputation suffered;
and if she enjoyed a little bit of revenge, no living soul was one atom
the worse. One of the many to whom, from straitened circumstances, a
consequent inability to form the associations they would wish, and a
disinclination to mix with the society they could obtain, London is
as complete a solitude as the plains of Syria, the humble artist had
pursued her lonely, but contented way for many years; and, until the
peculiar misfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted her attention,
had made no friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to all
mankind. There are many warm hearts in the same solitary guise as poor
little Miss La Creevy’s.

However, that’s neither here nor there, just now. She went home to
breakfast, and had scarcely caught the full flavour of her first sip of
tea, when the servant announced a gentleman, whereat Miss La Creevy, at
once imagining a new sitter transfixed by admiration at the street-door
case, was in unspeakable consternation at the presence of the
tea-things.

‘Here, take ‘em away; run with ‘em into the bedroom; anywhere,’ said
Miss La Creevy. ‘Dear, dear; to think that I should be late on this
particular morning, of all others, after being ready for three weeks by
half-past eight o’clock, and not a soul coming near the place!’

‘Don’t let me put you out of the way,’ said a voice Miss La Creevy knew.
‘I told the servant not to mention my name, because I wished to surprise
you.’

‘Mr. Nicholas!’ cried Miss La Creevy, starting in great astonishment.
‘You have not forgotten me, I see,’ replied Nicholas, extending his
hand.

‘Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you in the
street,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. ‘Hannah, another cup and
saucer. Now, I’ll tell you what, young man; I’ll trouble you not to
repeat the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morning you went
away.’

‘You would not be very angry, would you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Wouldn’t I!’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘You had better try; that’s all!’

Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss La Creevy at
her word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped his face; but it was
not a very hard slap, and that’s the truth.

‘I never saw such a rude creature!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy.

‘You told me to try,’ said Nicholas.

‘Well; but I was speaking ironically,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

‘Oh! that’s another thing,’ said Nicholas; ‘you should have told me
that, too.’

‘I dare say you didn’t know, indeed!’ retorted Miss La Creevy. ‘But, now
I look at you again, you seem thinner than when I saw you last, and your
face is haggard and pale. And how come you to have left Yorkshire?’

She stopped here; for there was so much heart in her altered tone and
manner, that Nicholas was quite moved.

‘I need look somewhat changed,’ he said, after a short silence; ‘for
I have undergone some suffering, both of mind and body, since I left
London. I have been very poor, too, and have even suffered from want.’

‘Good Heaven, Mr. Nicholas!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy, ‘what are you
telling me?’

‘Nothing which need distress you quite so much,’ answered Nicholas, with
a more sprightly air; ‘neither did I come here to bewail my lot, but
on matter more to the purpose. I wish to meet my uncle face to face. I
should tell you that first.’

‘Then all I have to say about that is,’ interposed Miss La Creevy, ‘that
I don’t envy you your taste; and that sitting in the same room with his
very boots, would put me out of humour for a fortnight.’

‘In the main,’ said Nicholas, ‘there may be no great difference of
opinion between you and me, so far; but you will understand, that I
desire to confront him, to justify myself, and to cast his duplicity and
malice in his throat.’

‘That’s quite another matter,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy. ‘Heaven forgive
me; but I shouldn’t cry my eyes quite out of my head, if they choked
him. Well?’

‘To this end, I called upon him this morning,’ said Nicholas. ‘He only
returned to town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of his arrival until
late last night.’

‘And did you see him?’ asked Miss La Creevy.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He had gone out.’

‘Hah!’ said Miss La Creevy; ‘on some kind, charitable business, I dare
say.’

‘I have reason to believe,’ pursued Nicholas, ‘from what has been told
me, by a friend of mine who is acquainted with his movements, that he
intends seeing my mother and sister today, and giving them his version
of the occurrences that have befallen me. I will meet him there.’

‘That’s right,’ said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands. ‘And yet, I
don’t know,’ she added, ‘there is much to be thought of--others to be
considered.’

‘I have considered others,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘but as honesty and
honour are both at issue, nothing shall deter me.’

‘You should know best,’ said Miss La Creevy.

‘In this case I hope so,’ answered Nicholas. ‘And all I want you to do
for me, is, to prepare them for my coming. They think me a long way
off, and if I went wholly unexpected, I should frighten them. If you can
spare time to tell them that you have seen me, and that I shall be
with them in a quarter of an hour afterwards, you will do me a great
service.’

‘I wish I could do you, or any of you, a greater,’ said Miss La Creevy;
‘but the power to serve, is as seldom joined with the will, as the will
is with the power, I think.’

Talking on very fast and very much, Miss La Creevy finished her
breakfast with great expedition, put away the tea-caddy and hid the
key under the fender, resumed her bonnet, and, taking Nicholas’s arm,
sallied forth at once to the city. Nicholas left her near the door of
his mother’s house, and promised to return within a quarter of an hour.

It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for his own
purposes, to communicate the atrocities of which Nicholas had been
guilty, had (instead of first proceeding to another quarter of the town
on business, as Newman Noggs supposed he would) gone straight to his
sister-in-law. Hence, when Miss La Creevy, admitted by a girl who was
cleaning the house, made her way to the sitting-room, she found Mrs
Nickleby and Kate in tears, and Ralph just concluding his statement of
his nephew’s misdemeanours. Kate beckoned her not to retire, and Miss La
Creevy took a seat in silence.

‘You are here already, are you, my gentleman?’ thought the little woman.
‘Then he shall announce himself, and see what effect that has on you.’

‘This is pretty,’ said Ralph, folding up Miss Squeers’s note; ‘very
pretty. I recommend him--against all my previous conviction, for I
knew he would never do any good--to a man with whom, behaving himself
properly, he might have remained, in comfort, for years. What is the
result? Conduct for which he might hold up his hand at the Old Bailey.’

‘I never will believe it,’ said Kate, indignantly; ‘never. It is some
base conspiracy, which carries its own falsehood with it.’

‘My dear,’ said Ralph, ‘you wrong the worthy man. These are not
inventions. The man is assaulted, your brother is not to be found; this
boy, of whom they speak, goes with him--remember, remember.’

‘It is impossible,’ said Kate. ‘Nicholas!--and a thief too! Mama, how
can you sit and hear such statements?’

Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had, at no time, been remarkable for the
possession of a very clear understanding, and who had been reduced
by the late changes in her affairs to a most complicated state of
perplexity, made no other reply to this earnest remonstrance than
exclaiming from behind a mass of pocket-handkerchief, that she never
could have believed it--thereby most ingeniously leaving her hearers to
suppose that she did believe it.

‘It would be my duty, if he came in my way, to deliver him up to
justice,’ said Ralph, ‘my bounden duty; I should have no other course,
as a man of the world and a man of business, to pursue. And yet,’ said
Ralph, speaking in a very marked manner, and looking furtively, but
fixedly, at Kate, ‘and yet I would not. I would spare the feelings of
his--of his sister. And his mother of course,’ added Ralph, as though by
an afterthought, and with far less emphasis.

Kate very well understood that this was held out as an additional
inducement to her to preserve the strictest silence regarding the events
of the preceding night. She looked involuntarily towards Ralph as he
ceased to speak, but he had turned his eyes another way, and seemed for
the moment quite unconscious of her presence.

‘Everything,’ said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only by Mrs
Nickleby’s sobs, ‘everything combines to prove the truth of this letter,
if indeed there were any possibility of disputing it. Do innocent men
steal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulk in hiding-places,
like outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle nameless vagabonds, and prowl
with them about the country as idle robbers do? Assault, riot, theft,
what do you call these?’

‘A lie!’ cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholas came
into the room.

In the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralph rose from
his seat, and fell back a few paces, quite taken off his guard by this
unexpected apparition. In another moment, he stood, fixed and immovable
with folded arms, regarding his nephew with a scowl; while Kate and
Miss La Creevy threw themselves between the two, to prevent the personal
violence which the fierce excitement of Nicholas appeared to threaten.

‘Dear Nicholas,’ cried his sister, clinging to him. ‘Be calm,
consider--’

‘Consider, Kate!’ cried Nicholas, clasping her hand so tight in the
tumult of his anger, that she could scarcely bear the pain. ‘When I
consider all, and think of what has passed, I need be made of iron to
stand before him.’

‘Or bronze,’ said Ralph, quietly; ‘there is not hardihood enough in
flesh and blood to face it out.’

‘Oh dear, dear!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that things should have come to
such a pass as this!’

‘Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and brought disgrace on
them?’ said Nicholas, looking round.

‘Your mother, sir,’ replied Ralph, motioning towards her.

‘Whose ears have been poisoned by you,’ said Nicholas; ‘by you--who,
under pretence of deserving the thanks she poured upon you, heaped every
insult, wrong, and indignity upon my head. You, who sent me to a den
where sordid cruelty, worthy of yourself, runs wanton, and youthful
misery stalks precocious; where the lightness of childhood shrinks into
the heaviness of age, and its every promise blights, and withers as it
grows. I call Heaven to witness,’ said Nicholas, looking eagerly round,
‘that I have seen all this, and that he knows it.’

‘Refute these calumnies,’ said Kate, ‘and be more patient, so that you
may give them no advantage. Tell us what you really did, and show that
they are untrue.’

‘Of what do they--or of what does he--accuse me?’ said Nicholas.

‘First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace of qualifying
yourself to be tried for murder,’ interposed Ralph. ‘I speak plainly,
young man, bluster as you will.’

‘I interfered,’ said Nicholas, ‘to save a miserable creature from the
vilest cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a wretch
as he will not readily forget, though far less than he deserved from
me. If the same scene were renewed before me now, I would take the same
part; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such
marks as he should carry to his grave, go to it when he would.’

‘You hear?’ said Ralph, turning to Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Penitence, this!’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I don’t know what to think, I really
don’t.’

‘Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,’ said Kate. ‘Dear Nicholas,
I only tell you, that you may know what wickedness can prompt, but they
accuse you of--a ring is missing, and they dare to say that--’

‘The woman,’ said Nicholas, haughtily, ‘the wife of the fellow from whom
these charges come, dropped--as I suppose--a worthless ring among some
clothes of mine, early in the morning on which I left the house. At
least, I know that she was in the bedroom where they lay, struggling
with an unhappy child, and that I found it when I opened my bundle on
the road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and they have it now.’

‘I knew, I knew,’ said Kate, looking towards her uncle. ‘About this boy,
love, in whose company they say you left?’

‘The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hard usage, is
with me now,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘You hear?’ said Ralph, appealing to the mother again, ‘everything
proved, even upon his own confession. Do you choose to restore that boy,
sir?’

‘No, I do not,’ replied Nicholas.

‘You do not?’ sneered Ralph.

‘No,’ repeated Nicholas, ‘not to the man with whom I found him. I would
that I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: I might wring something
from his sense of shame, if he were dead to every tie of nature.’

‘Indeed!’ said Ralph. ‘Now, sir, will you hear a word or two from me?’

‘You can speak when and what you please,’ replied Nicholas, embracing
his sister. ‘I take little heed of what you say or threaten.’

‘Mighty well, sir,’ retorted Ralph; ‘but perhaps it may concern others,
who may think it worth their while to listen, and consider what I tell
them. I will address your mother, sir, who knows the world.’

‘Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn’t,’ sobbed Mrs. Nickleby.

There really was no necessity for the good lady to be much distressed
upon this particular head; the extent of her worldly knowledge being, to
say the least, very questionable; and so Ralph seemed to think, for he
smiled as she spoke. He then glanced steadily at her and Nicholas by
turns, as he delivered himself in these words:

‘Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma’am, and my
niece, I say not one syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you to
judge for yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I say that this boy,
headstrong, wilful and disorderly as he is, should not have one penny of
my money, or one crust of my bread, or one grasp of my hand, to save him
from the loftiest gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him, come where
he comes, or hear his name. I will not help him, or those who help him.
With a full knowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has
come back in his selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your wants, and
a burden upon his sister’s scanty wages. I regret to leave you, and more
to leave her, now, but I will not encourage this compound of meanness
and cruelty, and, as I will not ask you to renounce him, I see you no
more.’

If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding those he hated,
his glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its force, as
he proceeded in the above address. Innocent as the young man was of all
wrong, every artful insinuation stung, every well-considered sarcasm cut
him to the quick; and when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering
lip, he hugged himself to mark how well he had chosen the taunts best
calculated to strike deep into a young and ardent spirit.

‘I can’t help it,’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I know you have been very good
to us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am quite sure
of that; I know you did, and it was very kind of you, having her at your
house and all--and of course it would have been a great thing for her
and for me too. But I can’t, you know, brother-in-law, I can’t renounce
my own son, even if he has done all you say he has--it’s not possible;
I couldn’t do it; so we must go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can
bear it, I dare say.’ Pouring forth these and a perfectly wonderful
train of other disjointed expressions of regret, which no mortal power
but Mrs. Nickleby’s could ever have strung together, that lady wrung her
hands, and her tears fell faster.

‘Why do you say “IF Nicholas has done what they say he has,” mama?’
asked Kate, with honest anger. ‘You know he has not.’

‘I don’t know what to think, one way or other, my dear,’ said Mrs
Nickleby; ‘Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so much composure,
that I can only hear what he says, and not what Nicholas does. Never
mind, don’t let us talk any more about it. We can go to the Workhouse,
or the Refuge for the Destitute, or the Magdalen Hospital, I dare say;
and the sooner we go the better.’ With this extraordinary jumble of
charitable institutions, Mrs. Nickleby again gave way to her tears.

‘Stay,’ said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. ‘You need not leave this
place, sir, for it will be relieved of my presence in one minute, and it
will be long, very long, before I darken these doors again.’

‘Nicholas,’ cried Kate, throwing herself on her brother’s shoulder, ‘do
not say so. My dear brother, you will break my heart. Mama, speak to
him. Do not mind her, Nicholas; she does not mean it, you should know
her better. Uncle, somebody, for Heaven’s sake speak to him.’

‘I never meant, Kate,’ said Nicholas, tenderly, ‘I never meant to stay
among you; think better of me than to suppose it possible. I may turn my
back on this town a few hours sooner than I intended, but what of that?
We shall not forget each other apart, and better days will come when we
shall part no more. Be a woman, Kate,’ he whispered, proudly, ‘and do
not make me one, while HE looks on.’

‘No, no, I will not,’ said Kate, eagerly, ‘but you will not leave us.
Oh! think of all the happy days we have had together, before these
terrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the comfort and happiness of
home, and the trials we have to bear now; of our having no protector
under all the slights and wrongs that poverty so much favours, and you
cannot leave us to bear them alone, without one hand to help us.’

‘You will be helped when I am away,’ replied Nicholas hurriedly. ‘I am
no help to you, no protector; I should bring you nothing but sorrow, and
want, and suffering. My own mother sees it, and her fondness and fears
for you, point to the course that I should take. And so all good angels
bless you, Kate, till I can carry you to some home of mine, where we may
revive the happiness denied to us now, and talk of these trials as of
things gone by. Do not keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear
girl--dear girl.’

The grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swooned in his arms.
Nicholas stooped over her for a few seconds, and placing her gently in a
chair, confided her to their honest friend.

‘I need not entreat your sympathy,’ he said, wringing her hand, ‘for I
know your nature. You will never forget them.’

He stepped up to Ralph, who remained in the same attitude which he had
preserved throughout the interview, and moved not a finger.

‘Whatever step you take, sir,’ he said, in a voice inaudible beyond
themselves, ‘I shall keep a strict account of. I leave them to you, at
your desire. There will be a day of reckoning sooner or later, and it
will be a heavy one for you if they are wronged.’

Ralph did not allow a muscle of his face to indicate that he heard one
word of this parting address. He hardly knew that it was concluded, and
Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely made up her mind to detain her son by force if
necessary, when Nicholas was gone.

As he hurried through the streets to his obscure lodging, seeking to
keep pace, as it were, with the rapidity of the thoughts which crowded
upon him, many doubts and hesitations arose in his mind, and almost
tempted him to return. But what would they gain by this? Supposing he
were to put Ralph Nickleby at defiance, and were even fortunate enough
to obtain some small employment, his being with them could only render
their present condition worse, and might greatly impair their future
prospects; for his mother had spoken of some new kindnesses towards Kate
which she had not denied. ‘No,’ thought Nicholas, ‘I have acted for the
best.’

But, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other and different
feeling would come upon him, and then he would lag again, and pulling
his hat over his eyes, give way to the melancholy reflections which
pressed thickly upon him. To have committed no fault, and yet to be so
entirely alone in the world; to be separated from the only persons he
loved, and to be proscribed like a criminal, when six months ago he had
been surrounded by every comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of
his family--this was hard to bear. He had not deserved it either. Well,
there was comfort in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up again,
to be again depressed, as his quickly shifting thoughts presented every
variety of light and shade before him.

Undergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving, which no one,
placed in a situation of ordinary trial, can fail to have experienced,
Nicholas at length reached his poor room, where, no longer borne up by
the excitement which had hitherto sustained him, but depressed by the
revulsion of feeling it left behind, he threw himself on the bed, and
turning his face to the wall, gave free vent to the emotions he had so
long stifled.

He had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of the presence of
Smike, until, happening to raise his head, he saw him, standing at the
upper end of the room, looking wistfully towards him. He withdrew his
eyes when he saw that he was observed, and affected to be busied with
some scanty preparations for dinner.

‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, ‘let
me hear what new acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new
wonder you have found out, in the compass of this street and the next
one.’

‘No,’ said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; ‘I must talk of something
else today.’

‘Of what you like,’ replied Nicholas, good-humouredly.

‘Of this,’ said Smike. ‘I know you are unhappy, and have got into great
trouble by bringing me away. I ought to have known that, and stopped
behind--I would, indeed, if I had thought it then. You--you--are not
rich; you have not enough for yourself, and I should not be here. You
grow,’ said the lad, laying his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, ‘you
grow thinner every day; your cheek is paler, and your eye more sunk.
Indeed I cannot bear to see you so, and think how I am burdening you. I
tried to go away today, but the thought of your kind face drew me back.
I could not leave you without a word.’ The poor fellow could say no
more, for his eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.

‘The word which separates us,’ said Nicholas, grasping him heartily by
the shoulder, ‘shall never be said by me, for you are my only comfort
and stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all the world could give.
The thought of you has upheld me through all I have endured today, and
shall, through fifty times such trouble. Give me your hand. My heart is
linked to yours. We will journey from this place together, before the
week is out. What, if I am steeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we
will be poor together.’



CHAPTER 21

Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and
Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all


The agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nickleby unable to resume
her duties at the dressmaker’s for three days, at the expiration of
which interval she betook herself at the accustomed hour, and with
languid steps, to the temple of fashion where Madame Mantalini reigned
paramount and supreme.

The ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in
the interval. The young ladies still scrupulously shrunk from all
companionship with their denounced associate; and when that exemplary
female arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at no pains to conceal
the displeasure with which she regarded Kate’s return.

‘Upon my word!’ said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round, to
relieve her of her bonnet and shawl; ‘I should have thought some people
would have had spirit enough to stop away altogether, when they know
what an incumbrance their presence is to right-minded persons. But it’s
a queer world; oh! it’s a queer world!’

Miss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in the tone in which
most people do pass comments on the world when they are out of temper,
that is to say, as if they by no means belonged to it, concluded
by heaving a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to compassionate the
wickedness of mankind.

The attendants were not slow to echo the sigh, and Miss Knag was
apparently on the eve of favouring them with some further moral
reflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini, conveyed through
the speaking-tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs to assist in the
arrangement of the show-room; a distinction which caused Miss Knag to
toss her head so much, and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of
conversation were, for the time, annihilated.

‘Well, Miss Nickleby, child,’ said Madame Mantalini, when Kate presented
herself; ‘are you quite well again?’

‘A great deal better, thank you,’ replied Kate.

‘I wish I could say the same,’ remarked Madame Mantalini, seating
herself with an air of weariness.

‘Are you ill?’ asked Kate. ‘I am very sorry for that.’

‘Not exactly ill, but worried, child--worried,’ rejoined Madame.

‘I am still more sorry to hear that,’ said Kate, gently. ‘Bodily illness
is more easy to bear than mental.’

‘Ah! and it’s much easier to talk than to bear either,’ said Madame,
rubbing her nose with much irritability of manner. ‘There, get to your
work, child, and put the things in order, do.’

While Kate was wondering within herself what these symptoms of unusual
vexation portended, Mr. Mantalini put the tips of his whiskers, and, by
degrees, his head, through the half-opened door, and cried in a soft
voice--

‘Is my life and soul there?’

‘No,’ replied his wife.

‘How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little
rose in a demnition flower-pot?’ urged Mantalini. ‘May its poppet come
in and talk?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Madame: ‘you know I never allow you here. Go
along!’

The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this
reply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards
Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss as he came along.

‘Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching
nutcrackers?’ said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of
his life and soul, and drawing her towards him with his right.

‘Oh! I can’t bear you,’ replied his wife.

‘Not--eh, not bear ME!’ exclaimed Mantalini. ‘Fibs, fibs. It couldn’t
be. There’s not a woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my
face--to my own face.’ Mr. Mantalini stroked his chin, as he said this,
and glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.

‘Such destructive extravagance,’ reasoned his wife, in a low tone.

‘All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little
Venus, such a demd, enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating
little Venus,’ said Mantalini.

‘See what a situation you have placed me in!’ urged Madame.

‘No harm will come, no harm shall come, to its own darling,’ rejoined
Mr. Mantalini. ‘It is all over; there will be nothing the matter; money
shall be got in; and if it don’t come in fast enough, old Nickleby shall
stump up again, or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex and
hurt the little--’

‘Hush!’ interposed Madame. ‘Don’t you see?’

Mr. Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters with his wife,
had overlooked, or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took
the hint, and laying his finger on his lip, sunk his voice still
lower. There was, then, a great deal of whispering, during which Madame
Mantalini appeared to make reference, more than once, to certain debts
incurred by Mr. Mantalini previous to her coverture; and also to an
unexpected outlay of money in payment of the aforesaid debts; and
furthermore, to certain agreeable weaknesses on that gentleman’s part,
such as gaming, wasting, idling, and a tendency to horse-flesh; each
of which matters of accusation Mr. Mantalini disposed of, by one kiss
or more, as its relative importance demanded. The upshot of it all
was, that Madame Mantalini was in raptures with him, and that they went
upstairs to breakfast.

Kate busied herself in what she had to do, and was silently arranging
the various articles of decoration in the best taste she could display,
when she started to hear a strange man’s voice in the room, and started
again, to observe, on looking round, that a white hat, and a red
neckerchief, and a broad round face, and a large head, and part of a
green coat were in the room too.

‘Don’t alarm yourself, miss,’ said the proprietor of these appearances.
‘I say; this here’s the mantie-making consarn, an’t it?’

‘Yes,’ rejoined Kate, greatly astonished. ‘What did you want?’

The stranger answered not; but, first looking back, as though to beckon
to some unseen person outside, came, very deliberately, into the room,
and was closely followed by a little man in brown, very much the worse
for wear, who brought with him a mingled fumigation of stale tobacco and
fresh onions. The clothes of this gentleman were much bespeckled with
flue; and his shoes, stockings, and nether garments, from his heels to
the waist buttons of his coat inclusive, were profusely embroidered with
splashes of mud, caught a fortnight previously--before the setting-in of
the fine weather.

Kate’s very natural impression was, that these engaging individuals
had called with the view of possessing themselves, unlawfully, of
any portable articles that chanced to strike their fancy. She did not
attempt to disguise her apprehensions, and made a move towards the door.

‘Wait a minnit,’ said the man in the green coat, closing it softly, and
standing with his back against it. ‘This is a unpleasant bisness. Vere’s
your govvernor?’

‘My what--did you say?’ asked Kate, trembling; for she thought
‘governor’ might be slang for watch or money.

‘Mister Muntlehiney,’ said the man. ‘Wot’s come on him? Is he at home?’

‘He is above stairs, I believe,’ replied Kate, a little reassured by
this inquiry. ‘Do you want him?’

‘No,’ replied the visitor. ‘I don’t ezactly want him, if it’s made a
favour on. You can jist give him that ‘ere card, and tell him if he
wants to speak to ME, and save trouble, here I am; that’s all.’

With these words, the stranger put a thick square card into Kate’s hand,
and, turning to his friend, remarked, with an easy air, ‘that the rooms
was a good high pitch;’ to which the friend assented, adding, by way of
illustration, ‘that there was lots of room for a little boy to grow up
a man in either on ‘em, vithout much fear of his ever bringing his head
into contract vith the ceiling.’

After ringing the bell which would summon Madame Mantalini, Kate glanced
at the card, and saw that it displayed the name of ‘Scaley,’ together
with some other information to which she had not had time to refer, when
her attention was attracted by Mr. Scaley himself, who, walking up to one
of the cheval-glasses, gave it a hard poke in the centre with his stick,
as coolly as if it had been made of cast iron.

‘Good plate this here, Tix,’ said Mr. Scaley to his friend.

‘Ah!’ rejoined Mr. Tix, placing the marks of his four fingers, and a
duplicate impression of his thumb, on a piece of sky-blue silk; ‘and
this here article warn’t made for nothing, mind you.’

From the silk, Mr. Tix transferred his admiration to some elegant
articles of wearing apparel, while Mr. Scaley adjusted his neckcloth,
at leisure, before the glass, and afterwards, aided by its reflection,
proceeded to the minute consideration of a pimple on his chin; in which
absorbing occupation he was yet engaged, when Madame Mantalini, entering
the room, uttered an exclamation of surprise which roused him.

‘Oh! Is this the missis?’ inquired Scaley.

‘It is Madame Mantalini,’ said Kate.

‘Then,’ said Mr. Scaley, producing a small document from his pocket and
unfolding it very slowly, ‘this is a writ of execution, and if it’s not
conwenient to settle we’ll go over the house at wunst, please, and take
the inwentory.’

Poor Madame Mantalini wrung her hands for grief, and rung the bell
for her husband; which done, she fell into a chair and a fainting fit,
simultaneously. The professional gentlemen, however, were not at all
discomposed by this event, for Mr. Scaley, leaning upon a stand on which
a handsome dress was displayed (so that his shoulders appeared above it,
in nearly the same manner as the shoulders of the lady for whom it was
designed would have done if she had had it on), pushed his hat on one
side and scratched his head with perfect unconcern, while his friend
Mr. Tix, taking that opportunity for a general survey of the apartment
preparatory to entering on business, stood with his inventory-book under
his arm and his hat in his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price
upon every object within his range of vision.

Such was the posture of affairs when Mr. Mantalini hurried in; and as
that distinguished specimen had had a pretty extensive intercourse with
Mr. Scaley’s fraternity in his bachelor days, and was, besides, very
far from being taken by surprise on the present agitating occasion, he
merely shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands down to the bottom of
his pockets, elevated his eyebrows, whistled a bar or two, swore an oath
or two, and, sitting astride upon a chair, put the best face upon the
matter with great composure and decency.

‘What’s the demd total?’ was the first question he asked.

‘Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound, four and ninepence ha’penny,’
replied Mr. Scaley, without moving a limb.

‘The halfpenny be demd,’ said Mr. Mantalini, impatiently.

‘By all means if you vish it,’ retorted Mr. Scaley; ‘and the ninepence.’

‘It don’t matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound
went along with it, that I know on,’ observed Mr. Tix.

‘Not a button,’ said Scaley.

‘Well,’ said the same gentleman, after a pause, ‘wot’s to be
done--anything? Is it only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash? A
break-up of the constitootion is it?--werry good. Then Mr. Tom Tix,
esk-vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family as you won’t
sleep at home for three nights to come, along of being in possession
here. Wot’s the good of the lady a fretting herself?’ continued Mr
Scaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. ‘A good half of wot’s here isn’t
paid for, I des-say, and wot a consolation oughtn’t that to be to her
feelings!’

With these remarks, combining great pleasantry with sound moral
encouragement under difficulties, Mr. Scaley proceeded to take the
inventory, in which delicate task he was materially assisted by the
uncommon tact and experience of Mr. Tix, the broker.

‘My cup of happiness’s sweetener,’ said Mantalini, approaching his wife
with a penitent air; ‘will you listen to me for two minutes?’

‘Oh! don’t speak to me,’ replied his wife, sobbing. ‘You have ruined me,
and that’s enough.’

Mr. Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner
heard these words pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he
recoiled several paces, assumed an expression of consuming mental agony,
rushed headlong from the room, and was, soon afterwards, heard to slam
the door of an upstairs dressing-room with great violence.

‘Miss Nickleby,’ cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her
ear, ‘make haste, for Heaven’s sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke
unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, my darling
Alfred.’

With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who,
although she did not quite participate in the fond wife’s apprehensions,
was a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being
hastily flung open, Mr. Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his
shirt-collar symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a
breakfast knife by means of his razor strop.

‘Ah!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, ‘interrupted!’ and whisk went the breakfast
knife into Mr. Mantalini’s dressing-gown pocket, while Mr. Mantalini’s
eyes rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wild disorder, mingled with
his whiskers.

‘Alfred,’ cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, ‘I didn’t mean to
say it, I didn’t mean to say it!’

‘Ruined!’ cried Mr. Mantalini. ‘Have I brought ruin upon the best and
purest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let
me go.’ At this crisis of his ravings Mr. Mantalini made a pluck at the
breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife’s grasp, attempted to
dash his head against the wall--taking very good care to be at least six
feet from it.

‘Compose yourself, my own angel,’ said Madame. ‘It was nobody’s fault;
it was mine as much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred,
come.’

Mr. Mantalini did not think proper to come to, all at once; but, after
calling several times for poison, and requesting some lady or gentleman
to blow his brains out, gentler feelings came upon him, and he wept
pathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did not oppose the
capture of the knife--which, to tell the truth, he was rather glad to be
rid of, as an inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt pocket--and
finally he suffered himself to be led away by his affectionate partner.

After a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies were informed that
their services would be dispensed with until further notice, and at the
expiration of two days, the name of Mantalini appeared in the list of
bankrupts: Miss Nickleby received an intimation per post, on the same
morning, that the business would be, in future, carried on under
the name of Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be
required--a piece of intelligence with which Mrs. Nickleby was no sooner
made acquainted, than that good lady declared she had expected it all
along and cited divers unknown occasions on which she had prophesied to
that precise effect.

‘And I say again,’ remarked Mrs. Nickleby (who, it is scarcely necessary
to observe, had never said so before), ‘I say again, that a milliner’s
and dressmaker’s is the very last description of business, Kate, that
you should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don’t make it
a reproach to you, my love; but still I will say, that if you had
consulted your own mother--’

‘Well, well, mama,’ said Kate, mildly: ‘what would you recommend now?’

‘Recommend!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, ‘isn’t it obvious, my dear, that of all
occupations in this world for a young lady situated as you are, that
of companion to some amiable lady is the very thing for which your
education, and manners, and personal appearance, and everything else,
exactly qualify you? Did you never hear your poor dear papa speak of the
young lady who was the daughter of the old lady who boarded in the same
house that he boarded in once, when he was a bachelor--what was her name
again? I know it began with a B, and ended with g, but whether it was
Waters or--no, it couldn’t have been that, either; but whatever her name
was, don’t you know that that young lady went as companion to a married
lady who died soon afterwards, and that she married the husband, and had
one of the finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen--all
within eighteen months?’

Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourable recollection
was occasioned by some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had
discovered, in the companionship walk of life. She therefore waited,
very patiently, until all reminiscences and anecdotes, bearing or not
bearing upon the subject, had been exhausted, and at last ventured
to inquire what discovery had been made. The truth then came out. Mrs
Nickleby had, that morning, had a yesterday’s newspaper of the very
first respectability from the public-house where the porter came from;
and in this yesterday’s newspaper was an advertisement, couched in the
purest and most grammatical English, announcing that a married lady was
in want of a genteel young person as companion, and that the married
lady’s name and address were to be known, on application at a certain
library at the west end of the town, therein mentioned.

‘And I say,’ exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, laying the paper down in triumph,
‘that if your uncle don’t object, it’s well worth the trial.’

Kate was too sick at heart, after the rough jostling she had already had
with the world, and really cared too little at the moment what fate was
reserved for her, to make any objection. Mr. Ralph Nickleby offered none,
but, on the contrary, highly approved of the suggestion; neither did he
express any great surprise at Madame Mantalini’s sudden failure, indeed
it would have been strange if he had, inasmuch as it had been procured
and brought about chiefly by himself. So, the name and address were
obtained without loss of time, and Miss Nickleby and her mama went off
in quest of Mrs. Wititterly, of Cadogan Place, Sloane Street, that same
forenoon.

Cadogan Place is the one slight bond that joins two great extremes; it
is the connecting link between the aristocratic pavements of Belgrave
Square, and the barbarism of Chelsea. It is in Sloane Street, but not of
it. The people in Cadogan Place look down upon Sloane Street, and think
Brompton low. They affect fashion too, and wonder where the New Road
is. Not that they claim to be on precisely the same footing as the high
folks of Belgrave Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they stand, with
reference to them, rather in the light of those illegitimate children of
the great who are content to boast of their connections, although their
connections disavow them. Wearing as much as they can of the airs
and semblances of loftiest rank, the people of Cadogan Place have the
realities of middle station. It is the conductor which communicates to
the inhabitants of regions beyond its limit, the shock of pride of
birth and rank, which it has not within itself, but derives from a
fountain-head beyond; or, like the ligament which unites the Siamese
twins, it contains something of the life and essence of two distinct
bodies, and yet belongs to neither.

Upon this doubtful ground, lived Mrs. Wititterly, and at Mrs. Wititterly’s
door Kate Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. The door was opened by
a big footman with his head floured, or chalked, or painted in some way
(it didn’t look genuine powder), and the big footman, receiving the card
of introduction, gave it to a little page; so little, indeed, that his
body would not hold, in ordinary array, the number of small buttons
which are indispensable to a page’s costume, and they were consequently
obliged to be stuck on four abreast. This young gentleman took the card
upstairs on a salver, and pending his return, Kate and her mother were
shown into a dining-room of rather dirty and shabby aspect, and so
comfortably arranged as to be adapted to almost any purpose rather than
eating and drinking.

Now, in the ordinary course of things, and according to all authentic
descriptions of high life, as set forth in books, Mrs. Wititterly ought
to have been in her BOUDOIR; but whether it was that Mr. Wititterly was
at that moment shaving himself in the BOUDOIR or what not, certain it
is that Mrs. Wititterly gave audience in the drawing-room, where was
everything proper and necessary, including curtains and furniture
coverings of a roseate hue, to shed a delicate bloom on Mrs. Wititterly’s
complexion, and a little dog to snap at strangers’ legs for Mrs
Wititterly’s amusement, and the afore-mentioned page, to hand chocolate
for Mrs. Wititterly’s refreshment.

The lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and a face of engaging
paleness; there was a faded look about her, and about the furniture, and
about the house. She was reclining on a sofa in such a very unstudied
attitude, that she might have been taken for an actress all ready for
the first scene in a ballet, and only waiting for the drop curtain to go
up.

‘Place chairs.’

The page placed them.

‘Leave the room, Alphonse.’

The page left it; but if ever an Alphonse carried plain Bill in his face
and figure, that page was the boy.

‘I have ventured to call, ma’am,’ said Kate, after a few seconds of
awkward silence, ‘from having seen your advertisement.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Wititterly, ‘one of my people put it in the
paper--Yes.’

‘I thought, perhaps,’ said Kate, modestly, ‘that if you had not
already made a final choice, you would forgive my troubling you with an
application.’

‘Yes,’ drawled Mrs. Wititterly again.

‘If you have already made a selection--’

‘Oh dear no,’ interrupted the lady, ‘I am not so easily suited. I really
don’t know what to say. You have never been a companion before, have
you?’

Mrs. Nickleby, who had been eagerly watching her opportunity, came
dexterously in, before Kate could reply. ‘Not to any stranger, ma’am,’
said the good lady; ‘but she has been a companion to me for some years.
I am her mother, ma’am.’

‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Wititterly, ‘I apprehend you.’

‘I assure you, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that I very little thought,
at one time, that it would be necessary for my daughter to go out into
the world at all, for her poor dear papa was an independent gentleman,
and would have been at this moment if he had but listened in time to my
constant entreaties and--’

‘Dear mama,’ said Kate, in a low voice.

‘My dear Kate, if you will allow me to speak,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I
shall take the liberty of explaining to this lady--’

‘I think it is almost unnecessary, mama.’

And notwithstanding all the frowns and winks with which Mrs. Nickleby
intimated that she was going to say something which would clench the
business at once, Kate maintained her point by an expressive look, and
for once Mrs. Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink of an oration.

‘What are your accomplishments?’ asked Mrs. Wititterly, with her eyes
shut.

Kate blushed as she mentioned her principal acquirements, and Mrs
Nickleby checked them all off, one by one, on her fingers; having
calculated the number before she came out. Luckily the two calculations
agreed, so Mrs. Nickleby had no excuse for talking.

‘You are a good temper?’ asked Mrs. Wititterly, opening her eyes for an
instant, and shutting them again.

‘I hope so,’ rejoined Kate.

‘And have a highly respectable reference for everything, have you?’

Kate replied that she had, and laid her uncle’s card upon the table.

‘Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and let me look
at you,’ said Mrs. Wititterly; ‘I am so very nearsighted that I can’t
quite discern your features.’

Kate complied, though not without some embarrassment, with this request,
and Mrs. Wititterly took a languid survey of her countenance, which
lasted some two or three minutes.

‘I like your appearance,’ said that lady, ringing a little bell.
‘Alphonse, request your master to come here.’

The page disappeared on this errand, and after a short interval, during
which not a word was spoken on either side, opened the door for an
important gentleman of about eight-and-thirty, of rather plebeian
countenance, and with a very light head of hair, who leant over Mrs
Wititterly for a little time, and conversed with her in whispers.

‘Oh!’ he said, turning round, ‘yes. This is a most important matter. Mrs
Wititterly is of a very excitable nature; very delicate, very fragile; a
hothouse plant, an exotic.’

‘Oh! Henry, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Wititterly.

‘You are, my love, you know you are; one breath--’ said Mr. W., blowing
an imaginary feather away. ‘Pho! you’re gone!’

The lady sighed.

‘Your soul is too large for your body,’ said Mr. Wititterly. ‘Your
intellect wears you out; all the medical men say so; you know that there
is not a physician who is not proud of being called in to you. What
is their unanimous declaration? “My dear doctor,” said I to Sir Tumley
Snuffim, in this very room, the very last time he came. “My dear doctor,
what is my wife’s complaint? Tell me all. I can bear it. Is it nerves?”
 “My dear fellow,” he said, “be proud of that woman; make much of her;
she is an ornament to the fashionable world, and to you. Her complaint
is soul. It swells, expands, dilates--the blood fires, the pulse
quickens, the excitement increases--Whew!”’ Here Mr. Wititterly, who, in
the ardour of his description, had flourished his right hand to within
something less than an inch of Mrs. Nickleby’s bonnet, drew it hastily
back again, and blew his nose as fiercely as if it had been done by some
violent machinery.

‘You make me out worse than I am, Henry,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, with a
faint smile.

‘I do not, Julia, I do not,’ said Mr. W. ‘The society in which
you move--necessarily move, from your station, connection, and
endowments--is one vortex and whirlpool of the most frightful
excitement. Bless my heart and body, can I ever forget the night you
danced with the baronet’s nephew at the election ball, at Exeter! It was
tremendous.’

‘I always suffer for these triumphs afterwards,’ said Mrs. Wititterly.

‘And for that very reason,’ rejoined her husband, ‘you must have a
companion, in whom there is great gentleness, great sweetness, excessive
sympathy, and perfect repose.’

Here, both Mr. and Mrs. Wititterly, who had talked rather at the Nicklebys
than to each other, left off speaking, and looked at their two hearers,
with an expression of countenance which seemed to say, ‘What do you
think of all this?’

‘Mrs. Wititterly,’ said her husband, addressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby,
‘is sought after and courted by glittering crowds and brilliant circles.
She is excited by the opera, the drama, the fine arts, the--the--the--’

‘The nobility, my love,’ interposed Mrs. Wititterly.

‘The nobility, of course,’ said Mr. Wititterly. ‘And the military. She
forms and expresses an immense variety of opinions on an immense variety
of subjects. If some people in public life were acquainted with Mrs
Wititterly’s real opinion of them, they would not hold their heads,
perhaps, quite as high as they do.’

‘Hush, Henry,’ said the lady; ‘this is scarcely fair.’

‘I mention no names, Julia,’ replied Mr. Wititterly; ‘and nobody is
injured. I merely mention the circumstance to show that you are no
ordinary person, that there is a constant friction perpetually going
on between your mind and your body; and that you must be soothed and
tended. Now let me hear, dispassionately and calmly, what are this young
lady’s qualifications for the office.’

In obedience to this request, the qualifications were all gone through
again, with the addition of many interruptions and cross-questionings
from Mr. Wititterly. It was finally arranged that inquiries should be
made, and a decisive answer addressed to Miss Nickleby under cover
of her uncle, within two days. These conditions agreed upon, the page
showed them down as far as the staircase window; and the big footman,
relieving guard at that point, piloted them in perfect safety to the
street-door.

‘They are very distinguished people, evidently,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, as
she took her daughter’s arm. ‘What a superior person Mrs. Wititterly is!’

‘Do you think so, mama?’ was all Kate’s reply.

‘Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my love?’ rejoined her mother.
‘She is pale though, and looks much exhausted. I hope she may not be
wearing herself out, but I am very much afraid.’

These considerations led the deep-sighted lady into a calculation of
the probable duration of Mrs. Wititterly’s life, and the chances of the
disconsolate widower bestowing his hand on her daughter. Before reaching
home, she had freed Mrs. Wititterly’s soul from all bodily restraint;
married Kate with great splendour at St George’s, Hanover Square;
and only left undecided the minor question, whether a splendid
French-polished mahogany bedstead should be erected for herself in the
two-pair back of the house in Cadogan Place, or in the three-pair front:
between which apartments she could not quite balance the advantages, and
therefore adjusted the question at last, by determining to leave it to
the decision of her son-in-law.

The inquiries were made. The answer--not to Kate’s very great joy--was
favourable; and at the expiration of a week she betook herself, with all
her movables and valuables, to Mrs. Wititterly’s mansion, where for the
present we will leave her.



CHAPTER 22

Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. He
encounters Mr. Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made manifest


The whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to, either in
possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, after paying his rent
and settling with the broker from whom he had hired his poor furniture,
did not exceed, by more than a few halfpence, the sum of twenty
shillings. And yet he hailed the morning on which he had resolved
to quit London, with a light heart, and sprang from his bed with an
elasticity of spirit which is happily the lot of young persons, or the
world would never be stocked with old ones.

It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagre shadows
flitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionally there loomed
through the dull vapour, the heavy outline of some hackney coach wending
homewards, which, drawing slowly nearer, rolled jangling by, scattering
the thin crust of frost from its whitened roof, and soon was lost again
in the cloud. At intervals were heard the tread of slipshod feet, and
the chilly cry of the poor sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early
toil; the heavy footfall of the official watcher of the night, pacing
slowly up and down and cursing the tardy hours that still intervened
between him and sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the
roll of the lighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the
different markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of
heavy sleepers--all these noises fell upon the ear from time to
time, but all seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost as
indistinct to the ear as was every object to the sight. The sluggish
darkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had the courage to
rise and peep at the gloomy street from their curtained windows, crept
back to bed again, and coiled themselves up to sleep.

Before even these indications of approaching morning were rife in busy
London, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, and stood beneath
the windows of his mother’s house. It was dull and bare to see, but it
had light and life for him; for there was at least one heart within
its old walls to which insult or dishonour would bring the same blood
rushing, that flowed in his own veins.

He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of the room where
he knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. ‘Poor girl,’ thought
Nicholas, ‘she little thinks who lingers here!’

He looked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate was
not there to exchange one word at parting. ‘Good God!’ he thought,
suddenly correcting himself, ‘what a boy I am!’

‘It is better as it is,’ said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, a few
paces, and returned to the same spot. ‘When I left them before, and
could have said goodbye a thousand times if I had chosen, I spared them
the pain of leave-taking, and why not now?’ As he spoke, some fancied
motion of the curtain almost persuaded him, for the instant, that Kate
was at the window, and by one of those strange contradictions of feeling
which are common to us all, he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that
she might not see him. He smiled at his own weakness; said ‘God bless
them!’ and walked away with a lighter step.

Smike was anxiously expecting him when he reached his old lodgings, and
so was Newman, who had expended a day’s income in a can of rum and milk
to prepare them for the journey. They had tied up the luggage, Smike
shouldered it, and away they went, with Newman Noggs in company; for he
had insisted on walking as far as he could with them, overnight.

‘Which way?’ asked Newman, wistfully.

‘To Kingston first,’ replied Nicholas.

‘And where afterwards?’ asked Newman. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,’ rejoined Nicholas, laying
his hand upon his shoulder; ‘and if I did, I have neither plan nor
prospect yet, and might shift my quarters a hundred times before you
could possibly communicate with me.’

‘I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,’ said Newman,
doubtfully.

‘So deep,’ replied his young friend, ‘that even I can’t fathom it.
Whatever I resolve upon, depend upon it I will write you soon.’

‘You won’t forget?’ said Newman.

‘I am not very likely to,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘I have not so many
friends that I shall grow confused among the number, and forget my best
one.’

Occupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple of hours,
as they might have done for a couple of days if Nicholas had not sat
himself down on a stone by the wayside, and resolutely declared his
intention of not moving another step until Newman Noggs turned back.
Having pleaded ineffectually first for another half-mile, and afterwards
for another quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course
towards Golden Square, after interchanging many hearty and affectionate
farewells, and many times turning back to wave his hat to the two
wayfarers when they had become mere specks in the distance.

‘Now listen to me, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as they trudged with stout
hearts onwards. ‘We are bound for Portsmouth.’

Smike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no other emotion; for
whether they had been bound for Portsmouth or Port Royal would have been
alike to him, so they had been bound together.

‘I don’t know much of these matters,’ resumed Nicholas; ‘but Portsmouth
is a seaport town, and if no other employment is to be obtained, I
should think we might get on board some ship. I am young and active, and
could be useful in many ways. So could you.’

‘I hope so,’ replied Smike. ‘When I was at that--you know where I mean?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘You needn’t name the place.’

‘Well, when I was there,’ resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling at the
prospect of displaying his abilities; ‘I could milk a cow, and groom a
horse, with anybody.’

‘Ha!’ said Nicholas, gravely. ‘I am afraid they don’t keep many animals
of either kind on board ship, Smike, and even when they have horses,
that they are not very particular about rubbing them down; still you can
learn to do something else, you know. Where there’s a will, there’s a
way.’

‘And I am very willing,’ said Smike, brightening up again.

‘God knows you are,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘and if you fail, it shall go
hard but I’ll do enough for us both.’

‘Do we go all the way today?’ asked Smike, after a short silence.

‘That would be too severe a trial, even for your willing legs,’ said
Nicholas, with a good-humoured smile. ‘No. Godalming is some thirty and
odd miles from London--as I found from a map I borrowed--and I purpose
to rest there. We must push on again tomorrow, for we are not rich
enough to loiter. Let me relieve you of that bundle! Come!’

‘No, no,’ rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. ‘Don’t ask me to
give it up to you.’

‘Why not?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Let me do something for you, at least,’ said Smike. ‘You will never let
me serve you as I ought. You will never know how I think, day and night,
of ways to please you.’

‘You are a foolish fellow to say it, for I know it well, and see it, or
I should be a blind and senseless beast,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Let me ask
you a question while I think of it, and there is no one by,’ he added,
looking him steadily in the face. ‘Have you a good memory?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘I think I had
once; but it’s all gone now--all gone.’

‘Why do you think you had once?’ asked Nicholas, turning quickly upon
him as though the answer in some way helped out the purport of his
question.

‘Because I could remember, when I was a child,’ said Smike, ‘but that is
very, very long ago, or at least it seems so. I was always confused
and giddy at that place you took me from; and could never remember,
and sometimes couldn’t even understand, what they said to me. I--let me
see--let me see!’

‘You are wandering now,’ said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.

‘No,’ replied his companion, with a vacant look ‘I was only thinking
how--’ He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.

‘Think no more of that place, for it is all over,’ retorted Nicholas,
fixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, which was fast settling
into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitual to him, and common even
then. ‘What of the first day you went to Yorkshire?’

‘Eh!’ cried the lad.

‘That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,’ said
Nicholas quietly. ‘Was the weather hot or cold?’

‘Wet,’ replied the boy. ‘Very wet. I have always said, when it has
rained hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used to crowd
round and laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. It was like a
child, they said, and that made me think of it more. I turned cold all
over sometimes, for I could see myself as I was then, coming in at the
very same door.’

‘As you were then,’ repeated Nicholas, with assumed carelessness; ‘how
was that?’

‘Such a little creature,’ said Smike, ‘that they might have had pity and
mercy upon me, only to remember it.’

‘You didn’t find your way there, alone!’ remarked Nicholas.

‘No,’ rejoined Smike, ‘oh no.’

‘Who was with you?’

‘A man--a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at the school,
and I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, I was afraid of
him; but they made me more afraid of them, and used me harder too.’

‘Look at me,’ said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.
‘There; don’t turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who
hung over you once, and kissed your lips, and called you her child?’

‘No,’ said the poor creature, shaking his head, ‘no, never.’

‘Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?’

‘No,’ rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; ‘a room--I remember
I slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of a house, where
there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have covered my head with the
clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: a young child with
no one near at night: and I used to wonder what was on the other side.
There was a clock too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember that.
I have never forgotten that room; for when I have terrible dreams, it
comes back, just as it was. I see things and people in it that I had
never seen then, but there is the room just as it used to be; THAT never
changes.’

‘Will you let me take the bundle now?’ asked Nicholas, abruptly changing
the theme.

‘No,’ said Smike, ‘no. Come, let us walk on.’

He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under the impression
that they had been standing still during the whole of the previous
dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and every word of this
conversation remained upon his memory.

It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although a dense
vapour still enveloped the city they had left, as if the very breath of
its busy people hung over their schemes of gain and profit, and found
greater attraction there than in the quiet region above, in the open
country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, in some low spots they
came upon patches of mist which the sun had not yet driven from their
strongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the
hills beyond, it was pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish
mass rolled heavily off, before the cheering influence of day. A broad,
fine, honest sun lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water
with the semblance of summer, while it left the travellers all the
invigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed
elastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to their ears; and
exhilarated by exercise, and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with
the strength of lions.

The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed
a quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time, or youthful
features by degrees resolving into the calm and serenity of age. But
they were scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had
been in their prime; for nature gives to every time and season some
beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to
the grave, is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy, that we
can scarcely mark their progress.

To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble
beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though
not quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if not with all the
freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear
them cheerily on.

It was a harder day’s journey than yesterday’s, for there were long and
weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal
easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated
perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that
perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.

They walked upon the rim of the Devil’s Punch Bowl; and Smike listened
with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone
which, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by
night. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore;
and the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into
the hollow which gives the place its name. ‘The Devil’s Bowl,’ thought
Nicholas, as he looked into the void, ‘never held fitter liquor than
that!’

Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide
and spacious tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and
plain to change their verdant surface. Here, there shot up, almost
perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly
accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and
there, stood a mound of green, sloping and tapering off so delicately,
and merging so gently into the level ground, that you could scarce
define its limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations
shapely and uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown
negligently side by side, bounded the view in each direction; while
frequently, with unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a
flight of crows, who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if
uncertain of their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and
skimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with the speed of
light itself.

By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as
they had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged
once again upon the open country. The knowledge that they were drawing
near their place of destination, gave them fresh courage to proceed; but
the way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike
was tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned
off the path to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of
Portsmouth.

‘Twelve miles,’ said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and
looking doubtfully at Smike.

‘Twelve long miles,’ repeated the landlord.

‘Is it a good road?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘Very bad,’ said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, he would
say.

‘I want to get on,’ observed Nicholas, hesitating. ‘I scarcely know what
to do.’

‘Don’t let me influence you,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I wouldn’t go on
if it was me.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.

‘Not if I knew when I was well off,’ said the landlord. And having said
it he pulled up his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and, taking
a step or two outside the door, looked down the dark road with an
assumption of great indifference.

A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, so without
any further consideration he made up his mind to stay where he was.

The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a good fire he
remarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one he
would have observed that it was very warm.

‘What can you give us for supper?’ was Nicholas’s natural question.

‘Why--what would you like?’ was the landlord’s no less natural answer.

Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat--poached eggs,
but there were no eggs--mutton chops, but there wasn’t a mutton chop
within three miles, though there had been more last week than they knew
what to do with, and would be an extraordinary supply the day after
tomorrow.

‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘I must leave it entirely to you, as I would have
done, at first, if you had allowed me.’

‘Why, then I’ll tell you what,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘There’s a
gentleman in the parlour that’s ordered a hot beef-steak pudding and
potatoes, at nine. There’s more of it than he can manage, and I have
very little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I’ll do
that, in a minute.’

‘No, no,’ said Nicholas, detaining him. ‘I would rather not. I--at
least--pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am travelling
in a very humble manner, and have made my way hither on foot. It is more
than probable, I think, that the gentleman may not relish my company;
and although I am the dusty figure you see, I am too proud to thrust
myself into his.’

‘Lord love you,’ said the landlord, ‘it’s only Mr. Crummles; HE isn’t
particular.’

‘Is he not?’ asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, the
prospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.

‘Not he,’ replied the landlord. ‘He’ll like your way of talking, I know.
But we’ll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.’

The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying for further
permission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wisely considering
that supper, under the circumstances, was too serious a matter to be
trifled with. It was not long before the host returned, in a condition
of much excitement.

‘All right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I knew he would. You’ll see
something rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of
it!’

There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, which was
delivered in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he had already thrown
open the door of the room; into which Nicholas, followed by Smike with
the bundle on his shoulder (he carried it about with him as vigilantly
as if it had been a sack of gold), straightway repaired.

Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not for something quite so
odd as the sight he encountered. At the upper end of the room, were a
couple of boys, one of them very tall and the other very short, both
dressed as sailors--or at least as theatrical sailors, with belts,
buckles, pigtails, and pistols complete--fighting what is called in
play-bills a terrific combat, with two of those short broad-swords with
basket hilts which are commonly used at our minor theatres. The short
boy had gained a great advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to
mortal strait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perched
against the corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them to strike a
little more fire out of the swords, and they couldn’t fail to bring the
house down, on the very first night.

‘Mr. Vincent Crummles,’ said the landlord with an air of great deference.
‘This is the young gentleman.’

Mr. Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination of the head,
something between the courtesy of a Roman emperor and the nod of a pot
companion; and bade the landlord shut the door and begone.

‘There’s a picture,’ said Mr. Crummles, motioning Nicholas not to advance
and spoil it. ‘The little ‘un has him; if the big ‘un doesn’t knock
under, in three seconds, he’s a dead man. Do that again, boys.’

The two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped away until the
swords emitted a shower of sparks: to the great satisfaction of Mr
Crummles, who appeared to consider this a very great point indeed. The
engagement commenced with about two hundred chops administered by the
short sailor and the tall sailor alternately, without producing any
particular result, until the short sailor was chopped down on one knee;
but this was nothing to him, for he worked himself about on the one knee
with the assistance of his left hand, and fought most desperately until
the tall sailor chopped his sword out of his grasp. Now, the inference
was, that the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would give in at
once and cry quarter, but, instead of that, he all of a sudden drew
a large pistol from his belt and presented it at the face of the tall
sailor, who was so overcome at this (not expecting it) that he let
the short sailor pick up his sword and begin again. Then, the chopping
recommenced, and a variety of fancy chops were administered on both
sides; such as chops dealt with the left hand, and under the leg, and
over the right shoulder, and over the left; and when the short sailor
made a vigorous cut at the tall sailor’s legs, which would have shaved
them clean off if it had taken effect, the tall sailor jumped over the
short sailor’s sword, wherefore to balance the matter, and make it all
fair, the tall sailor administered the same cut, and the short sailor
jumped over HIS sword. After this, there was a good deal of dodging
about, and hitching up of the inexpressibles in the absence of braces,
and then the short sailor (who was the moral character evidently, for he
always had the best of it) made a violent demonstration and closed with
the tall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down,
and expired in great torture as the short sailor put his foot upon his
breast, and bored a hole in him through and through.

‘That’ll be a double ENCORE if you take care, boys,’ said Mr. Crummles.
‘You had better get your wind now and change your clothes.’

Having addressed these words to the combatants, he saluted Nicholas, who
then observed that the face of Mr. Crummles was quite proportionate in
size to his body; that he had a very full under-lip, a hoarse voice, as
though he were in the habit of shouting very much, and very short
black hair, shaved off nearly to the crown of his head--to admit (as
he afterwards learnt) of his more easily wearing character wigs of any
shape or pattern.

‘What did you think of that, sir?’ inquired Mr. Crummles.

‘Very good, indeed--capital,’ answered Nicholas.

‘You won’t see such boys as those very often, I think,’ said Mr
Crummles.

Nicholas assented--observing that if they were a little better match--

‘Match!’ cried Mr. Crummles.

‘I mean if they were a little more of a size,’ said Nicholas, explaining
himself.

‘Size!’ repeated Mr. Crummles; ‘why, it’s the essence of the combat that
there should be a foot or two between them. How are you to get up the
sympathies of the audience in a legitimate manner, if there isn’t a
little man contending against a big one?--unless there’s at least five
to one, and we haven’t hands enough for that business in our company.’

‘I see,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon. That didn’t occur to me,
I confess.’

‘It’s the main point,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘I open at Portsmouth the day
after tomorrow. If you’re going there, look into the theatre, and see
how that’ll tell.’

Nicholas promised to do so, if he could, and drawing a chair near the
fire, fell into conversation with the manager at once. He was very
talkative and communicative, stimulated perhaps, not only by his natural
disposition, but by the spirits and water he sipped very plentifully, or
the snuff he took in large quantities from a piece of whitey-brown paper
in his waistcoat pocket. He laid open his affairs without the smallest
reserve, and descanted at some length upon the merits of his company,
and the acquirements of his family; of both of which, the two
broad-sword boys formed an honourable portion. There was to be
a gathering, it seemed, of the different ladies and gentlemen at
Portsmouth on the morrow, whither the father and sons were proceeding
(not for the regular season, but in the course of a wandering
speculation), after fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the
greatest applause.

‘You are going that way?’ asked the manager.

‘Ye-yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Do you know the town at all?’ inquired the manager, who seemed to
consider himself entitled to the same degree of confidence as he had
himself exhibited.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Never there?’

‘Never.’

Mr. Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as to say, ‘If you
won’t be communicative, you won’t;’ and took so many pinches of snuff
from the piece of paper, one after another, that Nicholas quite wondered
where it all went to.

While he was thus engaged, Mr. Crummles looked, from time to time, with
great interest at Smike, with whom he had appeared considerably struck
from the first. He had now fallen asleep, and was nodding in his chair.

‘Excuse my saying so,’ said the manager, leaning over to Nicholas, and
sinking his voice, ‘but what a capital countenance your friend has got!’

‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, with a half-smile, ‘I wish it were a
little more plump, and less haggard.’

‘Plump!’ exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, ‘you’d spoil it for
ever.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,’ said the manager, striking his knee
emphatically; ‘without a pad upon his body, and hardly a touch of paint
upon his face, he’d make such an actor for the starved business as was
never seen in this country. Only let him be tolerably well up in the
Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with the slightest possible dab of red
on the tip of his nose, and he’d be certain of three rounds the moment
he put his head out of the practicable door in the front grooves O.P.’

‘You view him with a professional eye,’ said Nicholas, laughing.

‘And well I may,’ rejoined the manager. ‘I never saw a young fellow so
regularly cut out for that line, since I’ve been in the profession. And
I played the heavy children when I was eighteen months old.’

The appearance of the beef-steak pudding, which came in simultaneously
with the junior Vincent Crummleses, turned the conversation to other
matters, and indeed, for a time, stopped it altogether. These two young
gentlemen wielded their knives and forks with scarcely less address than
their broad-swords, and as the whole party were quite as sharp set as
either class of weapons, there was no time for talking until the supper
had been disposed of.

The Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the last procurable
morsel of food, than they evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and
stretchings of their limbs, an obvious inclination to retire for the
night, which Smike had betrayed still more strongly: he having, in the
course of the meal, fallen asleep several times while in the very act of
eating. Nicholas therefore proposed that they should break up at
once, but the manager would by no means hear of it; vowing that he had
promised himself the pleasure of inviting his new acquaintance to
share a bowl of punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it very
unhandsome behaviour.

‘Let them go,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, ‘and we’ll have it snugly and
cosily together by the fire.’

Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep--being in truth too anxious--so,
after a little demur, he accepted the offer, and having exchanged a
shake of the hand with the young Crummleses, and the manager having
on his part bestowed a most affectionate benediction on Smike, he sat
himself down opposite to that gentleman by the fireside to assist in
emptying the bowl, which soon afterwards appeared, steaming in a
manner which was quite exhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most
grateful and inviting fragrance.

But, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety of stories,
and smoked tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in the shape of snuff,
with a most astonishing power, Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His
thoughts were in his old home, and when they reverted to his present
condition, the uncertainty of the morrow cast a gloom upon him, which
his utmost efforts were unable to dispel. His attention wandered;
although he heard the manager’s voice, he was deaf to what he said; and
when Mr. Vincent Crummles concluded the history of some long adventure
with a loud laugh, and an inquiry what Nicholas would have done under
the same circumstances, he was obliged to make the best apology in his
power, and to confess his entire ignorance of all he had been talking
about.

‘Why, so I saw,’ observed Mr. Crummles. ‘You’re uneasy in your mind.
What’s the matter?’

Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of the
question; but, thinking it scarcely worth while to parry it, owned that
he was under some apprehensions lest he might not succeed in the object
which had brought him to that part of the country.

‘And what’s that?’ asked the manager.

‘Getting something to do which will keep me and my poor fellow-traveller
in the common necessaries of life,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s the truth.
You guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I may as well have the credit of
telling it you with a good grace.’

‘What’s to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhere else?’ asked Mr
Vincent Crummles, melting the sealing-wax on the stem of his pipe in the
candle, and rolling it out afresh with his little finger.

‘There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,’ replied Nicholas.
‘I shall try for a berth in some ship or other. There is meat and drink
there at all events.’

‘Salt meat and new rum; pease-pudding and chaff-biscuits,’ said the
manager, taking a whiff at his pipe to keep it alight, and returning to
his work of embellishment.

‘One may do worse than that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can rough it, I believe,
as well as most young men of my age and previous habits.’

‘You need be able to,’ said the manager, ‘if you go on board ship; but
you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there’s not a skipper or mate that would think you worth your
salt, when he could get a practised hand,’ replied the manager; ‘and
they as plentiful there, as the oysters in the streets.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nicholas, alarmed by this prediction, and
the confident tone in which it had been uttered. ‘Men are not born able
seamen. They must be reared, I suppose?’

Mr. Vincent Crummles nodded his head. ‘They must; but not at your age, or
from young gentlemen like you.’

There was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and he gazed
ruefully at the fire.

‘Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man of your figure
and address could take up easily, and see the world to advantage in?’
asked the manager.

‘No,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head.

‘Why, then, I’ll tell you one,’ said Mr. Crummles, throwing his pipe into
the fire, and raising his voice. ‘The stage.’

‘The stage!’ cried Nicholas, in a voice almost as loud.

‘The theatrical profession,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles. ‘I am in the
theatrical profession myself, my wife is in the theatrical profession,
my children are in the theatrical profession. I had a dog that lived
and died in it from a puppy; and my chaise-pony goes on, in Timour the
Tartar. I’ll bring you out, and your friend too. Say the word. I want a
novelty.’

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ rejoined Nicholas, whose breath had
been almost taken away by this sudden proposal. ‘I never acted a part in
my life, except at school.’

‘There’s genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juvenile tragedy
in your eye, and touch-and-go farce in your laugh,’ said Mr. Vincent
Crummles. ‘You’ll do as well as if you had thought of nothing else but
the lamps, from your birth downwards.’

Nicholas thought of the small amount of small change that would remain
in his pocket after paying the tavern bill; and he hesitated.

‘You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,’ said Mr. Crummles.
‘Think what capital bills a man of your education could write for the
shop-windows.’

‘Well, I think I could manage that department,’ said Nicholas.

‘To be sure you could,’ replied Mr. Crummles. ‘“For further particulars
see small hand-bills”--we might have half a volume in every one of
‘em. Pieces too; why, you could write us a piece to bring out the whole
strength of the company, whenever we wanted one.’

‘I am not quite so confident about that,’ replied Nicholas. ‘But I dare
say I could scribble something now and then, that would suit you.’

‘We’ll have a new show-piece out directly,’ said the manager. ‘Let
me see--peculiar resources of this establishment--new and splendid
scenery--you must manage to introduce a real pump and two washing-tubs.’

‘Into the piece?’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ replied the manager. ‘I bought ‘em cheap, at a sale the other
day, and they’ll come in admirably. That’s the London plan. They look up
some dresses, and properties, and have a piece written to fit ‘em. Most
of the theatres keep an author on purpose.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Nicholas.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the manager; ‘a common thing. It’ll look very well
in the bills in separate lines--Real pump!--Splendid tubs!--Great
attraction! You don’t happen to be anything of an artist, do you?’

‘That is not one of my accomplishments,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Ah! Then it can’t be helped,’ said the manager. ‘If you had been,
we might have had a large woodcut of the last scene for the posters,
showing the whole depth of the stage, with the pump and tubs in the
middle; but, however, if you’re not, it can’t be helped.’

‘What should I get for all this?’ inquired Nicholas, after a few
moments’ reflection. ‘Could I live by it?’

‘Live by it!’ said the manager. ‘Like a prince! With your own salary,
and your friend’s, and your writings, you’d make--ah! you’d make a pound
a week!’

‘You don’t say so!’

‘I do indeed, and if we had a run of good houses, nearly double the
money.’

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution was before him;
and if he could summon fortitude to undergo the extremes of want and
hardship, for what had he rescued his helpless charge if it were only to
bear as hard a fate as that from which he had wrested him? It was easy
to think of seventy miles as nothing, when he was in the same town with
the man who had treated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts;
but now, it seemed far enough. What if he went abroad, and his mother or
Kate were to die the while?

Without more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was a bargain,
and gave Mr. Vincent Crummles his hand upon it.



CHAPTER 23

Treats of the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs,
Domestic and Theatrical


As Mr. Crummles had a strange four-legged animal in the inn stables,
which he called a pony, and a vehicle of unknown design, on which he
bestowed the appellation of a four-wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded
on his journey next morning with greater ease than he had expected: the
manager and himself occupying the front seat: and the Master Crummleses
and Smike being packed together behind, in company with a wicker basket
defended from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were the broad-swords,
pistols, pigtails, nautical costumes, and other professional necessaries
of the aforesaid young gentlemen.

The pony took his time upon the road, and--possibly in consequence
of his theatrical education--evinced, every now and then, a strong
inclination to lie down. However, Mr. Vincent Crummles kept him up pretty
well, by jerking the rein, and plying the whip; and when these means
failed, and the animal came to a stand, the elder Master Crummles got
out and kicked him. By dint of these encouragements, he was persuaded
to move from time to time, and they jogged on (as Mr. Crummles truly
observed) very comfortably for all parties.

‘He’s a good pony at bottom,’ said Mr. Crummles, turning to Nicholas.

He might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at top, seeing
that his coat was of the roughest and most ill-favoured kind. So,
Nicholas merely observed that he shouldn’t wonder if he was.

‘Many and many is the circuit this pony has gone,’ said Mr. Crummles,
flicking him skilfully on the eyelid for old acquaintance’ sake. ‘He is
quite one of us. His mother was on the stage.’

‘Was she?’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘She ate apple-pie at a circus for upwards of fourteen years,’ said the
manager; ‘fired pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap; and, in short,
took the low comedy entirely. His father was a dancer.’

‘Was he at all distinguished?’

‘Not very,’ said the manager. ‘He was rather a low sort of pony. The
fact is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he never
quite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama too, but too
broad--too broad. When the mother died, he took the port-wine business.’

‘The port-wine business!’ cried Nicholas.

‘Drinking port-wine with the clown,’ said the manager; ‘but he was
greedy, and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself,
so his vulgarity was the death of him at last.’

The descendant of this ill-starred animal requiring increased attention
from Mr. Crummles as he progressed in his day’s work, that gentleman had
very little time for conversation. Nicholas was thus left at leisure
to entertain himself with his own thoughts, until they arrived at the
drawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr. Crummles pulled up.

‘We’ll get down here,’ said the manager, ‘and the boys will take him
round to the stable, and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You had
better let yours be taken there, for the present.’

Thanking Mr. Vincent Crummles for his obliging offer, Nicholas jumped
out, and, giving Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up High Street
on their way to the theatre; feeling nervous and uncomfortable enough at
the prospect of an immediate introduction to a scene so new to him.

They passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls and displayed
in windows, wherein the names of Mr. Vincent Crummles, Mrs. Vincent
Crummles, Master Crummles, Master P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles, were
printed in very large letters, and everything else in very small ones;
and, turning at length into an entry, in which was a strong smell of
orange-peel and lamp-oil, with an under-current of sawdust, groped their
way through a dark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a
little maze of canvas screens and paint pots, and emerged upon the stage
of the Portsmouth Theatre.

‘Here we are,’ said Mr. Crummles.

It was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to the first
entrance on the prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed
clouds, heavily daubed draperies, and dirty floors. He looked about him;
ceiling, pit, boxes, gallery, orchestra, fittings, and decorations of
every kind,--all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched.

‘Is this a theatre?’ whispered Smike, in amazement; ‘I thought it was a
blaze of light and finery.’

‘Why, so it is,’ replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; ‘but not by
day, Smike--not by day.’

The manager’s voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the
building, to the opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small
mahogany table with rickety legs and of an oblong shape, sat a stout,
portly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished silk
cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair
(of which she had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each
temple.

‘Mr. Johnson,’ said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name
which Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs
Kenwigs), ‘let me introduce Mrs. Vincent Crummles.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ said Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral
voice. ‘I am very glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a
promising member of our corps.’

The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms;
he saw it was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip
as that with which she honoured him.

‘And this,’ said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross
when they obey a stage direction, ‘and this is the other. You too, are
welcome, sir.’

‘He’ll do, I think, my dear?’ said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.

‘He is admirable,’ replied the lady. ‘An acquisition indeed.’

As Mrs. Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, there bounded on
to the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white
frock with tucks up to the knees, short trousers, sandaled shoes, white
spencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil and curl papers; who turned a
pirouette, cut twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking
off at the opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches
of the footlights, and fell into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a
shabby gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at one powerful
slide, and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.

‘They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,’ said Mrs
Crummles.

‘Oh!’ said the manager, ‘the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on.
A little this way, if you please, Mr. Johnson. That’ll do. Now!’

The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage,
becoming ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; but the maiden
avoided him in six twirls, and came down, at the end of the last one,
upon the very points of her toes. This seemed to make some impression
upon the savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the
maiden into corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several
times with his right thumb and four fingers, thereby intimating that
he was struck with admiration of the maiden’s beauty. Acting upon the
impulse of this passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe
thumps in the chest, and to exhibit other indications of being
desperately in love, which being rather a prosy proceeding, was very
likely the cause of the maiden’s falling asleep; whether it was or
no, asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a sloping bank, and the
savage perceiving it, leant his left ear on his left hand, and nodded
sideways, to intimate to all whom it might concern that she WAS asleep,
and no shamming. Being left to himself, the savage had a dance, all
alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke up, rubbed her eyes, got off
the bank, and had a dance all alone too--such a dance that the savage
looked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it was done, plucked from
a neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity, resembling a small pickled
cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at first wouldn’t have it,
but on the savage shedding tears relented. Then the savage jumped
for joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of
the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and the maiden danced violently
together, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee, and the
maiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the ballet,
and leaving the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether
she would ultimately marry the savage, or return to her friends.

‘Very well indeed,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘bravo!’

‘Bravo!’ cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything.
‘Beautiful!’

‘This, sir,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward,
‘this is the infant phenomenon--Miss Ninetta Crummles.’

‘Your daughter?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘My daughter--my daughter,’ replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; ‘the idol of
every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about
this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in
England.’

‘I am not surprised at that,’ said Nicholas; ‘she must be quite a
natural genius.’

‘Quite a--!’ Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to
describe the infant phenomenon. ‘I’ll tell you what, sir,’ he said;
‘the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen,
sir--seen--to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother,
my dear.’

‘May I ask how old she is?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘You may, sir,’ replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his
questioner’s face, as some men do when they have doubts about being
implicitly believed in what they are going to say. ‘She is ten years of
age, sir.’

‘Not more!’

‘Not a day.’

‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas, ‘it’s extraordinary.’

It was; for the infant phenomenon, though of short stature, had a
comparatively aged countenance, and had moreover been precisely the
same age--not perhaps to the full extent of the memory of the oldest
inhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been kept up
late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin-and-water
from infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system
of training had produced in the infant phenomenon these additional
phenomena.

While this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who had enacted
the savage, came up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his
slippers in his hand, to within a few paces, as if desirous to join in
the conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he put in his word.

‘Talent there, sir!’ said the savage, nodding towards Miss Crummles.

Nicholas assented.

‘Ah!’ said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing in his
breath with a hissing sound, ‘she oughtn’t to be in the provinces, she
oughtn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the manager.

‘I mean to say,’ replied the other, warmly, ‘that she is too good for
country boards, and that she ought to be in one of the large houses in
London, or nowhere; and I tell you more, without mincing the matter,
that if it wasn’t for envy and jealousy in some quarter that you know
of, she would be. Perhaps you’ll introduce me here, Mr. Crummles.’

‘Mr. Folair,’ said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.

‘Happy to know you, sir.’ Mr. Folair touched the brim of his hat with his
forefinger, and then shook hands. ‘A recruit, sir, I understand?’

‘An unworthy one,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Did you ever see such a set-out as that?’ whispered the actor, drawing
him away, as Crummles left them to speak to his wife.

‘As what?’

Mr. Folair made a funny face from his pantomime collection, and pointed
over his shoulder.

‘You don’t mean the infant phenomenon?’

‘Infant humbug, sir,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘There isn’t a female child of
common sharpness in a charity school, that couldn’t do better than that.
She may thank her stars she was born a manager’s daughter.’

‘You seem to take it to heart,’ observed Nicholas, with a smile.

‘Yes, by Jove, and well I may,’ said Mr. Folair, drawing his arm through
his, and walking him up and down the stage. ‘Isn’t it enough to make a
man crusty to see that little sprawler put up in the best business every
night, and actually keeping money out of the house, by being forced
down the people’s throats, while other people are passed over? Isn’t
it extraordinary to see a man’s confounded family conceit blinding him,
even to his own interest? Why I KNOW of fifteen and sixpence that came
to Southampton one night last month, to see me dance the Highland Fling;
and what’s the consequence? I’ve never been put up in it since--never
once--while the “infant phenomenon” has been grinning through artificial
flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in the
gallery, every night.’

‘If I may judge from what I have seen of you,’ said Nicholas, ‘you must
be a valuable member of the company.’

‘Oh!’ replied Mr. Folair, beating his slippers together, to knock the
dust out; ‘I CAN come it pretty well--nobody better, perhaps, in my own
line--but having such business as one gets here, is like putting lead on
one’s feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetters without the credit
of it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?’

The gentleman addressed in these latter words was a dark-complexioned
man, inclining indeed to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very
evident inclinations (although he was close shaved) of a stiff beard,
and whiskers of the same deep shade. His age did not appear to exceed
thirty, though many at first sight would have considered him much older,
as his face was long, and very pale, from the constant application of
stage paint. He wore a checked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt
buttons, a neckerchief of broad red and green stripes, and full blue
trousers; he carried, too, a common ash walking-stick, apparently
more for show than use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked end
downwards, except when he raised it for a few seconds, and throwing
himself into a fencing attitude, made a pass or two at the side-scenes,
or at any other object, animate or inanimate, that chanced to afford him
a pretty good mark at the moment.

‘Well, Tommy,’ said this gentleman, making a thrust at his friend, who
parried it dexterously with his slipper, ‘what’s the news?’

‘A new appearance, that’s all,’ replied Mr. Folair, looking at Nicholas.

‘Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,’ said the other gentleman,
tapping him reproachfully on the crown of the hat with his stick.

‘This is Mr. Lenville, who does our first tragedy, Mr. Johnson,’ said the
pantomimist.

‘Except when old bricks and mortar takes it into his head to do it
himself, you should add, Tommy,’ remarked Mr. Lenville. ‘You know who
bricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?’

‘I do not, indeed,’ replied Nicholas.

‘We call Crummles that, because his style of acting is rather in the
heavy and ponderous way,’ said Mr. Lenville. ‘I mustn’t be cracking jokes
though, for I’ve got a part of twelve lengths here, which I must be
up in tomorrow night, and I haven’t had time to look at it yet; I’m a
confounded quick study, that’s one comfort.’

Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr. Lenville drew from his coat
pocket a greasy and crumpled manuscript, and, having made another pass
at his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro, conning it to himself and
indulging occasionally in such appropriate action as his imagination and
the text suggested.

A pretty general muster of the company had by this time taken place;
for besides Mr. Lenville and his friend Tommy, there were present, a slim
young gentleman with weak eyes, who played the low-spirited lovers
and sang tenor songs, and who had come arm-in-arm with the comic
countryman--a man with a turned-up nose, large mouth, broad face, and
staring eyes. Making himself very amiable to the infant phenomenon, was
an inebriated elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who
played the calm and virtuous old men; and paying especial court to Mrs
Crummles was another elderly gentleman, a shade more respectable, who
played the irascible old men--those funny fellows who have nephews in
the army and perpetually run about with thick sticks to compel them to
marry heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-looking person in
a rough great-coat, who strode up and down in front of the lamps,
flourishing a dress cane, and rattling away, in an undertone, with great
vivacity for the amusement of an ideal audience. He was not quite so
young as he had been, and his figure was rather running to seed; but
there was an air of exaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the
hero of swaggering comedy. There was, also, a little group of three or
four young men with lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who were conversing
in one corner; but they seemed to be of secondary importance, and
laughed and talked together without attracting any attention.

The ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves round the
rickety table before mentioned. There was Miss Snevellicci--who could
do anything, from a medley dance to Lady Macbeth, and also always played
some part in blue silk knee-smalls at her benefit--glancing, from the
depths of her coal-scuttle straw bonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting
to be absorbed in the recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss
Ledrook, who had brought her work, and was making up a ruff in the most
natural manner possible. There was Miss Belvawney--who seldom aspired
to speaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white silk hose, to
stand with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go in and
out after Mr. Crummles in stately tragedy--twisting up the ringlets of
the beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had her likeness taken ‘in
character’ by an engraver’s apprentice, whereof impressions were hung up
for sale in the pastry-cook’s window, and the greengrocer’s, and at the
circulating library, and the box-office, whenever the announce bills
came out for her annual night. There was Mrs. Lenville, in a very limp
bonnet and veil, decidedly in that way in which she would wish to be if
she truly loved Mr. Lenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with an imitation
ermine boa tied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr. Crummles,
junior, with both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs. Grudden in a brown
cloth pelisse and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs. Crummles in her
domestic affairs, and took money at the doors, and dressed the ladies,
and swept the house, and held the prompt book when everybody else was on
for the last scene, and acted any kind of part on any emergency without
ever learning it, and was put down in the bills under any name or names
whatever, that occurred to Mr. Crummles as looking well in print.

Mr. Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left
him to mingle with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was
completed by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as
a prodigy of genius and learning.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas,
‘but did you ever play at Canterbury?’

‘I never did,’ replied Nicholas.

‘I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,’ said Miss Snevellicci,
‘only for a few moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it,
so like you that I felt almost certain it was the same.’

‘I see you now for the first time,’ rejoined Nicholas with all due
gallantry. ‘I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn’t have forgotten
it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure--it’s very flattering of you to say so,’ retorted Miss
Snevellicci with a graceful bend. ‘Now I look at you again, I see that
the gentleman at Canterbury hadn’t the same eyes as you--you’ll think me
very foolish for taking notice of such things, won’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Nicholas. ‘How can I feel otherwise than flattered by
your notice in any way?’

‘Oh! you men are such vain creatures!’ cried Miss Snevellicci.
Whereupon, she became charmingly confused, and, pulling out her
pocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk reticule with a gilt clasp,
called to Miss Ledrook--

‘Led, my dear,’ said Miss Snevellicci.

‘Well, what is the matter?’ said Miss Ledrook.

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Not the same what?’

‘Canterbury--you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to you.’

But Miss Ledrook wouldn’t come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci
was obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner
that was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss
Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after some playful
whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of
her hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, who had been writing
on a piece of paper, ‘we’ll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten;
everybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you’re all
up in, so we shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at ten, if you
please.’

‘Everybody at ten,’ repeated Mrs. Grudden, looking about her.

‘On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘the
name’s not known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr. Johnson
will take care of that.’

‘Hallo!’ said Nicholas, starting. ‘I--’

‘On Monday morning,’ repeated Mr. Crummles, raising his voice, to drown
the unfortunate Mr. Johnson’s remonstrance; ‘that’ll do, ladies and
gentlemen.’

The ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in
a few minutes, the theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family,
Nicholas, and Smike.

‘Upon my word,’ said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, ‘I don’t think
I can be ready by Monday.’

‘Pooh, pooh,’ replied Mr. Crummles.

‘But really I can’t,’ returned Nicholas; ‘my invention is not accustomed
to these demands, or possibly I might produce--’

‘Invention! what the devil’s that got to do with it!’ cried the manager
hastily.

‘Everything, my dear sir.’

‘Nothing, my dear sir,’ retorted the manager, with evident impatience.
‘Do you understand French?’

‘Perfectly well.’

‘Very good,’ said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a
roll of paper from it to Nicholas. ‘There! Just turn that into English,
and put your name on the title-page. Damn me,’ said Mr. Crummles,
angrily, ‘if I haven’t often said that I wouldn’t have a man or woman in
my company that wasn’t master of the language, so that they might learn
it from the original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble
and expense.’

Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.

‘What are you going to do about your lodgings?’ said Mr. Crummles.

Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be
an uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but he
merely remarked that he had not turned his thoughts that way.

‘Come home with me then,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘and my boys shall go with
you after dinner, and show you the most likely place.’

The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr. Crummles gave Mrs
Crummles an arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike,
the boys, and the phenomenon, went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs
Grudden remained behind to take some cold Irish stew and a pint of
porter in the box-office.

Mrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate
execution with an animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic
fortitude which virtue alone inspires. Mr. Crummles, on the other hand,
assumed the look and gait of a hardened despot; but they both attracted
some notice from many of the passers-by, and when they heard a whisper
of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Crummles!’ or saw a little boy run back to stare them in
the face, the severe expression of their countenances relaxed, for they
felt it was popularity.

Mr. Crummles lived in St Thomas’s Street, at the house of one Bulph, a
pilot, who sported a boat-green door, with window-frames of the same
colour, and had the little finger of a drowned man on his parlour
mantelshelf, with other maritime and natural curiosities. He displayed
also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and a brass bell-handle, all very
bright and shining; and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in his
back yard.

‘You are welcome,’ said Mrs. Crummles, turning round to Nicholas when
they reached the bow-windowed front room on the first floor.

Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedly glad to see the
cloth laid.

‘We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,’ said Mrs. Crummles,
in the same charnel-house voice; ‘but such as our dinner is, we beg you
to partake of it.’

‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I shall do it ample justice.’

‘Vincent,’ said Mrs. Crummles, ‘what is the hour?’

‘Five minutes past dinner-time,’ said Mr. Crummles.

Mrs. Crummles rang the bell. ‘Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.’

The slave who attended upon Mr. Bulph’s lodgers, disappeared, and after
a short interval reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas and the
infant phenomenon opposed each other at the pembroke-table, and Smike
and the master Crummleses dined on the sofa bedstead.

‘Are they very theatrical people here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Crummles, shaking his head, ‘far from it--far from it.’

‘I pity them,’ observed Mrs. Crummles.

‘So do I,’ said Nicholas; ‘if they have no relish for theatrical
entertainments, properly conducted.’

‘Then they have none, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Crummles. ‘To the infant’s
benefit, last year, on which occasion she repeated three of her most
popular characters, and also appeared in the Fairy Porcupine, as
originally performed by her, there was a house of no more than four
pound twelve.’

‘Is it possible?’ cried Nicholas.

‘And two pound of that was trust, pa,’ said the phenomenon.

‘And two pound of that was trust,’ repeated Mr. Crummles. ‘Mrs. Crummles
herself has played to mere handfuls.’

‘But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,’ said the manager’s
wife.

‘Most audiences are, when they have good acting--real good acting--the
regular thing,’ replied Mr. Crummles, forcibly.

‘Do you give lessons, ma’am?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘I do,’ said Mrs. Crummles.

‘There is no teaching here, I suppose?’

‘There has been,’ said Mrs. Crummles. ‘I have received pupils here. I
imparted tuition to the daughter of a dealer in ships’ provision; but
it afterwards appeared that she was insane when she first came to me. It
was very extraordinary that she should come, under such circumstances.’

Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to hold his
peace.

‘Let me see,’ said the manager cogitating after dinner. ‘Would you like
some nice little part with the infant?’

‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas hastily; ‘but I think perhaps it
would be better if I had somebody of my own size at first, in case I
should turn out awkward. I should feel more at home, perhaps.’

‘True,’ said the manager. ‘Perhaps you would. And you could play up to
the infant, in time, you know.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be a very
long time before he was honoured with this distinction.

‘Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘You shall study
Romeo when you’ve done that piece--don’t forget to throw the pump
and tubs in by-the-bye--Juliet Miss Snevellicci, old Grudden the
nurse.--Yes, that’ll do very well. Rover too;--you might get up Rover
while you were about it, and Cassio, and Jeremy Diddler. You can easily
knock them off; one part helps the other so much. Here they are, cues
and all.’

With these hasty general directions Mr. Crummles thrust a number of
little books into the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his
eldest son go with him and show where lodgings were to be had, shook him
by the hand, and wished him good night.

There is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments in Portsmouth, and
no difficulty in finding some that are proportionate to very slender
finances; but the former were too good, and the latter too bad, and they
went into so many houses, and came out unsuited, that Nicholas seriously
began to think he should be obliged to ask permission to spend the night
in the theatre, after all.

Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms up three pair of
stairs, or rather two pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist’s shop, on the
Common Hard: a dirty street leading down to the dockyard. These Nicholas
engaged, only too happy to have escaped any request for payment of a
week’s rent beforehand.

‘There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,’ he said, after showing
young Crummles downstairs. ‘We have fallen upon strange times, and
Heaven only knows the end of them; but I am tired with the events of
these three days, and will postpone reflection till tomorrow--if I can.’



CHAPTER 24

Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of
Nicholas upon any Stage


Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to
dress, notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs,
and was presently saluted by the voices of Mr. Folair the pantomimist,
and Mr. Lenville, the tragedian.

‘House, house, house!’ cried Mr. Folair.

‘What, ho! within there,’ said Mr. Lenville, in a deep voice.

‘Confound these fellows!’ thought Nicholas; ‘they have come to
breakfast, I suppose. I’ll open the door directly, if you’ll wait an
instant.’

The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile the
interval, had a fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the very small
landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers
downstairs.

‘Here, come in,’ said Nicholas, when he had completed his toilet. ‘In
the name of all that’s horrible, don’t make that noise outside.’

‘An uncommon snug little box this,’ said Mr. Lenville, stepping into
the front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in at all.
‘Pernicious snug.’

‘For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifle
too snug,’ said Nicholas; ‘for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great
convenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or
the floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your
chair, still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the
most limited size.’

‘It isn’t a bit too confined for a single man,’ returned Mr. Lenville.
‘That reminds me,--my wife, Mr. Johnson,--I hope she’ll have some good
part in this piece of yours?’

‘I glanced at the French copy last night,’ said Nicholas. ‘It looks very
good, I think.’

‘What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?’ asked Mr. Lenville, poking
the struggling fire with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it on
the skirt of his coat. ‘Anything in the gruff and grumble way?’

‘You turn your wife and child out of doors,’ said Nicholas; ‘and, in a
fit of rage and jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.’

‘Do I though!’ exclaimed Mr. Lenville. ‘That’s very good business.’

‘After which,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are troubled with remorse till the
last act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself. But, just
as you are raising the pistol to your head, a clock strikes--ten.’

‘I see,’ cried Mr. Lenville. ‘Very good.’

‘You pause,’ said Nicholas; ‘you recollect to have heard a clock
strike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand--you are
overcome--you burst into tears, and become a virtuous and exemplary
character for ever afterwards.’

‘Capital!’ said Mr. Lenville: ‘that’s a sure card, a sure card. Get the
curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it’ll be a triumphant
success.’

‘Is there anything good for me?’ inquired Mr. Folair, anxiously.

‘Let me see,’ said Nicholas. ‘You play the faithful and attached
servant; you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.’

‘Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,’ sighed Mr. Folair;
‘and we go into poor lodgings, where I won’t take any wages, and talk
sentiment, I suppose?’

‘Why--yes,’ replied Nicholas: ‘that is the course of the piece.’

‘I must have a dance of some kind, you know,’ said Mr. Folair. ‘You’ll
have to introduce one for the phenomenon, so you’d better make a PAS DE
DEUX, and save time.’

‘There’s nothing easier than that,’ said Mr. Lenville, observing the
disturbed looks of the young dramatist.

‘Upon my word I don’t see how it’s to be done,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Why, isn’t it obvious?’ reasoned Mr. Lenville. ‘Gadzooks, who can help
seeing the way to do it?--you astonish me! You get the distressed lady,
and the little child, and the attached servant, into the poor lodgings,
don’t you?--Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into a chair, and
buries her face in her pocket-handkerchief. “What makes you weep, mama?”
 says the child. “Don’t weep, mama, or you’ll make me weep too!”--“And
me!” says the favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. “What
can we do to raise your spirits, dear mama?” says the little child.
“Ay, what CAN we do?” says the faithful servant. “Oh, Pierre!” says
the distressed lady; “would that I could shake off these painful
thoughts.”--“Try, ma’am, try,” says the faithful servant; “rouse
yourself, ma’am; be amused.”--“I will,” says the lady, “I will learn
to suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honest friend,
which, in happier days, you practised with this sweet angel? It never
failed to calm my spirits then. Oh! let me see it once again before I
die!”--There it is--cue for the band, BEFORE I DIE,--and off they go.
That’s the regular thing; isn’t it, Tommy?’

‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘The distressed lady, overpowered by old
recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a
picture.’

Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the
personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the
best breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid of them, applied
himself to his task: by no means displeased to find that it was so much
easier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day,
and did not leave his room until the evening, when he went down to the
theatre, whither Smike had repaired before him to go on with another
gentleman as a general rebellion.

Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcely knew them.
False hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles--they had become
different beings. Mr. Lenville was a blooming warrior of most exquisite
proportions; Mr. Crummles, his large face shaded by a profusion of
black hair, a Highland outlaw of most majestic bearing; one of the
old gentlemen a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch; the comic
countryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of
humour; each of the Master Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the
low-spirited lover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet
ready spread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, one
plate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short,
everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation.

Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating
the first scene, which was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter
than Mr. Crummles, through which that gentleman was to make his first
entrance, and now listening to a couple of people who were cracking nuts
in the gallery, wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the
manager himself walked familiarly up and accosted him.

‘Been in front tonight?’ said Mr. Crummles.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, ‘not yet. I am going to see the play.’

‘We’ve had a pretty good Let,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘Four front places in
the centre, and the whole of the stage-box.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Nicholas; ‘a family, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Crummles, ‘yes. It’s an affecting thing. There are six
children, and they never come unless the phenomenon plays.’

It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise, to
have visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon did NOT play,
inasmuch as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly two or three,
characters, every night; but Nicholas, sympathising with the feelings of
a father, refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr
Crummles continued to talk, uninterrupted by him.

‘Six,’ said that gentleman; ‘pa and ma eight, aunt nine, governess
ten, grandfather and grandmother twelve. Then, there’s the footman, who
stands outside, with a bag of oranges and a jug of toast-and-water,
and sees the play for nothing through the little pane of glass in the
box-door--it’s cheap at a guinea; they gain by taking a box.’

‘I wonder you allow so many,’ observed Nicholas.

‘There’s no help for it,’ replied Mr. Crummles; ‘it’s always expected in
the country. If there are six children, six people come to hold them in
their laps. A family-box carries double always. Ring in the orchestra,
Grudden!’

That useful lady did as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the
tuning of three fiddles was heard. Which process having been protracted
as long as it was supposed that the patience of the audience could
possibly bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell, which,
being the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a
variety of popular airs, with involuntary variations.

If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the better which
the gentlemen displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more
extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of the manager’s box, he beheld
Miss Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin with a golden hem,
and Mrs. Crummles in all the dignity of the outlaw’s wife, and Miss
Bravassa in all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci’s confidential friend,
and Miss Belvawney in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere
and swearing to live and die in the service of everybody, he could
scarcely contain his admiration, which testified itself in great
applause, and the closest possible attention to the business of the
scene. The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age,
people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account,
as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of
what would ever come of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing
something somewhere, and came home, in triumph, to the sound of shouts
and fiddles, to greet his wife--a lady of masculine mind, who talked
a good deal about her father’s bones, which it seemed were unburied,
though whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman
himself, or the reprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear.
This outlaw’s wife was, somehow or other, mixed up with a patriarch,
living in a castle a long way off, and this patriarch was the father
of several of the characters, but he didn’t exactly know which, and was
uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in his castle, or the
wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion, and, being uneasy,
relieved his mind with a banquet, during which solemnity somebody in
a cloak said ‘Beware!’ which somebody was known by nobody (except the
audience) to be the outlaw himself, who had come there, for reasons
unexplained, but possibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an
agreeable little surprise in the way of certain love passages between
the desponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting-man
and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr. Lenville had several very tragic
scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions, which were
all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic fighting-man (who
overheard whatever was said all through the piece) and the intrepidity
of Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights, and therein repaired to the
prison of her captive lover, with a small basket of refreshments and a
dark lantern. At last, it came out that the patriarch was the man
who had treated the bones of the outlaw’s father-in-law with so much
disrespect, for which cause and reason the outlaw’s wife repaired to
his castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room, where, after a good
deal of groping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, and
took them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of
confusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; after
which, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look,
that he knew all about his children now, and would tell them when they
got inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion
for marrying the young people than that; and therefore he joined their
hands, with the full consent of the indefatigable page, who (being the
only other person surviving) pointed with his cap into the clouds, and
his right hand to the ground; thereby invoking a blessing and giving the
cue for the curtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.

‘What did you think of that?’ asked Mr. Crummles, when Nicholas went
round to the stage again. Mr. Crummles was very red and hot, for your
outlaws are desperate fellows to shout.

‘I think it was very capital indeed,’ replied Nicholas; ‘Miss
Snevellicci in particular was uncommonly good.’

‘She’s a genius,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘quite a genius, that girl.
By-the-bye, I’ve been thinking of bringing out that piece of yours on
her bespeak night.’

‘When?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friends and
patrons bespeak the play,’ said Mr. Crummles.

‘Oh! I understand,’ replied Nicholas.

‘You see,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘it’s sure to go, on such an occasion, and
even if it should not work up quite as well as we expect, why it will be
her risk, you know, and not ours.’

‘Yours, you mean,’ said Nicholas.

‘I said mine, didn’t I?’ returned Mr. Crummles. ‘Next Monday week. What
do you say? You’ll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lover’s
part, long before that time.’

‘I don’t know about “long before,”’ replied Nicholas; ‘but BY that time
I think I can undertake to be ready.’

‘Very good,’ pursued Mr. Crummles, ‘then we’ll call that settled. Now,
I want to ask you something else. There’s a little--what shall I call
it?--a little canvassing takes place on these occasions.’

‘Among the patrons, I suppose?’ said Nicholas.

‘Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had so many
bespeaks in this place, that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak
when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when her uncle died; and
Mrs. Crummles and myself have had bespeaks on the anniversary of the
phenomenon’s birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that
description, so that, in fact, there’s some difficulty in getting a good
one. Now, won’t you help this poor girl, Mr. Johnson?’ said Crummles,
sitting himself down on a drum, and taking a great pinch of snuff, as he
looked him steadily in the face.

‘How do you mean?’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Don’t you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning, to call
with her at the houses of one or two of the principal people?’ murmured
the manager in a persuasive tone.

‘Oh dear me,’ said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection, ‘I
shouldn’t like to do that.’

‘The infant will accompany her,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘The moment it was
suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not
be the smallest impropriety--Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul
of honour. It would be of material service--the gentleman from
London--author of the new piece--actor in the new piece--first
appearance on any boards--it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson.’

‘I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and
more especially a lady,’ replied Nicholas; ‘but really I must decidedly
object to making one of the canvassing party.’

‘What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent?’ inquired a voice close to his ear;
and, looking round, he found Mrs. Crummles and Miss Snevellicci herself
standing behind him.

‘He has some objection, my dear,’ replied Mr. Crummles, looking at
Nicholas.

‘Objection!’ exclaimed Mrs. Crummles. ‘Can it be possible?’

‘Oh, I hope not!’ cried Miss Snevellicci. ‘You surely are not so
cruel--oh, dear me!--Well, I--to think of that now, after all one’s
looking forward to it!’

‘Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,’ said Mrs. Crummles. ‘Think better
of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of
his nature, must be enlisted in this interesting cause.’

‘Which moves even a manager,’ said Mr. Crummles, smiling.

‘And a manager’s wife,’ added Mrs. Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy
tones. ‘Come, come, you will relent, I know you will.’

‘It is not in my nature,’ said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, ‘to
resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positively wrong; and,
beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing
this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it then. I yield.’

Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of
gratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crummles was by
any means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her,
at her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted:
he to return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the
after-piece: and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the
probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have
two-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.

At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings
of Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at
the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded the little
passage; and the tailor’s daughter, who opened the door, appeared in
that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical
getting up of a family’s linen.

‘Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?’ said Nicholas, when the door
was opened.

The tailor’s daughter replied in the affirmative.

‘Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here?’
said Nicholas.

‘Oh, if you please, you’re to come upstairs,’ replied the tailor’s
daughter, with a smile.

Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment
on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he
judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and
saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.

‘You’re to wait, if you please,’ said the tailor’s daughter, after a
short period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had
ceased, and been succeeded by whispering--‘She won’t be long.’

As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means
(as she thought) diverted Mr. Johnson’s attention from the room to the
street, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had
very much the appearance of stockings, and darted off.

As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas
looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have
bestowed upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed
pieces of music, and a scattered litter of curl-papers; together with a
confused heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes
with large blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a
half-finished muslin apron with little pockets ornamented with red
ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence)
are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive
pair of top-boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the
little jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which
bore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.

But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook,
displayed in the midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were strewn
upon the table; and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical
notices of Miss Snevellicci’s acting, extracted from different
provincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour,
commencing--

     Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth
     Thrice-gifted SNEVELLICCI came on earth,
     To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,
     Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.

Besides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary allusions,
also extracted from newspapers, such as--‘We observe from an
advertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming
and highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday,
for which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle
exhilaration in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our
fellow-townsmen have not lost that high appreciation of public utility
and private worth, for which they have long been so pre-eminently
distinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted
with a bumper.’ ‘To Correspondents.--J.S. is misinformed when he
supposes that the highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly
captivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre,
is NOT the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune,
residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made
honourable proposals. We have reason to know that Miss Snevellicci IS
the lady who was implicated in that mysterious and romantic affair, and
whose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to her head and heart,
than do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius.’ A copious
assortment of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits
all ending with ‘Come Early’, in large capitals, formed the principal
contents of Miss Snevellicci’s scrapbook.

Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a
circumstantial and melancholy account of the train of events which had
led to Miss Snevellicci’s spraining her ankle by slipping on a piece of
orange-peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the paper said,) upon
the stage at Winchester,--when that young lady herself, attired in the
coal-scuttle bonnet and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room,
with a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the
appointed time.

‘But really,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘my darling Led, who lives with me
here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have
expired in my arms.’

‘Such a fate is almost to be envied,’ returned Nicholas, ‘but I am very
sorry to hear it nevertheless.’

‘What a creature you are to flatter!’ said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning
her glove in much confusion.

‘If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,’ rejoined
Nicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, ‘you have better specimens
of it here.’

‘Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I’m almost
ashamed to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,’ said Miss
Snevellicci, seizing the book and putting it away in a closet. ‘How
careless of Led! How could she be so naughty!’

‘I thought you had kindly left it here, on purpose for me to read,’ said
Nicholas. And really it did seem possible.

‘I wouldn’t have had you see it for the world!’ rejoined Miss
Snevellicci. ‘I never was so vexed--never! But she is such a careless
thing, there’s no trusting her.’

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon,
who had discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now
presented herself, with much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand
a very little green parasol with a broad fringe border, and no handle.
After a few words of course, they sallied into the street.

The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the
right sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being
repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be
longer than the other; besides these accidents, the green parasol
was dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great
difficulty and by dint of much exertion. However, it was impossible to
scold her, as she was the manager’s daughter, so Nicholas took it all in
perfect good humour, and walked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on
one side, and the offending infant on the other.

The first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in
a terrace of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci’s modest
double-knock was answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to her inquiry
whether Mrs. Curdle was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very
much, and said he didn’t know, but he’d inquire. With this he
showed them into a parlour where he kept them waiting, until the two
women-servants had repaired thither, under false pretences, to see the
play-actors; and having compared notes with them in the passage, and
joined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling, he at length went
upstairs with Miss Snevellicci’s name.

Now, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on
such points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to
literature and the drama; and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet
of sixty-four pages, post octavo, on the character of the Nurse’s
deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really
had been a ‘merry man’ in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his
widow’s affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He
had likewise proved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation,
any one of Shakespeare’s plays could be made quite different, and the
sense completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was
a great critic, and a very profound and most original thinker.

‘Well, Miss Snevellicci,’ said Mrs. Curdle, entering the parlour, ‘and
how do YOU do?’

Miss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was
well, as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs. Curdle was
dressed in a morning wrapper, with a little cap stuck upon the top
of her head. Mr. Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his right
forefinger on his forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom
somebody or other had once said he bore a striking resemblance.

‘I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your
name to my bespeak, ma’am,’ said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.

‘Oh! I really don’t know what to say,’ replied Mrs. Curdle. ‘It’s not as
if the theatre was in its high and palmy days--you needn’t stand, Miss
Snevellicci--the drama is gone, perfectly gone.’

‘As an exquisite embodiment of the poet’s visions, and a realisation of
human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments,
and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama
is gone, perfectly gone,’ said Mr. Curdle.

‘What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those
changing and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is
invested?’ exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.

‘What man indeed--upon the stage,’ said Mr. Curdle, with a small
reservation in favour of himself. ‘Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous! Hamlet is
gone, perfectly gone.’

Quite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed,
and sat for some short time without speaking. At length, the lady,
turning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired what play she proposed to have.

‘Quite a new one,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘of which this gentleman is
the author, and in which he plays; being his first appearance on any
stage. Mr. Johnson is the gentleman’s name.’

‘I hope you have preserved the unities, sir?’ said Mr. Curdle.

‘The original piece is a French one,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is abundance
of incident, sprightly dialogue, strongly-marked characters--’

‘--All unavailing without a strict observance of the unities, sir,’
returned Mr. Curdle. ‘The unities of the drama, before everything.’

‘Might I ask you,’ said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he
ought to assume, and his love of the whimsical, ‘might I ask you what
the unities are?’

Mr. Curdle coughed and considered. ‘The unities, sir,’ he said, ‘are a
completeness--a kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place
and time--a sort of a general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so
strong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as
I have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have read
much upon the subject, and thought much. I find, running through the
performances of this child,’ said Mr. Curdle, turning to the phenomenon,
‘a unity of feeling, a breadth, a light and shade, a warmth of
colouring, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical development
of original conceptions, which I look for, in vain, among older
performers--I don’t know whether I make myself understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Just so,’ said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. ‘That is my
definition of the unities of the drama.’

Mrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with great
complacency. It being finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought,
about putting down their names.

‘I don’t know, my dear; upon my word I don’t know,’ said Mr. Curdle. ‘If
we do, it must be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves
to the quality of the performances. Let it go forth to the world, that
we do not give THEM the sanction of our names, but that we confer the
distinction merely upon Miss Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I
take it to be, as it were, a duty, that we should extend our patronage
to a degraded stage, even for the sake of the associations with which
it is entwined. Have you got two-and-sixpence for half-a-crown, Miss
Snevellicci?’ said Mr. Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of
money.

Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, but there
was nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an
author, and thought it best not to go through the form of feeling in his
own pockets at all.

‘Let me see,’ said Mr. Curdle; ‘twice four’s eight--four shillings
a-piece to the boxes, Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the
present state of the drama--three half-crowns is seven-and-six; we shall
not differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not part us, Miss
Snevellicci?’

Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-crowns, with many smiles and
bends, and Mrs. Curdle, adding several supplementary directions relative
to keeping the places for them, and dusting the seat, and sending two
clean bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a signal for
breaking up the conference.

‘Odd people those,’ said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house.

‘I assure you,’ said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, ‘that I think
myself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being
sixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would give people to
understand that they had always patronised you; and if you were to fail,
they would have been quite certain of that from the very beginning.’

At the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for, there,
resided the six children who were so enraptured with the public actions
of the phenomenon, and who, being called down from the nursery to be
treated with a private view of that young lady, proceeded to poke their
fingers into her eyes, and tread upon her toes, and show her many other
little attentions peculiar to their time of life.

‘I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box,’ said the
lady of the house, after a most gracious reception. ‘I shall only
take two of the children, and will make up the rest of the party, of
gentlemen--your admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, you naughty boy,
leave the little girl alone.’

This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon
behind, apparently with a view of ascertaining whether she was real.

‘I am sure you must be very tired,’ said the mama, turning to Miss
Snevellicci. ‘I cannot think of allowing you to go, without first taking
a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you! Miss Lane, my
dear, pray see to the children.’

Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by
the abrupt behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the
phenomenon’s little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while
the distracted infant looked helplessly on.

‘I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,’ said good-natured
Mrs. Borum, turning again to Miss Snevellicci, ‘I cannot understand
(Emma, don’t stare so); laughing in one piece, and crying in the next,
and so natural in all--oh, dear!’

‘I am very happy to hear you express so favourable an opinion,’ said
Miss Snevellicci. ‘It’s quite delightful to think you like it.’

‘Like it!’ cried Mrs. Borum. ‘Who can help liking it? I would go to the
play, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it--only you’re too affecting
sometimes. You do put me in such a state--into such fits of crying!
Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment that poor
child so!’

The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb;
for two strong little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were
dragging her in different directions as a trial of strength. However,
Miss Lane (who had herself been too much occupied in contemplating the
grown-up actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings)
rescued the unhappy infant at this juncture, who, being recruited with
a glass of wine, was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after
sustaining no more serious damage than a flattening of the pink gauze
bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock and trousers.

It was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls to make, and
everybody wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others
comedies; some objected to dancing; some wanted scarcely anything else.
Some thought the comic singer decidedly low, and others hoped he would
have more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn’t promise to go,
because other people wouldn’t promise to go; and other people wouldn’t
go at all, because other people went. At length, and by little and
little, omitting something in this place, and adding something in
that, Miss Snevellicci pledged herself to a bill of fare which was
comprehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it included among other
trifles, four pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and several dances);
and they returned home, pretty well exhausted with the business of the
day.

Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into
rehearsal, and then worked away at his own part, which he studied with
great perseverance and acted--as the whole company said--to perfection.
And at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent round, in the
morning, to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in all
the thoroughfares; and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches
wide, were dispersed in all directions, flung down all the areas,
thrust under all the knockers, and developed in all the shops. They were
placarded on all the walls too, though not with complete success, for an
illiterate person having undertaken this office during the indisposition
of the regular bill-sticker, a part were posted sideways, and the
remainder upside down.

At half-past five, there was a rush of four people to the gallery-door;
at a quarter before six, there were at least a dozen; at six o’clock the
kicks were terrific; and when the elder Master Crummles opened the door,
he was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen shillings were
taken by Mrs. Grudden in the first ten minutes.

Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss
Snevellicci was in such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely
stay on her face. Mrs. Crummles was so nervous that she could hardly
remember her part. Miss Bravassa’s ringlets came out of curl with the
heat and anxiety; even Mr. Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole
in the curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that
another man had come into the pit.

At last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new
piece. The first scene, in which there was nobody particular, passed
off calmly enough, but when Miss Snevellicci went on in the second,
accompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause broke
out! The people in the Borum box rose as one man, waving their hats
and handkerchiefs, and uttering shouts of ‘Bravo!’ Mrs. Borum and the
governess cast wreaths upon the stage, of which, some fluttered into the
lamps, and one crowned the temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who,
looking eagerly towards the scene, remained unconscious of the honour;
the tailor and his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes
till they threatened to come out altogether; the very ginger-beer
boy remained transfixed in the centre of the house; a young officer,
supposed to entertain a passion for Miss Snevellicci, stuck his glass
in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again Miss Snevellicci
curtseyed lower and lower, and again and again the applause came down,
louder and louder. At length, when the phenomenon picked up one of the
smoking wreaths and put it on, sideways, over Miss Snevellicci’s eye, it
reached its climax, and the play proceeded.

But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs. Crummles, what
a clapping of hands there was! When Mrs. Crummles (who was his unworthy
mother), sneered, and called him ‘presumptuous boy,’ and he defied her,
what a tumult of applause came on! When he quarrelled with the other
gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols, said,
that if he WAS a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room,
until the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of
two--how boxes, pit, and gallery, joined in one most vigorous cheer!
When he called his mother names, because she wouldn’t give up the young
lady’s property, and she relenting, caused him to relent likewise,
and fall down on one knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the
audience sobbed! When he was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the
wicked relation poked a sharp sword in every direction, save where his
legs were plainly visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the
house! His air, his figure, his walk, his look, everything he said or
did, was the subject of commendation. There was a round of applause
every time he spoke. And when, at last, in the pump-and-tub scene, Mrs
Grudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed members of the
company came in, and tumbled down in various directions--not because
that had anything to do with the plot, but in order to finish off with a
tableau--the audience (who had by this time increased considerably) gave
vent to such a shout of enthusiasm as had not been heard in those walls
for many and many a day.

In short, the success both of new piece and new actor was complete, and
when Miss Snevellicci was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas
led her on, and divided the applause.



CHAPTER 25

Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, and an
elderly Admirer who follows in her Train; with an affecting Ceremony
consequent on their Arrival


The new piece being a decided hit, was announced for every evening of
performance until further notice, and the evenings when the theatre was
closed, were reduced from three in the week to two. Nor were these the
only tokens of extraordinary success; for, on the succeeding Saturday,
Nicholas received, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs. Grudden, no less a
sum than thirty shillings; besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed
considerable fame and honour: having a presentation copy of Mr. Curdle’s
pamphlet forwarded to the theatre, with that gentleman’s own autograph
(in itself an inestimable treasure) on the fly-leaf, accompanied with
a note, containing many expressions of approval, and an unsolicited
assurance that Mr. Curdle would be very happy to read Shakespeare to him
for three hours every morning before breakfast during his stay in the
town.

‘I’ve got another novelty, Johnson,’ said Mr. Crummles one morning in
great glee.

‘What’s that?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘The pony?’

‘No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else has failed,’
said Mr. Crummles. ‘I don’t think we shall come to the pony at all, this
season. No, no, not the pony.’

‘A boy phenomenon, perhaps?’ suggested Nicholas.

‘There is only one phenomenon, sir,’ replied Mr. Crummles impressively,
‘and that’s a girl.’

‘Very true,’ said Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon. Then I don’t know what
it is, I am sure.’

‘What should you say to a young lady from London?’ inquired Mr. Crummles.
‘Miss So-and-so, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane?’

‘I should say she would look very well in the bills,’ said Nicholas.

‘You’re about right there,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘and if you had said she
would look very well upon the stage too, you wouldn’t have been far out.
Look here; what do you think of this?’

With this inquiry Mr. Crummles unfolded a red poster, and a blue poster,
and a yellow poster, at the top of each of which public notification was
inscribed in enormous characters--‘First appearance of the unrivalled
Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane!’

‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas, ‘I know that lady.’

‘Then you are acquainted with as much talent as was ever compressed into
one young person’s body,’ retorted Mr. Crummles, rolling up the bills
again; ‘that is, talent of a certain sort--of a certain sort. “The Blood
Drinker,”’ added Mr. Crummles with a prophetic sigh, ‘“The Blood Drinker”
 will die with that girl; and she’s the only sylph I ever saw, who could
stand upon one leg, and play the tambourine on her other knee, LIKE a
sylph.’

‘When does she come down?’ asked Nicholas.

‘We expect her today,’ replied Mr. Crummles. ‘She is an old friend of Mrs
Crummles’s. Mrs. Crummles saw what she could do--always knew it from the
first. She taught her, indeed, nearly all she knows. Mrs. Crummles was
the original Blood Drinker.’

‘Was she, indeed?’

‘Yes. She was obliged to give it up though.’

‘Did it disagree with her?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Not so much with her, as with her audiences,’ replied Mr. Crummles.
‘Nobody could stand it. It was too tremendous. You don’t quite know what
Mrs. Crummles is yet.’

Nicholas ventured to insinuate that he thought he did.

‘No, no, you don’t,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘you don’t, indeed. I don’t, and
that’s a fact. I don’t think her country will, till she is dead. Some
new proof of talent bursts from that astonishing woman every year of her
life. Look at her--mother of six children--three of ‘em alive, and all
upon the stage!’

‘Extraordinary!’ cried Nicholas.

‘Ah! extraordinary indeed,’ rejoined Mr. Crummles, taking a complacent
pinch of snuff, and shaking his head gravely. ‘I pledge you my
professional word I didn’t even know she could dance, till her last
benefit, and then she played Juliet, and Helen Macgregor, and did the
skipping-rope hornpipe between the pieces. The very first time I saw
that admirable woman, Johnson,’ said Mr. Crummles, drawing a little
nearer, and speaking in the tone of confidential friendship, ‘she
stood upon her head on the butt-end of a spear, surrounded with blazing
fireworks.’

‘You astonish me!’ said Nicholas.

‘SHE astonished ME!’ returned Mr. Crummles, with a very serious
countenance. ‘Such grace, coupled with such dignity! I adored her from
that moment!’

The arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupt
termination to Mr. Crummles’s eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards,
Master Percy Crummles entered with a letter, which had arrived by the
General Post, and was directed to his gracious mother; at sight of
the superscription whereof, Mrs. Crummles exclaimed, ‘From Henrietta
Petowker, I do declare!’ and instantly became absorbed in the contents.

‘Is it--?’ inquired Mr. Crummles, hesitating.

‘Oh, yes, it’s all right,’ replied Mrs. Crummles, anticipating the
question. ‘What an excellent thing for her, to be sure!’

‘It’s the best thing altogether, that I ever heard of, I think,’ said Mr
Crummles; and then Mr. Crummles, Mrs. Crummles, and Master Percy Crummles,
all fell to laughing violently. Nicholas left them to enjoy their mirth
together, and walked to his lodgings; wondering very much what mystery
connected with Miss Petowker could provoke such merriment, and pondering
still more on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regard his
sudden enlistment in a profession of which she was such a distinguished
and brilliant ornament.

But, in this latter respect he was mistaken; for--whether Mr. Vincent
Crummles had paved the way, or Miss Petowker had some special reason for
treating him with even more than her usual amiability--their meeting at
the theatre next day was more like that of two dear friends who had been
inseparable from infancy, than a recognition passing between a lady
and gentleman who had only met some half-dozen times, and then by mere
chance. Nay, Miss Petowker even whispered that she had wholly dropped
the Kenwigses in her conversations with the manager’s family, and had
represented herself as having encountered Mr. Johnson in the very
first and most fashionable circles; and on Nicholas receiving this
intelligence with unfeigned surprise, she added, with a sweet glance,
that she had a claim on his good nature now, and might tax it before
long.

Nicholas had the honour of playing in a slight piece with Miss Petowker
that night, and could not but observe that the warmth of her reception
was mainly attributable to a most persevering umbrella in the upper
boxes; he saw, too, that the enchanting actress cast many sweet looks
towards the quarter whence these sounds proceeded; and that every time
she did so, the umbrella broke out afresh. Once, he thought that a
peculiarly shaped hat in the same corner was not wholly unknown to him;
but, being occupied with his share of the stage business, he bestowed no
great attention upon this circumstance, and it had quite vanished from
his memory by the time he reached home.

He had just sat down to supper with Smike, when one of the people of the
house came outside the door, and announced that a gentleman below stairs
wished to speak to Mr. Johnson.

‘Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up; that’s all I know,’
replied Nicholas. ‘One of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smike.’

His fellow-lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation of the
quantity that would be left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he
had cut for himself, in order that the visitor’s encroachments might be
less formidable in their effects.

‘It is not anybody who has been here before,’ said Nicholas, ‘for he
is tumbling up every stair. Come in, come in. In the name of wonder! Mr
Lillyvick?’

It was, indeed, the collector of water-rates who, regarding Nicholas
with a fixed look and immovable countenance, shook hands with
most portentous solemnity, and sat himself down in a seat by the
chimney-corner.

‘Why, when did you come here?’ asked Nicholas.

‘This morning, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick.

‘Oh! I see; then you were at the theatre tonight, and it was your umb--’

‘This umbrella,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, producing a fat green cotton one
with a battered ferrule. ‘What did you think of that performance?’

‘So far as I could judge, being on the stage,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I
thought it very agreeable.’

‘Agreeable!’ cried the collector. ‘I mean to say, sir, that it was
delicious.’

Mr. Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the last word with greater
emphasis; and having done so, drew himself up, and frowned and nodded a
great many times.

‘I say, delicious,’ repeated Mr. Lillyvick. ‘Absorbing, fairy-like,
toomultuous,’ and again Mr. Lillyvick drew himself up, and again he
frowned and nodded.

‘Ah!’ said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms of ecstatic
approbation. ‘Yes--she is a clever girl.’

‘She is a divinity,’ returned Mr. Lillyvick, giving a collector’s double
knock on the ground with the umbrella before-mentioned. ‘I have known
divine actresses before now, sir, I used to collect--at least I used
to CALL for--and very often call for--the water-rate at the house of
a divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards of four year
but never--no, never, sir of all divine creatures, actresses or no
actresses, did I see a diviner one than is Henrietta Petowker.’

Nicholas had much ado to prevent himself from laughing; not trusting
himself to speak, he merely nodded in accordance with Mr. Lillyvick’s
nods, and remained silent.

‘Let me speak a word with you in private,’ said Mr. Lillyvick.

Nicholas looked good-humouredly at Smike, who, taking the hint,
disappeared.

‘A bachelor is a miserable wretch, sir,’ said Mr. Lillyvick.

‘Is he?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He is,’ rejoined the collector. ‘I have lived in the world for nigh
sixty year, and I ought to know what it is.’

‘You OUGHT to know, certainly,’ thought Nicholas; ‘but whether you do or
not, is another question.’

‘If a bachelor happens to have saved a little matter of money,’ said Mr
Lillyvick, ‘his sisters and brothers, and nephews and nieces, look TO
that money, and not to him; even if, by being a public character, he is
the head of the family, or, as it may be, the main from which all the
other little branches are turned on, they still wish him dead all the
while, and get low-spirited every time they see him looking in good
health, because they want to come into his little property. You see
that?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Nicholas: ‘it’s very true, no doubt.’

‘The great reason for not being married,’ resumed Mr. Lillyvick, ‘is the
expense; that’s what’s kept me off, or else--Lord!’ said Mr. Lillyvick,
snapping his fingers, ‘I might have had fifty women.’

‘Fine women?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Fine women, sir!’ replied the collector; ‘ay! not so fine as Henrietta
Petowker, for she is an uncommon specimen, but such women as don’t
fall into every man’s way, I can tell you. Now suppose a man can get a
fortune IN a wife instead of with her--eh?’

‘Why, then, he’s a lucky fellow,’ replied Nicholas.

‘That’s what I say,’ retorted the collector, patting him benignantly
on the side of the head with his umbrella; ‘just what I say. Henrietta
Petowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker has a fortune in herself, and
I am going to--’

‘To make her Mrs. Lillyvick?’ suggested Nicholas.

‘No, sir, not to make her Mrs. Lillyvick,’ replied the collector.
‘Actresses, sir, always keep their maiden names--that’s the regular
thing--but I’m going to marry her; and the day after tomorrow, too.’

‘I congratulate you, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. ‘I
shall draw her salary, of course, and I hope after all that it’s nearly
as cheap to keep two as it is to keep one; that’s a consolation.’

‘Surely you don’t want any consolation at such a moment?’ observed
Nicholas.

‘No,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head nervously: ‘no--of course
not.’

‘But how come you both here, if you’re going to be married, Mr
Lillyvick?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Why, that’s what I came to explain to you,’ replied the collector of
water-rate. ‘The fact is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from
the family.’

‘Family!’ said Nicholas. ‘What family?’

‘The Kenwigses of course,’ rejoined Mr. Lillyvick. ‘If my niece and the
children had known a word about it before I came away, they’d have gone
into fits at my feet, and never have come out of ‘em till I took an oath
not to marry anybody--or they’d have got out a commission of lunacy, or
some dreadful thing,’ said the collector, quite trembling as he spoke.

‘To be sure,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yes; they would have been jealous, no
doubt.’

‘To prevent which,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, ‘Henrietta Petowker (it
was settled between us) should come down here to her friends, the
Crummleses, under pretence of this engagement, and I should go down to
Guildford the day before, and join her on the coach there, which I did,
and we came down from Guildford yesterday together. Now, for fear you
should be writing to Mr. Noggs, and might say anything about us, we have
thought it best to let you into the secret. We shall be married from the
Crummleses’ lodgings, and shall be delighted to see you--either before
church or at breakfast-time, which you like. It won’t be expensive,
you know,’ said the collector, highly anxious to prevent any
misunderstanding on this point; ‘just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a
shrimp or something of that sort for a relish, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Oh, I shall be most
happy to come; it will give me the greatest pleasure. Where’s the lady
stopping--with Mrs. Crummles?’

‘Why, no,’ said the collector; ‘they couldn’t very well dispose of
her at night, and so she is staying with an acquaintance of hers, and
another young lady; they both belong to the theatre.’

‘Miss Snevellicci, I suppose?’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, that’s the name.’

‘And they’ll be bridesmaids, I presume?’ said Nicholas.

‘Why,’ said the collector, with a rueful face, ‘they WILL have four
bridesmaids; I’m afraid they’ll make it rather theatrical.’

‘Oh no, not at all,’ replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt to
convert a laugh into a cough. ‘Who may the four be? Miss Snevellicci of
course--Miss Ledrook--’

‘The--the phenomenon,’ groaned the collector.

‘Ha, ha!’ cried Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon, I don’t know what I’m
laughing at--yes, that’ll be very pretty--the phenomenon--who else?’

‘Some young woman or other,’ replied the collector, rising; ‘some other
friend of Henrietta Petowker’s. Well, you’ll be careful not to say
anything about it, will you?’

‘You may safely depend upon me,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Won’t you take
anything to eat or drink?’

‘No,’ said the collector; ‘I haven’t any appetite. I should think it was
a very pleasant life, the married one, eh?’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said the collector; ‘certainly. Oh yes. No doubt. Good night.’

With these words, Mr. Lillyvick, whose manner had exhibited through the
whole of this interview a most extraordinary compound of precipitation,
hesitation, confidence and doubt, fondness, misgiving, meanness, and
self-importance, turned his back upon the room, and left Nicholas to
enjoy a laugh by himself if he felt so disposed.

Without stopping to inquire whether the intervening day appeared to
Nicholas to consist of the usual number of hours of the ordinary length,
it may be remarked that, to the parties more directly interested in the
forthcoming ceremony, it passed with great rapidity, insomuch that when
Miss Petowker awoke on the succeeding morning in the chamber of Miss
Snevellicci, she declared that nothing should ever persuade her that
that really was the day which was to behold a change in her condition.

‘I never will believe it,’ said Miss Petowker; ‘I cannot really. It’s
of no use talking, I never can make up my mind to go through with such a
trial!’

On hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss Ledrook, who knew perfectly
well that their fair friend’s mind had been made up for three or four
years, at any period of which time she would have cheerfully undergone
the desperate trial now approaching if she could have found any
eligible gentleman disposed for the venture, began to preach comfort and
firmness, and to say how very proud she ought to feel that it was in her
power to confer lasting bliss on a deserving object, and how necessary
it was for the happiness of mankind in general that women should possess
fortitude and resignation on such occasions; and that although for their
parts they held true happiness to consist in a single life, which
they would not willingly exchange--no, not for any worldly
consideration--still (thank God), if ever the time SHOULD come, they
hoped they knew their duty too well to repine, but would the rather
submit with meekness and humility of spirit to a fate for which
Providence had clearly designed them with a view to the contentment and
reward of their fellow-creatures.

‘I might feel it was a great blow,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘to break
up old associations and what-do-you-callems of that kind, but I would
submit, my dear, I would indeed.’

‘So would I,’ said Miss Ledrook; ‘I would rather court the yoke than
shun it. I have broken hearts before now, and I’m very sorry for it: for
it’s a terrible thing to reflect upon.’

‘It is indeed,’ said Miss Snevellicci. ‘Now Led, my dear, we must
positively get her ready, or we shall be too late, we shall indeed.’

This pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of being too late, supported
the bride through the ceremony of robing, after which, strong tea and
brandy were administered in alternate doses as a means of strengthening
her feeble limbs and causing her to walk steadier.

‘How do you feel now, my love?’ inquired Miss Snevellicci.

‘Oh Lillyvick!’ cried the bride. ‘If you knew what I am undergoing for
you!’

‘Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it,’ said Miss
Ledrook.

‘Do you think he won’t?’ cried Miss Petowker, really showing great
capability for the stage. ‘Oh, do you think he won’t? Do you think
Lillyvick will always remember it--always, always, always?’

There is no knowing in what this burst of feeling might have ended, if
Miss Snevellicci had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival of the
fly, which so astounded the bride that she shook off divers alarming
symptoms which were coming on very strong, and running to the glass
adjusted her dress, and calmly declared that she was ready for the
sacrifice.

She was accordingly supported into the coach, and there ‘kept up’ (as
Miss Snevellicci said) with perpetual sniffs of SAL VOLATILE and sips
of brandy and other gentle stimulants, until they reached the manager’s
door, which was already opened by the two Master Crummleses, who
wore white cockades, and were decorated with the choicest and most
resplendent waistcoats in the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined
exertions of these young gentlemen and the bridesmaids, assisted by the
coachman, Miss Petowker was at length supported in a condition of much
exhaustion to the first floor, where she no sooner encountered the
youthful bridegroom than she fainted with great decorum.

‘Henrietta Petowker!’ said the collector; ‘cheer up, my lovely one.’

Miss Petowker grasped the collector’s hand, but emotion choked her
utterance.

‘Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petowker?’ said the
collector.

‘Oh no, no, no,’ rejoined the bride; ‘but all the friends--the darling
friends--of my youthful days--to leave them all--it is such a shock!’

With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petowker went on to enumerate the
dear friends of her youthful days one by one, and to call upon such of
them as were present to come and embrace her. This done, she remembered
that Mrs. Crummles had been more than a mother to her, and after that,
that Mr. Crummles had been more than a father to her, and after that,
that the Master Crummleses and Miss Ninetta Crummles had been more
than brothers and sisters to her. These various remembrances being each
accompanied with a series of hugs, occupied a long time, and they were
obliged to drive to church very fast, for fear they should be too late.

The procession consisted of two flys; in the first of which were Miss
Bravassa (the fourth bridesmaid), Mrs. Crummles, the collector, and Mr
Folair, who had been chosen as his second on the occasion. In the other
were the bride, Mr. Crummles, Miss Snevellicci, Miss Ledrook, and the
phenomenon. The costumes were beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite
covered with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon, in particular,
was rendered almost invisible by the portable arbour in which she was
enshrined. Miss Ledrook, who was of a romantic turn, wore in her breast
the miniature of some field-officer unknown, which she had purchased, a
great bargain, not very long before; the other ladies displayed several
dazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almost equal to real, and Mrs
Crummles came out in a stern and gloomy majesty, which attracted the
admiration of all beholders.

But, perhaps the appearance of Mr. Crummles was more striking and
appropriate than that of any member of the party. This gentleman, who
personated the bride’s father, had, in pursuance of a happy and original
conception, ‘made up’ for the part by arraying himself in a theatrical
wig, of a style and pattern commonly known as a brown George, and
moreover assuming a snuff-coloured suit, of the previous century, with
grey silk stockings, and buckles to his shoes. The better to support
his assumed character he had determined to be greatly overcome, and,
consequently, when they entered the church, the sobs of the affectionate
parent were so heart-rending that the pew-opener suggested the propriety
of his retiring to the vestry, and comforting himself with a glass of
water before the ceremony began.

The procession up the aisle was beautiful. The bride, with the four
bridesmaids, forming a group previously arranged and rehearsed; the
collector, followed by his second, imitating his walk and gestures to
the indescribable amusement of some theatrical friends in the gallery;
Mr. Crummles, with an infirm and feeble gait; Mrs. Crummles advancing with
that stage walk, which consists of a stride and a stop alternately--it
was the completest thing ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly
disposed of, and all parties present having signed the register (for
which purpose, when it came to his turn, Mr. Crummles carefully wiped and
put on an immense pair of spectacles), they went back to breakfast in
high spirits. And here they found Nicholas awaiting their arrival.

‘Now then,’ said Crummles, who had been assisting Mrs. Grudden in the
preparations, which were on a more extensive scale than was quite
agreeable to the collector. ‘Breakfast, breakfast.’

No second invitation was required. The company crowded and squeezed
themselves at the table as well as they could, and fell to, immediately:
Miss Petowker blushing very much when anybody was looking, and eating
very much when anybody was NOT looking; and Mr. Lillyvick going to work
as though with the cool resolve, that since the good things must be paid
for by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to
eat up afterwards.

‘It’s very soon done, sir, isn’t it?’ inquired Mr. Folair of the
collector, leaning over the table to address him.

‘What is soon done, sir?’ returned Mr. Lillyvick.

‘The tying up--the fixing oneself with a wife,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘It
don’t take long, does it?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, colouring. ‘It does not take long. And
what then, sir?’

‘Oh! nothing,’ said the actor. ‘It don’t take a man long to hang
himself, either, eh? ha, ha!’

Mr. Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table
with indignant astonishment.

‘To hang himself!’ repeated Mr. Lillyvick.

A profound silence came upon all, for Mr. Lillyvick was dignified beyond
expression.

‘To hang himself!’ cried Mr. Lillyvick again. ‘Is any parallel attempted
to be drawn in this company between matrimony and hanging?’

‘The noose, you know,’ said Mr. Folair, a little crest-fallen.

‘The noose, sir?’ retorted Mr. Lillyvick. ‘Does any man dare to speak to
me of a noose, and Henrietta Pe--’

‘Lillyvick,’ suggested Mr. Crummles.

‘--And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?’ said the collector. ‘In
this house, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles, who have brought
up a talented and virtuous family, to be blessings and phenomenons, and
what not, are we to hear talk of nooses?’

‘Folair,’ said Mr. Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency to be
affected by this allusion to himself and partner, ‘I’m astonished at
you.’

‘What are you going on in this way at me for?’ urged the unfortunate
actor. ‘What have I done?’

‘Done, sir!’ cried Mr. Lillyvick, ‘aimed a blow at the whole framework of
society--’

‘And the best and tenderest feelings,’ added Crummles, relapsing into
the old man.

‘And the highest and most estimable of social ties,’ said the collector.
‘Noose! As if one was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by
the leg, instead of going into it of one’s own accord and glorying in
the act!’

‘I didn’t mean to make it out, that you were caught and trapped, and
pinned by the leg,’ replied the actor. ‘I’m sorry for it; I can’t say
any more.’

‘So you ought to be, sir,’ returned Mr. Lillyvick; ‘and I am glad to hear
that you have enough of feeling left to be so.’

The quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, Mrs. Lillyvick
considered that the fittest occasion (the attention of the company being
no longer distracted) to burst into tears, and require the assistance of
all four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though not without
some confusion, for the room being small and the table-cloth long, a
whole detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first
move. Regardless of this circumstance, however, Mrs. Lillyvick refused
to be comforted until the belligerents had passed their words that the
dispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient show of
reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr. Folair sat in moody silence,
contenting himself with pinching Nicholas’s leg when anything was said,
and so expressing his contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments
to which he gave utterance.

There were a great number of speeches made; some by Nicholas, and some
by Crummles, and some by the collector; two by the Master Crummleses in
returning thanks for themselves, and one by the phenomenon on behalf
of the bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Crummles shed tears. There was some
singing, too, from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely there
might have been more, if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happy
pair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde, had
not sent in a peremptory message intimating, that if they didn’t come
directly he should infallibly demand eighteen-pence over and above his
agreement.

This desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After a most
pathetic leave-taking, Mr. Lillyvick and his bride departed for Ryde,
where they were to spend the next two days in profound retirement, and
whither they were accompanied by the infant, who had been appointed
travelling bridesmaid on Mr. Lillyvick’s express stipulation: as the
steamboat people, deceived by her size, would (he had previously
ascertained) transport her at half-price.

As there was no performance that night, Mr. Crummles declared his
intention of keeping it up till everything to drink was disposed of; but
Nicholas having to play Romeo for the first time on the ensuing evening,
contrived to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion, occasioned
by the unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the
conduct of Mrs. Grudden.

To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations,
but by his anxiety on account of Smike, who, having to sustain the
character of the Apothecary, had been as yet wholly unable to get any
more of the part into his head than the general idea that he was very
hungry, which--perhaps from old recollections--he had acquired with
great aptitude.

‘I don’t know what’s to be done, Smike,’ said Nicholas, laying down the
book. ‘I am afraid you can’t learn it, my poor fellow.’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Smike, shaking his head. ‘I think if you--but
that would give you so much trouble.’

‘What?’ inquired Nicholas. ‘Never mind me.’

‘I think,’ said Smike, ‘if you were to keep saying it to me in little
bits, over and over again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing
you.’

‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Well said. Let us see who tires
first. Not I, Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud?’

‘“Who calls so loud?”’ said Smike.

‘“Who calls so loud?”’ repeated Nicholas.

‘“Who calls so loud?”’ cried Smike.

Thus they continued to ask each other who called so loud, over and
over again; and when Smike had that by heart Nicholas went to another
sentence, and then to two at a time, and then to three, and so on, until
at midnight poor Smike found to his unspeakable joy that he really began
to remember something about the text.

Early in the morning they went to it again, and Smike, rendered more
confident by the progress he had already made, got on faster and with
better heart. As soon as he began to acquire the words pretty freely,
Nicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands spread out upon
his stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the
established form by which people on the stage always denote that they
want something to eat. After the morning’s rehearsal they went to work
again, nor did they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time
to repair to the theatre at night.

Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a
more patient, unwearying, considerate, kindhearted master.

As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon
the stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The
Romeo was received with hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smike
was pronounced unanimously, alike by audience and actors, the very
prince and prodigy of Apothecaries.



CHAPTER 26

Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby’s Peace of Mind


The place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street;
the time was three o’clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding,
and the first hour of morning to the gay and spirited; the persons were
Lord Frederick Verisopht, and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.

These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple
of sofas, with a table between them, on which were scattered in rich
confusion the materials of an untasted breakfast. Newspapers lay strewn
about the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected and unnoticed;
not, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions
of the journals from being called into request, for not a word was
exchanged between the two, nor was any sound uttered, save when one,
in tossing about to find an easier resting-place for his aching head,
uttered an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to
communicate a new restlessness to his companion.

These appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong
clue to the extent of the debauch of the previous night, even if there
had not been other indications of the amusements in which it had been
passed. A couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt, two battered hats,
a champagne bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow
of its being grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive
weapon; a broken cane; a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a
watch-guard snapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments
of half-smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;--these, and
many other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly at the
nature of last night’s gentlemanly frolics.

Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered
foot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting
posture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards his friend, to whom he
called in a drowsy voice.

‘Hallo!’ replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.

‘Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?’ said the lord.

‘I don’t know that we’re fit for anything else,’ replied Sir Mulberry;
‘yet awhile, at least. I haven’t a grain of life in me this morning.’

‘Life!’ cried Lord Verisopht. ‘I feel as if there would be nothing so
snug and comfortable as to die at once.’

‘Then why don’t you die?’ said Sir Mulberry.

With which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to occupy himself
in an attempt to fall asleep.

His hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table, and
essayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to the window,
then loitered up and down the room with his hand to his fevered head,
and finally threw himself again on his sofa, and roused his friend once
more.

‘What the devil’s the matter?’ groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on
the couch.

Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he did
not seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after
stretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver that it
was ‘infernal cold,’ he made an experiment at the breakfast-table, and
proving more successful in it than his less-seasoned friend, remained
there.

‘Suppose,’ said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his
fork, ‘suppose we go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?’

‘Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?’ asked Lord
Verisopht.

‘You take me, I see,’ replied Sir Mulberry. ‘The girl, of course.’

‘You promised me you’d find her out,’ said Lord Verisopht.

‘So I did,’ rejoined his friend; ‘but I have thought further of the
matter since then. You distrust me in the business--you shall find her
out yourself.’

‘Na-ay,’ remonstrated Lord Verisopht.

‘But I say yes,’ returned his friend. ‘You shall find her out yourself.
Don’t think that I mean, when you can--I know as well as you that if I
did, you could never get sight of her without me. No. I say you shall
find her out--SHALL--and I’ll put you in the way.’

‘Now, curse me, if you ain’t a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough-paced
friend,’ said the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most
reviving effect.

‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘She was at that dinner as a
bait for you.’

‘No!’ cried the young lord. ‘What the dey--’

‘As a bait for you,’ repeated his friend; ‘old Nickleby told me so
himself.’

‘What a fine old cock it is!’ exclaimed Lord Verisopht; ‘a noble
rascal!’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘he knew she was a smart little creature--’

‘Smart!’ interposed the young lord. ‘Upon my soul, Hawk, she’s a perfect
beauty--a--a picture, a statue, a--a--upon my soul she is!’

‘Well,’ replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his shoulders and manifesting an
indifference, whether he felt it or not; ‘that’s a matter of taste; if
mine doesn’t agree with yours, so much the better.’

‘Confound it!’ reasoned the lord, ‘you were thick enough with her that
day, anyhow. I could hardly get in a word.’

‘Well enough for once, well enough for once,’ replied Sir Mulberry; ‘but
not worth the trouble of being agreeable to again. If you seriously
want to follow up the niece, tell the uncle that you must know where she
lives and how she lives, and with whom, or you are no longer a customer
of his. He’ll tell you fast enough.’

‘Why didn’t you say this before?’ asked Lord Verisopht, ‘instead of
letting me go on burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable existence
for an a-age!’

‘I didn’t know it, in the first place,’ answered Sir Mulberry
carelessly; ‘and in the second, I didn’t believe you were so very much
in earnest.’

Now, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed since the
dinner at Ralph Nickleby’s, Sir Mulberry Hawk had been furtively trying
by every means in his power to discover whence Kate had so suddenly
appeared, and whither she had disappeared. Unassisted by Ralph, however,
with whom he had held no communication since their angry parting on that
occasion, all his efforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore
arrived at the determination of communicating to the young lord the
substance of the admission he had gleaned from that worthy. To this he
was impelled by various considerations; among which the certainty of
knowing whatever the weak young man knew was decidedly not the least,
as the desire of encountering the usurer’s niece again, and using his
utmost arts to reduce her pride, and revenge himself for her contempt,
was uppermost in his thoughts. It was a politic course of proceeding,
and one which could not fail to redound to his advantage in every point
of view, since the very circumstance of his having extorted from Ralph
Nickleby his real design in introducing his niece to such society,
coupled with his extreme disinterestedness in communicating it so freely
to his friend, could not but advance his interests in that quarter,
and greatly facilitate the passage of coin (pretty frequent and speedy
already) from the pockets of Lord Frederick Verisopht to those of Sir
Mulberry Hawk.

Thus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and in pursuance of this reasoning he
and his friend soon afterwards repaired to Ralph Nickleby’s, there to
execute a plan of operations concerted by Sir Mulberry himself, avowedly
to promote his friend’s object, and really to attain his own.

They found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into the
drawing-room, the recollection of the scene which had taken place there
seemed to occur to him, for he cast a curious look at Sir Mulberry, who
bestowed upon it no other acknowledgment than a careless smile.

They had a short conference upon some money matters then in progress,
which were scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe (in pursuance of
his friend’s instructions) requested with some embarrassment to speak to
Ralph alone.

‘Alone, eh?’ cried Sir Mulberry, affecting surprise. ‘Oh, very good.
I’ll walk into the next room here. Don’t keep me long, that’s all.’

So saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and humming a fragment of
a song disappeared through the door of communication between the two
drawing-rooms, and closed it after him.

‘Now, my lord,’ said Ralph, ‘what is it?’

‘Nickleby,’ said his client, throwing himself along the sofa on which
he had been previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old
man’s ear, ‘what a pretty creature your niece is!’

‘Is she, my lord?’ replied Ralph. ‘Maybe--maybe--I don’t trouble my head
with such matters.’

‘You know she’s a deyvlish fine girl,’ said the client. ‘You must know
that, Nickleby. Come, don’t deny that.’

‘Yes, I believe she is considered so,’ replied Ralph. ‘Indeed, I know
she is. If I did not, you are an authority on such points, and your
taste, my lord--on all points, indeed--is undeniable.’

Nobody but the young man to whom these words were addressed could have
been deaf to the sneering tone in which they were spoken, or blind to
the look of contempt by which they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick
Verisopht was both, and took them to be complimentary.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘p’raps you’re a little right, and p’raps you’re a
little wrong--a little of both, Nickleby. I want to know where this
beauty lives, that I may have another peep at her, Nickleby.’

‘Really--’ Ralph began in his usual tones.

‘Don’t talk so loud,’ cried the other, achieving the great point of his
lesson to a miracle. ‘I don’t want Hawk to hear.’

‘You know he is your rival, do you?’ said Ralph, looking sharply at him.

‘He always is, d-a-amn him,’ replied the client; ‘and I want to steal
a march upon him. Ha, ha, ha! He’ll cut up so rough, Nickleby, at our
talking together without him. Where does she live, Nickleby, that’s all?
Only tell me where she lives, Nickleby.’

‘He bites,’ thought Ralph. ‘He bites.’

‘Eh, Nickleby, eh?’ pursued the client. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Really, my lord,’ said Ralph, rubbing his hands slowly over each other,
‘I must think before I tell you.’

‘No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn’t think at all,’ replied
Verisopht. ‘Where is it?’

‘No good can come of your knowing,’ replied Ralph. ‘She has been
virtuously and well brought up; to be sure she is handsome, poor,
unprotected! Poor girl, poor girl.’

Ralph ran over this brief summary of Kate’s condition as if it were
merely passing through his own mind, and he had no intention to speak
aloud; but the shrewd sly look which he directed at his companion as he
delivered it, gave this poor assumption the lie.

‘I tell you I only want to see her,’ cried his client. ‘A ma-an may look
at a pretty woman without harm, mayn’t he? Now, where DOES she live?
You know you’re making a fortune out of me, Nickleby, and upon my soul
nobody shall ever take me to anybody else, if you only tell me this.’

‘As you promise that, my lord,’ said Ralph, with feigned reluctance,
‘and as I am most anxious to oblige you, and as there’s no harm in
it--no harm--I’ll tell you. But you had better keep it to yourself, my
lord; strictly to yourself.’ Ralph pointed to the adjoining room as he
spoke, and nodded expressively.

The young lord, feigning to be equally impressed with the necessity of
this precaution, Ralph disclosed the present address and occupation of
his niece, observing that from what he heard of the family they appeared
very ambitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and that a lord
could, doubtless, introduce himself with great ease, if he felt
disposed.

‘Your object being only to see her again,’ said Ralph, ‘you could effect
it at any time you chose by that means.’

Lord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a great many squeezes of
Ralph’s hard, horny hand, and whispering that they would now do well to
close the conversation, called to Sir Mulberry Hawk that he might come
back.

‘I thought you had gone to sleep,’ said Sir Mulberry, reappearing with
an ill-tempered air.

‘Sorry to detain you,’ replied the gull; ‘but Nickleby has been so
ama-azingly funny that I couldn’t tear myself away.’

‘No, no,’ said Ralph; ‘it was all his lordship. You know what a witty,
humorous, elegant, accomplished man Lord Frederick is. Mind the step, my
lord--Sir Mulberry, pray give way.’

With such courtesies as these, and many low bows, and the same cold
sneer upon his face all the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his
visitors downstairs, and otherwise than by the slightest possible motion
about the corners of his mouth, returned no show of answer to the look
of admiration with which Sir Mulberry Hawk seemed to compliment him on
being such an accomplished and most consummate scoundrel.

There had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, which was
answered by Newman Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary
course of business Newman would have either admitted the new-comer in
silence, or have requested him or her to stand aside while the gentlemen
passed out. But he no sooner saw who it was, than as if for some private
reason of his own, he boldly departed from the established custom of
Ralph’s mansion in business hours, and looking towards the respectable
trio who were approaching, cried in a loud and sonorous voice, ‘Mrs
Nickleby!’

‘Mrs. Nickleby!’ cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, as his friend looked back, and
stared him in the face.

It was, indeed, that well-intentioned lady, who, having received an
offer for the empty house in the city directed to the landlord, had
brought it post-haste to Mr. Nickleby without delay.

‘Nobody YOU know,’ said Ralph. ‘Step into the office, my--my--dear. I’ll
be with you directly.’

‘Nobody I know!’ cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, advancing to the astonished
lady. ‘Is this Mrs. Nickleby--the mother of Miss Nickleby--the delightful
creature that I had the happiness of meeting in this house the very last
time I dined here? But no;’ said Sir Mulberry, stopping short. ‘No, it
can’t be. There is the same cast of features, the same indescribable air
of--But no; no. This lady is too young for that.’

‘I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-in-law, if it concerns
him to know,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, acknowledging the compliment with a
graceful bend, ‘that Kate Nickleby is my daughter.’

‘Her daughter, my lord!’ cried Sir Mulberry, turning to his friend.
‘This lady’s daughter, my lord.’

‘My lord!’ thought Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Well, I never did--’

‘This, then, my lord,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘is the lady to whose obliging
marriage we owe so much happiness. This lady is the mother of sweet
Miss Nickleby. Do you observe the extraordinary likeness, my lord?
Nickleby--introduce us.’

Ralph did so, in a kind of desperation.

‘Upon my soul, it’s a most delightful thing,’ said Lord Frederick,
pressing forward. ‘How de do?’

Mrs. Nickleby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kind salutations,
and her regrets at not having on her other bonnet, to make any immediate
reply, so she merely continued to bend and smile, and betray great
agitation.

‘A--and how is Miss Nickleby?’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Well, I hope?’

‘She is quite well, I’m obliged to you, my lord,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby,
recovering. ‘Quite well. She wasn’t well for some days after that day
she dined here, and I can’t help thinking, that she caught cold in that
hackney coach coming home. Hackney coaches, my lord, are such nasty
things, that it’s almost better to walk at any time, for although I
believe a hackney coachman can be transported for life, if he has a
broken window, still they are so reckless, that they nearly all have
broken windows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks, my lord, from
riding in a hackney coach--I think it was a hackney coach,’ said Mrs
Nickleby reflecting, ‘though I’m not quite certain whether it wasn’t
a chariot; at all events I know it was a dark green, with a very long
number, beginning with a nought and ending with a nine--no, beginning
with a nine, and ending with a nought, that was it, and of course the
stamp-office people would know at once whether it was a coach or a
chariot if any inquiries were made there--however that was, there it
was with a broken window and there was I for six weeks with a swelled
face--I think that was the very same hackney coach, that we found out
afterwards, had the top open all the time, and we should never even have
known it, if they hadn’t charged us a shilling an hour extra for having
it open, which it seems is the law, or was then, and a most shameful law
it appears to be--I don’t understand the subject, but I should say the
Corn Laws could be nothing to THAT act of Parliament.’

Having pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs. Nickleby stopped as
suddenly as she had started off; and repeated that Kate was quite well.
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I don’t think she ever was better, since
she had the hooping-cough, scarlet-fever, and measles, all at the same
time, and that’s the fact.’

‘Is that letter for me?’ growled Ralph, pointing to the little packet
Mrs. Nickleby held in her hand.

‘For you, brother-in-law,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, ‘and I walked all the
way up here on purpose to give it you.’

‘All the way up here!’ cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon the chance
of discovering where Mrs. Nickleby had come from. ‘What a confounded
distance! How far do you call it now?’

‘How far do I call it?’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Let me see. It’s just a mile
from our door to the Old Bailey.’

‘No, no. Not so much as that,’ urged Sir Mulberry.

‘Oh! It is indeed,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I appeal to his lordship.’

‘I should decidedly say it was a mile,’ remarked Lord Frederick, with a
solemn aspect.

‘It must be; it can’t be a yard less,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘All down
Newgate Street, all down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, down
Gracechurch Street, and along Thames Street, as far as Spigwiffin’s
Wharf. Oh! It’s a mile.’

‘Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was,’ replied Sir Mulberry.
‘But you don’t surely mean to walk all the way back?’

‘Oh, no,’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I shall go back in an omnibus. I
didn’t travel about in omnibuses, when my poor dear Nicholas was alive,
brother-in-law. But as it is, you know--’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Ralph impatiently, ‘and you had better get back
before dark.’

‘Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I think I
had better say goodbye, at once.’

‘Not stop and--rest?’ said Ralph, who seldom offered refreshments unless
something was to be got by it.

‘Oh dear me no,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, glancing at the dial.

‘Lord Frederick,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘we are going Mrs. Nickleby’s way.
We’ll see her safe to the omnibus?’

‘By all means. Ye-es.’

‘Oh! I really couldn’t think of it!’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

But Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Verisopht were peremptory in their
politeness, and leaving Ralph, who seemed to think, not unwisely, that
he looked less ridiculous as a mere spectator, than he would have done
if he had taken any part in these proceedings, they quitted the house
with Mrs. Nickleby between them; that good lady in a perfect ecstasy
of satisfaction, no less with the attentions shown her by two titled
gentlemen, than with the conviction that Kate might now pick and choose,
at least between two large fortunes, and most unexceptionable husbands.

As she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible train of
thought, all connected with her daughter’s future greatness, Sir
Mulberry Hawk and his friend exchanged glances over the top of the
bonnet which the poor lady so much regretted not having left at home,
and proceeded to dilate with great rapture, but much respect on the
manifold perfections of Miss Nickleby.

‘What a delight, what a comfort, what a happiness, this amiable
creature must be to you,’ said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice an
indication of the warmest feeling.

‘She is indeed, sir,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby; ‘she is the
sweetest-tempered, kindest-hearted creature--and so clever!’

‘She looks clayver,’ said Lord Verisopht, with the air of a judge of
cleverness.

‘I assure you she is, my lord,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby. ‘When she was
at school in Devonshire, she was universally allowed to be beyond all
exception the very cleverest girl there, and there were a great many
very clever ones too, and that’s the truth--twenty-five young ladies,
fifty guineas a year without the et-ceteras, both the Miss Dowdles the
most accomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures--Oh dear me!’ said Mrs
Nickleby, ‘I never shall forget what pleasure she used to give me
and her poor dear papa, when she was at that school, never--such a
delightful letter every half-year, telling us that she was the first
pupil in the whole establishment, and had made more progress than
anybody else! I can scarcely bear to think of it even now. The girls
wrote all the letters themselves,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, ‘and the
writing-master touched them up afterwards with a magnifying glass and
a silver pen; at least I think they wrote them, though Kate was never
quite certain about that, because she didn’t know the handwriting of
hers again; but anyway, I know it was a circular which they all copied,
and of course it was a very gratifying thing--very gratifying.’

With similar recollections Mrs. Nickleby beguiled the tediousness of the
way, until they reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of
her new friends would not allow them to leave until it actually started,
when they took their hats, as Mrs. Nickleby solemnly assured her hearers
on many subsequent occasions, ‘completely off,’ and kissed their
straw-coloured kid gloves till they were no longer visible.

Mrs. Nickleby leant back in the furthest corner of the conveyance,
and, closing her eyes, resigned herself to a host of most pleasing
meditations. Kate had never said a word about having met either of
these gentlemen; ‘that,’ she thought, ‘argues that she is strongly
prepossessed in favour of one of them.’ Then the question arose, which
one could it be. The lord was the youngest, and his title was certainly
the grandest; still Kate was not the girl to be swayed by such
considerations as these. ‘I will never put any constraint upon her
inclinations,’ said Mrs. Nickleby to herself; ‘but upon my word I
think there’s no comparison between his lordship and Sir Mulberry--Sir
Mulberry is such an attentive gentlemanly creature, so much manner,
such a fine man, and has so much to say for himself. I hope it’s Sir
Mulberry--I think it must be Sir Mulberry!’ And then her thoughts flew
back to her old predictions, and the number of times she had said, that
Kate with no fortune would marry better than other people’s daughters
with thousands; and, as she pictured with the brightness of a mother’s
fancy all the beauty and grace of the poor girl who had struggled so
cheerfully with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart grew too
full, and the tears trickled down her face.

Meanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his little back-office, troubled
in mind by what had just occurred. To say that Ralph loved or cared
for--in the most ordinary acceptation of those terms--any one of God’s
creatures, would be the wildest fiction. Still, there had somehow stolen
upon him from time to time a thought of his niece which was tinged
with compassion and pity; breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or
indifference which darkened men and women in his eyes, there was, in her
case, the faintest gleam of light--a most feeble and sickly ray at the
best of times--but there it was, and it showed the poor girl in a better
and purer aspect than any in which he had looked on human nature yet.

‘I wish,’ thought Ralph, ‘I had never done this. And yet it will
keep this boy to me, while there is money to be made. Selling a
girl--throwing her in the way of temptation, and insult, and coarse
speech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him already though.
Pshaw! match-making mothers do the same thing every day.’

He sat down, and told the chances, for and against, on his fingers.

‘If I had not put them in the right track today,’ thought Ralph, ‘this
foolish woman would have done so. Well. If her daughter is as true to
herself as she should be from what I have seen, what harm ensues? A
little teasing, a little humbling, a few tears. Yes,’ said Ralph, aloud,
as he locked his iron safe. ‘She must take her chance. She must take her
chance.’



CHAPTER 27

Mrs. Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose
Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds


Mrs. Nickleby had not felt so proud and important for many a day, as
when, on reaching home, she gave herself wholly up to the pleasant
visions which had accompanied her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry
Hawk--that was the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk!--On Tuesday last,
at St George’s, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend the Bishop
of Llandaff, Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, North Wales, to
Catherine, only daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of
Devonshire. ‘Upon my word!’ cried Mrs. Nicholas Nickleby, ‘it sounds very
well.’

Having dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities, to the
perfect satisfaction of her own mind, the sanguine mother pictured to
her imagination a long train of honours and distinctions which could
not fail to accompany Kate in her new and brilliant sphere. She would be
presented at court, of course. On the anniversary of her birthday, which
was upon the nineteenth of July [‘at ten minutes past three o’clock in
the morning,’ thought Mrs. Nickleby in a parenthesis, ‘for I recollect
asking what o’clock it was’), Sir Mulberry would give a great feast to
all his tenants, and would return them three and a half per cent on the
amount of their last half-year’s rent, as would be fully described and
recorded in the fashionable intelligence, to the immeasurable delight
and admiration of all the readers thereof. Kate’s picture, too, would be
in at least half-a-dozen of the annuals, and on the opposite page would
appear, in delicate type, ‘Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady
Mulberry Hawk. By Sir Dingleby Dabber.’ Perhaps some one annual, of more
comprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain a portrait
of the mother of Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father of Sir
Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had come to pass. Less interesting
portraits had appeared. As this thought occurred to the good lady, her
countenance unconsciously assumed that compound expression of simpering
and sleepiness which, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one
reason why they are always so charming and agreeable.

With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs. Nickleby occupy
the whole evening after her accidental introduction to Ralph’s titled
friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and equally promising, haunted
her sleep that night. She was preparing for her frugal dinner next day,
still occupied with the same ideas--a little softened down perhaps by
sleep and daylight--when the girl who attended her, partly for company,
and partly to assist in the household affairs, rushed into the room in
unwonted agitation, and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the
passage for permission to walk upstairs.

‘Bless my heart!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, hastily arranging her cap and
front, ‘if it should be--dear me, standing in the passage all this
time--why don’t you go and ask them to walk up, you stupid thing?’

While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs. Nickleby hastily swept into
a cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely
done, and seated herself with looks as collected as she could assume,
when two gentlemen, both perfect strangers, presented themselves.

‘How do you DO?’ said one gentleman, laying great stress on the last
word of the inquiry.

‘HOW do you do?’ said the other gentleman, altering the emphasis, as if
to give variety to the salutation.

Mrs. Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, and remarked,
rubbing her hands as she did so, that she hadn’t the--really--the honour
to--

‘To know us,’ said the first gentleman. ‘The loss has been ours, Mrs
Nickleby. Has the loss been ours, Pyke?’

‘It has, Pluck,’ answered the other gentleman.

‘We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?’ said the first
gentleman.

‘Very often, Pluck,’ answered the second.

‘But now,’ said the first gentleman, ‘now we have the happiness we
have pined and languished for. Have we pined and languished for this
happiness, Pyke, or have we not?’

‘You know we have, Pluck,’ said Pyke, reproachfully.

‘You hear him, ma’am?’ said Mr. Pluck, looking round; ‘you hear
the unimpeachable testimony of my friend Pyke--that reminds
me,--formalities, formalities, must not be neglected in civilised
society. Pyke--Mrs. Nickleby.’

Mr. Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.

‘Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,’ said Mr
Pluck--‘whether I shall say myself that my name is Pluck, or whether
I shall ask my friend Pyke (who being now regularly introduced, is
competent to the office) to state for me, Mrs. Nickleby, that my name is
Pluck; whether I shall claim your acquaintance on the plain ground of
the strong interest I take in your welfare, or whether I shall make
myself known to you as the friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk--these, Mrs
Nickleby, are considerations which I leave to you to determine.’

‘Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk’s requires no better introduction to
me,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby, graciously.

‘It is delightful to hear you say so,’ said Mr. Pluck, drawing a chair
close to Mrs. Nickleby, and sitting himself down. ‘It is refreshing
to know that you hold my excellent friend, Sir Mulberry, in such high
esteem. A word in your ear, Mrs. Nickleby. When Sir Mulberry knows it, he
will be a happy man--I say, Mrs. Nickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.’

‘MY good opinion,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, and the poor lady exulted in the
idea that she was marvellously sly,--‘my good opinion can be of very
little consequence to a gentleman like Sir Mulberry.’

‘Of little consequence!’ exclaimed Mr. Pluck. ‘Pyke, of what consequence
to our friend, Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion of Mrs. Nickleby?’

‘Of what consequence?’ echoed Pyke.

‘Ay,’ repeated Pluck; ‘is it of the greatest consequence?’

‘Of the very greatest consequence,’ replied Pyke.

‘Mrs. Nickleby cannot be ignorant,’ said Mr. Pluck, ‘of the immense
impression which that sweet girl has--’

‘Pluck!’ said his friend, ‘beware!’

‘Pyke is right,’ muttered Mr. Pluck, after a short pause; ‘I was not to
mention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.’

‘Well now, really,’ thought Mrs. Nickleby within herself. ‘Such delicacy
as that, I never saw!’

Mr. Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of great embarrassment
for some minutes, resumed the conversation by entreating Mrs. Nickleby
to take no heed of what he had inadvertently said--to consider him
imprudent, rash, injudicious. The only stipulation he would make in his
own favour was, that she should give him credit for the best intentions.

‘But when,’ said Mr. Pluck, ‘when I see so much sweetness and beauty on
the one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on the other, I--pardon
me, Pyke, I didn’t intend to resume that theme. Change the subject,
Pyke.’

‘We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,’ said Pyke, ‘that we’d
call this morning and inquire whether you took any cold last night.’

‘Not the least in the world last night, sir,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby,
‘with many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the
honour to inquire; not the least--which is the more singular, as I
really am very subject to colds, indeed--very subject. I had a cold
once,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I think it was in the year eighteen hundred
and seventeen; let me see, four and five are nine, and--yes, eighteen
hundred and seventeen, that I thought I never should get rid of;
actually and seriously, that I thought I never should get rid of. I
was only cured at last by a remedy that I don’t know whether you ever
happened to hear of, Mr. Pluck. You have a gallon of water as hot as
you can possibly bear it, with a pound of salt, and sixpen’orth of the
finest bran, and sit with your head in it for twenty minutes every night
just before going to bed; at least, I don’t mean your head--your feet.
It’s a most extraordinary cure--a most extraordinary cure. I used it
for the first time, I recollect, the day after Christmas Day, and by the
middle of April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a miracle
when you come to think of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of
September.’

‘What an afflicting calamity!’ said Mr. Pyke.

‘Perfectly horrid!’ exclaimed Mr. Pluck.

‘But it’s worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs. Nickleby
recovered it, isn’t it, Pluck?’ cried Mr. Pyke.

‘That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest,’
replied Mr. Pluck.

‘But come,’ said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; ‘we must
not forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a
mission, Mrs. Nickleby.’

‘On a mission,’ exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definite
proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself in lively
colours.

‘From Sir Mulberry,’ replied Pyke. ‘You must be very dull here.’

‘Rather dull, I confess,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand
entreaties that you’ll take a seat in a private box at the play
tonight,’ said Mr. Pluck.

‘Oh dear!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I never go out at all, never.’

‘And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs. Nickleby, why you should go
out tonight,’ retorted Mr. Pluck. ‘Pyke, entreat Mrs. Nickleby.’

‘Oh, pray do,’ said Pyke.

‘You positively must,’ urged Pluck.

‘You are very kind,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, hesitating; ‘but--’

‘There’s not a but in the case, my dear Mrs. Nickleby,’ remonstrated Mr
Pluck; ‘not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us,
Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us--a refusal
is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you--twenty
minutes before seven to the moment--you’ll not be so cruel as to
disappoint the whole party, Mrs. Nickleby?’

‘You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,’ replied
the worthy lady.

‘Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,’ urged Mr. Pluck.
‘Mrs. Nickleby,’ said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice,
‘there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence
in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard
it--such is that man’s delicate sense of honour, Mrs. Nickleby--he’d have
me out before dinner-time.’

Mrs. Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had
walked to the window; and Mr. Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:

‘Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may
congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma’am, Sir Mulberry is her
devoted slave. Hem!’

‘Hah!’ cried Mr. Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the
chimney-piece with a theatrical air. ‘What is this! what do I behold!’

‘What DO you behold, my dear fellow?’ asked Mr. Pluck.

‘It is the face, the countenance, the expression,’ cried Mr. Pyke,
falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; ‘feebly
portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE countenance, THE
expression.’

‘I recognise it at this distance!’ exclaimed Mr. Pluck in a fit of
enthusiasm. ‘Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--’

‘It is my daughter’s portrait,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with great pride. And
so it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection
only two nights before.

Mr. Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in his conjecture,
than he launched into the most extravagant encomiums of the divine
original; and in the warmth of his enthusiasm kissed the picture a
thousand times, while Mr. Pluck pressed Mrs. Nickleby’s hand to his heart,
and congratulated her on the possession of such a daughter, with so much
earnestness and affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand,
in his eyes. Poor Mrs. Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable
complacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by these tokens
of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even the servant
girl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted to the spot in
astonishment at the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.

By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs. Nickleby went on to
entertain her guests with a lament over her fallen fortunes, and a
picturesque account of her old house in the country: comprising a full
description of the different apartments, not forgetting the little
store-room, and a lively recollection of how many steps you went down to
get into the garden, and which way you turned when you came out at the
parlour door, and what capital fixtures there were in the kitchen. This
last reflection naturally conducted her into the wash-house, where she
stumbled upon the brewing utensils, among which she might have wandered
for an hour, if the mere mention of those implements had not, by an
association of ideas, instantly reminded Mr. Pyke that he was ‘amazing
thirsty.’

‘And I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr. Pyke; ‘if you’ll send round to the
public-house for a pot of milk half-and-half, positively and actually
I’ll drink it.’

And positively and actually Mr. Pyke DID drink it, and Mr. Pluck
helped him, while Mrs. Nickleby looked on in divided admiration of the
condescension of the two, and the aptitude with which they accommodated
themselves to the pewter-pot; in explanation of which seeming marvel it
may be here observed, that gentlemen who, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck,
live upon their wits (or not so much, perhaps, upon the presence
of their own wits as upon the absence of wits in other people) are
occasionally reduced to very narrow shifts and straits, and are at such
periods accustomed to regale themselves in a very simple and primitive
manner.

‘At twenty minutes before seven, then,’ said Mr. Pyke, rising, ‘the coach
will be here. One more look--one little look--at that sweet face. Ah!
here it is. Unmoved, unchanged!’ This, by the way, was a very
remarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to so many changes of
expression--‘Oh, Pluck! Pluck!’

Mr. Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs. Nickleby’s hand with a
great show of feeling and attachment; Mr. Pyke having done the same, both
gentlemen hastily withdrew.

Mrs. Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself credit for a
pretty tolerable share of penetration and acuteness, but she had never
felt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness as she did that day.
She had found it all out the night before. She had never seen Sir
Mulberry and Kate together--never even heard Sir Mulberry’s name--and
yet hadn’t she said to herself from the very first, that she saw how the
case stood? and what a triumph it was, for there was now no doubt
about it. If these flattering attentions to herself were not sufficient
proofs, Sir Mulberry’s confidential friend had suffered the secret
to escape him in so many words. ‘I am quite in love with that dear Mr
Pluck, I declare I am,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

There was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of this good
fortune, and that was the having nobody by, to whom she could confide
it. Once or twice she almost resolved to walk straight to Miss La
Creevy’s and tell it all to her. ‘But I don’t know,’ thought Mrs
Nickleby; ‘she is a very worthy person, but I am afraid too much beneath
Sir Mulberry’s station for us to make a companion of. Poor thing!’
Acting upon this grave consideration she rejected the idea of taking the
little portrait painter into her confidence, and contented herself
with holding out sundry vague and mysterious hopes of preferment to the
servant girl, who received these obscure hints of dawning greatness with
much veneration and respect.

Punctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was no hackney
coach, but a private chariot, having behind it a footman, whose legs,
although somewhat large for his body, might, as mere abstract legs,
have set themselves up for models at the Royal Academy. It was quite
exhilarating to hear the clash and bustle with which he banged the door
and jumped up behind after Mrs. Nickleby was in; and as that good lady
was perfectly unconscious that he applied the gold-headed end of his
long stick to his nose, and so telegraphed most disrespectfully to the
coachman over her very head, she sat in a state of much stiffness and
dignity, not a little proud of her position.

At the theatre entrance there was more banging and more bustle, and
there were also Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting to escort her to her box;
and so polite were they, that Mr. Pyke threatened with many oaths to
‘smifligate’ a very old man with a lantern who accidentally stumbled
in her way--to the great terror of Mrs. Nickleby, who, conjecturing
more from Mr. Pyke’s excitement than any previous acquaintance with the
etymology of the word that smifligation and bloodshed must be in
the main one and the same thing, was alarmed beyond expression, lest
something should occur. Fortunately, however, Mr. Pyke confined himself
to mere verbal smifligation, and they reached their box with no more
serious interruption by the way, than a desire on the part of the same
pugnacious gentleman to ‘smash’ the assistant box-keeper for happening
to mistake the number.

Mrs. Nickleby had scarcely been put away behind the curtain of the box in
an armchair, when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisopht arrived, arrayed from
the crowns of their heads to the tips of their gloves, and from the
tips of their gloves to the toes of their boots, in the most elegant and
costly manner. Sir Mulberry was a little hoarser than on the previous
day, and Lord Verisopht looked rather sleepy and queer; from which
tokens, as well as from the circumstance of their both being to a
trifling extent unsteady upon their legs, Mrs. Nickleby justly concluded
that they had taken dinner.

‘We have been--we have been--toasting your lovely daughter, Mrs
Nickleby,’ whispered Sir Mulberry, sitting down behind her.

‘Oh, ho!’ thought that knowing lady; ‘wine in, truth out.--You are very
kind, Sir Mulberry.’

‘No, no upon my soul!’ replied Sir Mulberry Hawk. ‘It’s you that’s kind,
upon my soul it is. It was so kind of you to come tonight.’

‘So very kind of you to invite me, you mean, Sir Mulberry,’ replied Mrs
Nickleby, tossing her head, and looking prodigiously sly.

‘I am so anxious to know you, so anxious to cultivate your good opinion,
so desirous that there should be a delicious kind of harmonious family
understanding between us,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘that you mustn’t think
I’m disinterested in what I do. I’m infernal selfish; I am--upon my soul
I am.’

‘I am sure you can’t be selfish, Sir Mulberry!’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.
‘You have much too open and generous a countenance for that.’

‘What an extraordinary observer you are!’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk.

‘Oh no, indeed, I don’t see very far into things, Sir Mulberry,’ replied
Mrs. Nickleby, in a tone of voice which left the baronet to infer that
she saw very far indeed.

‘I am quite afraid of you,’ said the baronet. ‘Upon my soul,’ repeated
Sir Mulberry, looking round to his companions; ‘I am afraid of Mrs
Nickleby. She is so immensely sharp.’

Messrs Pyke and Pluck shook their heads mysteriously, and observed
together that they had found that out long ago; upon which Mrs. Nickleby
tittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed, and Pyke and Pluck roared.

‘But where’s my brother-in-law, Sir Mulberry?’ inquired Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I
shouldn’t be here without him. I hope he’s coming.’

‘Pyke,’ said Sir Mulberry, taking out his toothpick and lolling back in
his chair, as if he were too lazy to invent a reply to this question.
‘Where’s Ralph Nickleby?’

‘Pluck,’ said Pyke, imitating the baronet’s action, and turning the lie
over to his friend, ‘where’s Ralph Nickleby?’

Mr. Pluck was about to return some evasive reply, when the hustle caused
by a party entering the next box seemed to attract the attention of all
four gentlemen, who exchanged glances of much meaning. The new party
beginning to converse together, Sir Mulberry suddenly assumed the
character of a most attentive listener, and implored his friends not to
breathe--not to breathe.

‘Why not?’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Hush!’ replied Sir Mulberry, laying his hand on her arm. ‘Lord
Frederick, do you recognise the tones of that voice?’

‘Deyvle take me if I didn’t think it was the voice of Miss Nickleby.’

‘Lor, my lord!’ cried Miss Nickleby’s mama, thrusting her head round the
curtain. ‘Why actually--Kate, my dear, Kate.’

‘YOU here, mama! Is it possible!’

‘Possible, my dear? Yes.’

‘Why who--who on earth is that you have with you, mama?’ said Kate,
shrinking back as she caught sight of a man smiling and kissing his
hand.

‘Who do you suppose, my dear?’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, bending towards Mrs
Wititterly, and speaking a little louder for that lady’s edification.
‘There’s Mr. Pyke, Mr. Pluck, Sir Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Frederick
Verisopht.’

‘Gracious Heaven!’ thought Kate hurriedly. ‘How comes she in such
society?’

Now, Kate thought thus SO hurriedly, and the surprise was so great, and
moreover brought back so forcibly the recollection of what had passed at
Ralph’s delectable dinner, that she turned extremely pale and appeared
greatly agitated, which symptoms being observed by Mrs. Nickleby, were
at once set down by that acute lady as being caused and occasioned by
violent love. But, although she was in no small degree delighted by
this discovery, which reflected so much credit on her own quickness of
perception, it did not lessen her motherly anxiety in Kate’s behalf; and
accordingly, with a vast quantity of trepidation, she quitted her own
box to hasten into that of Mrs. Wititterly. Mrs. Wititterly, keenly
alive to the glory of having a lord and a baronet among her visiting
acquaintance, lost no time in signing to Mr. Wititterly to open the door,
and thus it was that in less than thirty seconds Mrs. Nickleby’s party
had made an irruption into Mrs. Wititterly’s box, which it filled to the
very door, there being in fact only room for Messrs Pyke and Pluck to
get in their heads and waistcoats.

‘My dear Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, kissing her daughter affectionately.
‘How ill you looked a moment ago! You quite frightened me, I declare!’

‘It was mere fancy, mama,--the--the--reflection of the lights perhaps,’
replied Kate, glancing nervously round, and finding it impossible to
whisper any caution or explanation.

‘Don’t you see Sir Mulberry Hawk, my dear?’

Kate bowed slightly, and biting her lip turned her head towards the
stage.

But Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so easily repulsed, for he advanced
with extended hand; and Mrs. Nickleby officiously informing Kate of this
circumstance, she was obliged to extend her own. Sir Mulberry detained
it while he murmured a profusion of compliments, which Kate, remembering
what had passed between them, rightly considered as so many aggravations
of the insult he had already put upon her. Then followed the recognition
of Lord Verisopht, and then the greeting of Mr. Pyke, and then that of Mr
Pluck, and finally, to complete the young lady’s mortification, she
was compelled at Mrs. Wititterly’s request to perform the ceremony
of introducing the odious persons, whom she regarded with the utmost
indignation and abhorrence.

‘Mrs. Wititterly is delighted,’ said Mr. Wititterly, rubbing his hands;
‘delighted, my lord, I am sure, with this opportunity of contracting an
acquaintance which, I trust, my lord, we shall improve. Julia, my dear,
you must not allow yourself to be too much excited, you must not.
Indeed you must not. Mrs. Wititterly is of a most excitable nature, Sir
Mulberry. The snuff of a candle, the wick of a lamp, the bloom on a
peach, the down on a butterfly. You might blow her away, my lord; you
might blow her away.’

Sir Mulberry seemed to think that it would be a great convenience if the
lady could be blown away. He said, however, that the delight was mutual,
and Lord Verisopht added that it was mutual, whereupon Messrs Pyke and
Pluck were heard to murmur from the distance that it was very mutual
indeed.

‘I take an interest, my lord,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, with a faint smile,
‘such an interest in the drama.’

‘Ye--es. It’s very interesting,’ replied Lord Verisopht.

‘I’m always ill after Shakespeare,’ said Mrs. Wititterly. ‘I scarcely
exist the next day; I find the reaction so very great after a tragedy,
my lord, and Shakespeare is such a delicious creature.’

‘Ye--es!’ replied Lord Verisopht. ‘He was a clayver man.’

‘Do you know, my lord,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, after a long silence, ‘I
find I take so much more interest in his plays, after having been to
that dear little dull house he was born in! Were you ever there, my
lord?’

‘No, nayver,’ replied Verisopht.

‘Then really you ought to go, my lord,’ returned Mrs. Wititterly, in very
languid and drawling accents. ‘I don’t know how it is, but after you’ve
seen the place and written your name in the little book, somehow or
other you seem to be inspired; it kindles up quite a fire within one.’

‘Ye--es!’ replied Lord Verisopht, ‘I shall certainly go there.’

‘Julia, my life,’ interposed Mr. Wititterly, ‘you are deceiving his
lordship--unintentionally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is
your poetical temperament, my dear--your ethereal soul--your fervid
imagination, which throws you into a glow of genius and excitement.
There is nothing in the place, my dear--nothing, nothing.’

‘I think there must be something in the place,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, who
had been listening in silence; ‘for, soon after I was married, I went
to Stratford with my poor dear Mr. Nickleby, in a post-chaise
from Birmingham--was it a post-chaise though?’ said Mrs. Nickleby,
considering; ‘yes, it must have been a post-chaise, because I recollect
remarking at the time that the driver had a green shade over his
left eye;--in a post-chaise from Birmingham, and after we had seen
Shakespeare’s tomb and birthplace, we went back to the inn there, where
we slept that night, and I recollect that all night long I dreamt of
nothing but a black gentleman, at full length, in plaster-of-Paris,
with a lay-down collar tied with two tassels, leaning against a post
and thinking; and when I woke in the morning and described him to Mr
Nickleby, he said it was Shakespeare just as he had been when he was
alive, which was very curious indeed. Stratford--Stratford,’ continued
Mrs. Nickleby, considering. ‘Yes, I am positive about that, because I
recollect I was in the family way with my son Nicholas at the time,
and I had been very much frightened by an Italian image boy that very
morning. In fact, it was quite a mercy, ma’am,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, in
a whisper to Mrs. Wititterly, ‘that my son didn’t turn out to be a
Shakespeare, and what a dreadful thing that would have been!’

When Mrs. Nickleby had brought this interesting anecdote to a close,
Pyke and Pluck, ever zealous in their patron’s cause, proposed the
adjournment of a detachment of the party into the next box; and with so
much skill were the preliminaries adjusted, that Kate, despite all
she could say or do to the contrary, had no alternative but to suffer
herself to be led away by Sir Mulberry Hawk. Her mother and Mr. Pluck
accompanied them, but the worthy lady, pluming herself upon her
discretion, took particular care not so much as to look at her daughter
during the whole evening, and to seem wholly absorbed in the jokes and
conversation of Mr. Pluck, who, having been appointed sentry over Mrs
Nickleby for that especial purpose, neglected, on his side, no possible
opportunity of engrossing her attention.

Lord Frederick Verisopht remained in the next box to be talked to by Mrs
Wititterly, and Mr. Pyke was in attendance to throw in a word or two when
necessary. As to Mr. Wititterly, he was sufficiently busy in the body of
the house, informing such of his friends and acquaintance as happened
to be there, that those two gentlemen upstairs, whom they had seen
in conversation with Mrs. W., were the distinguished Lord Frederick
Verisopht and his most intimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk--a
communication which inflamed several respectable house-keepers with the
utmost jealousy and rage, and reduced sixteen unmarried daughters to the
very brink of despair.

The evening came to an end at last, but Kate had yet to be handed
downstairs by the detested Sir Mulberry; and so skilfully were the
manoeuvres of Messrs Pyke and Pluck conducted, that she and the baronet
were the last of the party, and were even--without an appearance of
effort or design--left at some little distance behind.

‘Don’t hurry, don’t hurry,’ said Sir Mulberry, as Kate hastened on, and
attempted to release her arm.

She made no reply, but still pressed forward.

‘Nay, then--’ coolly observed Sir Mulberry, stopping her outright.

‘You had best not seek to detain me, sir!’ said Kate, angrily.

‘And why not?’ retorted Sir Mulberry. ‘My dear creature, now why do you
keep up this show of displeasure?’

‘SHOW!’ repeated Kate, indignantly. ‘How dare you presume to speak to
me, sir--to address me--to come into my presence?’

‘You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk,
stooping down, the better to see her face.

‘I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,’ said Kate.
‘If you find any attraction in looks of disgust and aversion, you--let
me rejoin my friends, sir, instantly. Whatever considerations may have
withheld me thus far, I will disregard them all, and take a course that
even YOU might feel, if you do not immediately suffer me to proceed.’

Sir Mulberry smiled, and still looking in her face and retaining her
arm, walked towards the door.

‘If no regard for my sex or helpless situation will induce you to desist
from this coarse and unmanly persecution,’ said Kate, scarcely knowing,
in the tumult of her passions, what she said,--‘I have a brother who
will resent it dearly, one day.’

‘Upon my soul!’ exclaimed Sir Mulberry, as though quietly communing with
himself; passing his arm round her waist as he spoke, ‘she looks more
beautiful, and I like her better in this mood, than when her eyes are
cast down, and she is in perfect repose!’

How Kate reached the lobby where her friends were waiting she never
knew, but she hurried across it without at all regarding them, and
disengaged herself suddenly from her companion, sprang into the coach,
and throwing herself into its darkest corner burst into tears.

Messrs Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue, at once threw the party into
great commotion by shouting for the carriages, and getting up a violent
quarrel with sundry inoffensive bystanders; in the midst of which tumult
they put the affrighted Mrs. Nickleby in her chariot, and having got her
safely off, turned their thoughts to Mrs. Wititterly, whose attention
also they had now effectually distracted from the young lady, by
throwing her into a state of the utmost bewilderment and consternation.
At length, the conveyance in which she had come rolled off too with its
load, and the four worthies, being left alone under the portico, enjoyed
a hearty laugh together.

‘There,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning to his noble friend. ‘Didn’t I tell
you last night that if we could find where they were going by bribing a
servant through my fellow, and then established ourselves close by with
the mother, these people’s honour would be our own? Why here it is, done
in four-and-twenty hours.’

‘Ye--es,’ replied the dupe. ‘But I have been tied to the old woman all
ni-ight.’

‘Hear him,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning to his two friends. ‘Hear this
discontented grumbler. Isn’t it enough to make a man swear never to help
him in his plots and schemes again? Isn’t it an infernal shame?’

Pyke asked Pluck whether it was not an infernal shame, and Pluck asked
Pyke; but neither answered.

‘Isn’t it the truth?’ demanded Verisopht. ‘Wasn’t it so?’

‘Wasn’t it so!’ repeated Sir Mulberry. ‘How would you have had it? How
could we have got a general invitation at first sight--come when you
like, go when you like, stop as long as you like, do what you like--if
you, the lord, had not made yourself agreeable to the foolish mistress
of the house? Do I care for this girl, except as your friend? Haven’t I
been sounding your praises in her ears, and bearing her pretty sulks and
peevishness all night for you? What sort of stuff do you think I’m made
of? Would I do this for every man? Don’t I deserve even gratitude in
return?’

‘You’re a deyvlish good fellow,’ said the poor young lord, taking his
friend’s arm. ‘Upon my life you’re a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk.’

‘And I have done right, have I?’ demanded Sir Mulberry.

‘Quite ri-ght.’

‘And like a poor, silly, good-natured, friendly dog as I am, eh?’

‘Ye--es, ye--es; like a friend,’ replied the other.

‘Well then,’ replied Sir Mulberry, ‘I’m satisfied. And now let’s go and
have our revenge on the German baron and the Frenchman, who cleaned you
out so handsomely last night.’

With these words the friendly creature took his companion’s arm and led
him away, turning half round as he did so, and bestowing a wink and
a contemptuous smile on Messrs Pyke and Pluck, who, cramming their
handkerchiefs into their mouths to denote their silent enjoyment of
the whole proceedings, followed their patron and his victim at a little
distance.



CHAPTER 28

Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry
Hawk, and the Complicated Difficulties and Distresses which surround
her, appeals, as a last resource, to her Uncle for Protection


The ensuing morning brought reflection with it, as morning usually
does; but widely different was the train of thought it awakened in the
different persons who had been so unexpectedly brought together on the
preceding evening, by the active agency of Messrs Pyke and Pluck.

The reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk--if such a term can be applied to
the thoughts of the systematic and calculating man of dissipation, whose
joys, regrets, pains, and pleasures, are all of self, and who would seem
to retain nothing of the intellectual faculty but the power to debase
himself, and to degrade the very nature whose outward semblance he
wears--the reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk turned upon Kate Nickleby,
and were, in brief, that she was undoubtedly handsome; that her coyness
MUST be easily conquerable by a man of his address and experience, and
that the pursuit was one which could not fail to redound to his credit,
and greatly to enhance his reputation with the world. And lest this last
consideration--no mean or secondary one with Sir Mulberry--should sound
strangely in the ears of some, let it be remembered that most men live
in a world of their own, and that in that limited circle alone are they
ambitious for distinction and applause. Sir Mulberry’s world was peopled
with profligates, and he acted accordingly.

Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most
extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among us every day. It
is the custom to trumpet forth much wonder and astonishment at the chief
actors therein setting at defiance so completely the opinion of the
world; but there is no greater fallacy; it is precisely because they
do consult the opinion of their own little world that such things take
place at all, and strike the great world dumb with amazement.

The reflections of Mrs. Nickleby were of the proudest and most complacent
kind; and under the influence of her very agreeable delusion she
straightway sat down and indited a long letter to Kate, in which she
expressed her entire approval of the admirable choice she had made, and
extolled Sir Mulberry to the skies; asserting, for the more complete
satisfaction of her daughter’s feelings, that he was precisely the
individual whom she (Mrs. Nickleby) would have chosen for her son-in-law,
if she had had the picking and choosing from all mankind. The good lady
then, with the preliminary observation that she might be fairly supposed
not to have lived in the world so long without knowing its ways,
communicated a great many subtle precepts applicable to the state of
courtship, and confirmed in their wisdom by her own personal experience.
Above all things she commended a strict maidenly reserve, as being
not only a very laudable thing in itself, but as tending materially
to strengthen and increase a lover’s ardour. ‘And I never,’ added Mrs
Nickleby, ‘was more delighted in my life than to observe last night,
my dear, that your good sense had already told you this.’ With which
sentiment, and various hints of the pleasure she derived from the
knowledge that her daughter inherited so large an instalment of her own
excellent sense and discretion (to nearly the full measure of which she
might hope, with care, to succeed in time), Mrs. Nickleby concluded a
very long and rather illegible letter.

Poor Kate was well-nigh distracted on the receipt of four
closely-written and closely-crossed sides of congratulation on the very
subject which had prevented her closing her eyes all night, and kept her
weeping and watching in her chamber; still worse and more trying was the
necessity of rendering herself agreeable to Mrs. Wititterly, who, being
in low spirits after the fatigue of the preceding night, of course
expected her companion (else wherefore had she board and salary?) to be
in the best spirits possible. As to Mr. Wititterly, he went about all day
in a tremor of delight at having shaken hands with a lord, and having
actually asked him to come and see him in his own house. The lord
himself, not being troubled to any inconvenient extent with the power
of thinking, regaled himself with the conversation of Messrs Pyke and
Pluck, who sharpened their wit by a plentiful indulgence in various
costly stimulants at his expense.

It was four in the afternoon--that is, the vulgar afternoon of the sun
and the clock--and Mrs. Wititterly reclined, according to custom, on the
drawing-room sofa, while Kate read aloud a new novel in three volumes,
entitled ‘The Lady Flabella,’ which Alphonse the doubtful had procured
from the library that very morning. And it was a production admirably
suited to a lady labouring under Mrs. Wititterly’s complaint, seeing that
there was not a line in it, from beginning to end, which could, by the
most remote contingency, awaken the smallest excitement in any person
breathing.

Kate read on.

‘“Cherizette,” said the Lady Flabella, inserting her mouse-like feet
in the blue satin slippers, which had unwittingly occasioned the
half-playful half-angry altercation between herself and the youthful
Colonel Befillaire, in the Duke of Mincefenille’s SALON DE DANSE on the
previous night. “CHERIZETTE, MA CHERE, DONNEZ-MOI DE L’EAU-DE-COLOGNE,
S’IL VOUS PLAIT, MON ENFANT.”

‘“MERCIE--thank you,” said the Lady Flabella, as the lively but devoted
Cherizette plentifully besprinkled with the fragrant compound the Lady
Flabella’s MOUCHOIR of finest cambric, edged with richest lace, and
emblazoned at the four corners with the Flabella crest, and gorgeous
heraldic bearings of that noble family. “MERCIE--that will do.”

‘At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet inhaled that
delicious fragrance by holding the MOUCHOIR to her exquisite, but
thoughtfully-chiselled nose, the door of the BOUDOIR (artfully concealed
by rich hangings of silken damask, the hue of Italy’s firmament) was
thrown open, and with noiseless tread two VALETS-DE-CHAMBRE, clad in
sumptuous liveries of peach-blossom and gold, advanced into the room
followed by a page in BAS DE SOIE--silk stockings--who, while they
remained at some distance making the most graceful obeisances, advanced
to the feet of his lovely mistress, and dropping on one knee presented,
on a golden salver gorgeously chased, a scented BILLET.

‘The Lady Flabella, with an agitation she could not repress, hastily
tore off the ENVELOPE and broke the scented seal. It WAS from
Befillaire--the young, the slim, the low-voiced--HER OWN Befillaire.’

‘Oh, charming!’ interrupted Kate’s patroness, who was sometimes taken
literary. ‘Poetic, really. Read that description again, Miss Nickleby.’

Kate complied.

‘Sweet, indeed!’ said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sigh. ‘So voluptuous, is it
not--so soft?’

‘Yes, I think it is,’ replied Kate, gently; ‘very soft.’

‘Close the book, Miss Nickleby,’ said Mrs. Wititterly. ‘I can hear
nothing more today; I should be sorry to disturb the impression of that
sweet description. Close the book.’

Kate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she did so, Mrs. Wititterly
raising her glass with a languid hand, remarked, that she looked pale.

‘It was the fright of that--that noise and confusion last night,’ said
Kate.

‘How very odd!’ exclaimed Mrs. Wititterly, with a look of surprise. And
certainly, when one comes to think of it, it WAS very odd that anything
should have disturbed a companion. A steam-engine, or other ingenious
piece of mechanism out of order, would have been nothing to it.

‘How did you come to know Lord Frederick, and those other delightful
creatures, child?’ asked Mrs. Wititterly, still eyeing Kate through her
glass.

‘I met them at my uncle’s,’ said Kate, vexed to feel that she was
colouring deeply, but unable to keep down the blood which rushed to her
face whenever she thought of that man.

‘Have you known them long?’

‘No,’ rejoined Kate. ‘Not long.’

‘I was very glad of the opportunity which that respectable person, your
mother, gave us of being known to them,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, in a lofty
manner. ‘Some friends of ours were on the very point of introducing us,
which makes it quite remarkable.’

This was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow conceited on the honour
and dignity of having known four great people (for Pyke and Pluck were
included among the delightful creatures), whom Mrs. Wititterly did not
know. But as the circumstance had made no impression one way or other
upon Kate’s mind, the force of the observation was quite lost upon her.

‘They asked permission to call,’ said Mrs. Wititterly. ‘I gave it them of
course.’

‘Do you expect them today?’ Kate ventured to inquire.

Mrs. Wititterly’s answer was lost in the noise of a tremendous rapping at
the street-door, and before it had ceased to vibrate, there drove up a
handsome cabriolet, out of which leaped Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend
Lord Verisopht.

‘They are here now,’ said Kate, rising and hurrying away.

‘Miss Nickleby!’ cried Mrs. Wititterly, perfectly aghast at a companion’s
attempting to quit the room, without her permission first had and
obtained. ‘Pray don’t think of going.’

‘You are very good!’ replied Kate. ‘But--’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t agitate me by making me speak so much,’ said
Mrs. Wititterly, with great sharpness. ‘Dear me, Miss Nickleby, I beg--’

It was in vain for Kate to protest that she was unwell, for the
footsteps of the knockers, whoever they were, were already on the
stairs. She resumed her seat, and had scarcely done so, when the
doubtful page darted into the room and announced, Mr. Pyke, and Mr. Pluck,
and Lord Verisopht, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, all at one burst.

‘The most extraordinary thing in the world,’ said Mr. Pluck, saluting
both ladies with the utmost cordiality; ‘the most extraordinary thing.
As Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry drove up to the door, Pyke and I had
that instant knocked.’

‘That instant knocked,’ said Pyke.

‘No matter how you came, so that you are here,’ said Mrs. Wititterly,
who, by dint of lying on the same sofa for three years and a half, had
got up quite a little pantomime of graceful attitudes, and now threw
herself into the most striking of the whole series, to astonish the
visitors. ‘I am delighted, I am sure.’

‘And how is Miss Nickleby?’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk, accosting Kate, in
a low voice--not so low, however, but that it reached the ears of Mrs
Wititterly.

‘Why, she complains of suffering from the fright of last night,’ said
the lady. ‘I am sure I don’t wonder at it, for my nerves are quite torn
to pieces.’

‘And yet you look,’ observed Sir Mulberry, turning round; ‘and yet you
look--’

‘Beyond everything,’ said Mr. Pyke, coming to his patron’s assistance. Of
course Mr. Pluck said the same.

‘I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my lord,’ said Mrs. Wititterly,
turning to that young gentleman, who had been sucking the head of his
cane in silence, and staring at Kate.

‘Oh, deyvlish!’ replied Verisopht. Having given utterance to which
remarkable sentiment, he occupied himself as before.

‘Neither does Miss Nickleby look the worse,’ said Sir Mulberry, bending
his bold gaze upon her. ‘She was always handsome, but upon my soul,
ma’am, you seem to have imparted some of your own good looks to her
besides.’

To judge from the glow which suffused the poor girl’s countenance after
this speech, Mrs. Wititterly might, with some show of reason, have been
supposed to have imparted to it some of that artificial bloom which
decorated her own. Mrs. Wititterly admitted, though not with the best
grace in the world, that Kate DID look pretty. She began to think, too,
that Sir Mulberry was not quite so agreeable a creature as she had
at first supposed him; for, although a skilful flatterer is a most
delightful companion if you can keep him all to yourself, his taste
becomes very doubtful when he takes to complimenting other people.

‘Pyke,’ said the watchful Mr. Pluck, observing the effect which the
praise of Miss Nickleby had produced.

‘Well, Pluck,’ said Pyke.

‘Is there anybody,’ demanded Mr. Pluck, mysteriously, ‘anybody you know,
that Mrs. Wititterly’s profile reminds you of?’

‘Reminds me of!’ answered Pyke. ‘Of course there is.’

‘Who do you mean?’ said Pluck, in the same mysterious manner. ‘The D. of
B.?’

‘The C. of B.,’ replied Pyke, with the faintest trace of a grin
lingering in his countenance. ‘The beautiful sister is the countess; not
the duchess.’

‘True,’ said Pluck, ‘the C. of B. The resemblance is wonderful!’

‘Perfectly startling,’ said Mr. Pyke.

Here was a state of things! Mrs. Wititterly was declared, upon the
testimony of two veracious and competent witnesses, to be the very
picture of a countess! This was one of the consequences of getting into
good society. Why, she might have moved among grovelling people for
twenty years, and never heard of it. How could she, indeed? what did
THEY know about countesses?

The two gentlemen having, by the greediness with which this little
bait was swallowed, tested the extent of Mrs. Wititterly’s appetite for
adulation, proceeded to administer that commodity in very large doses,
thus affording to Sir Mulberry Hawk an opportunity of pestering Miss
Nickleby with questions and remarks, to which she was absolutely obliged
to make some reply. Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed unmolested the
full flavour of the gold knob at the top of his cane, as he would have
done to the end of the interview if Mr. Wititterly had not come home, and
caused the conversation to turn to his favourite topic.

‘My lord,’ said Mr. Wititterly, ‘I am delighted--honoured--proud. Be
seated again, my lord, pray. I am proud, indeed--most proud.’

It was to the secret annoyance of his wife that Mr. Wititterly said all
this, for, although she was bursting with pride and arrogance, she would
have had the illustrious guests believe that their visit was quite a
common occurrence, and that they had lords and baronets to see them
every day in the week. But Mr. Wititterly’s feelings were beyond the
power of suppression.

‘It is an honour, indeed!’ said Mr. Wititterly. ‘Julia, my soul, you will
suffer for this tomorrow.’

‘Suffer!’ cried Lord Verisopht.

‘The reaction, my lord, the reaction,’ said Mr. Wititterly. ‘This violent
strain upon the nervous system over, my lord, what ensues? A sinking, a
depression, a lowness, a lassitude, a debility. My lord, if Sir Tumley
Snuffim was to see that delicate creature at this moment, he would
not give a--a--THIS for her life.’ In illustration of which remark, Mr
Wititterly took a pinch of snuff from his box, and jerked it lightly
into the air as an emblem of instability.

‘Not THAT,’ said Mr. Wititterly, looking about him with a serious
countenance. ‘Sir Tumley Snuffim would not give that for Mrs
Wititterly’s existence.’

Mr. Wititterly told this with a kind of sober exultation, as if it were
no trifling distinction for a man to have a wife in such a desperate
state, and Mrs. Wititterly sighed and looked on, as if she felt the
honour, but had determined to bear it as meekly as might be.

‘Mrs. Wititterly,’ said her husband, ‘is Sir Tumley Snuffim’s favourite
patient. I believe I may venture to say, that Mrs. Wititterly is the
first person who took the new medicine which is supposed to have
destroyed a family at Kensington Gravel Pits. I believe she was. If I am
wrong, Julia, my dear, you will correct me.’

‘I believe I was,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, in a faint voice.

As there appeared to be some doubt in the mind of his patron how he
could best join in this conversation, the indefatigable Mr. Pyke threw
himself into the breach, and, by way of saying something to the point,
inquired--with reference to the aforesaid medicine--whether it was nice.

‘No, sir, it was not. It had not even that recommendation,’ said Mr. W.

‘Mrs. Wititterly is quite a martyr,’ observed Pyke, with a complimentary
bow.

‘I THINK I am,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, smiling.

‘I think you are, my dear Julia,’ replied her husband, in a tone which
seemed to say that he was not vain, but still must insist upon their
privileges. ‘If anybody, my lord,’ added Mr. Wititterly, wheeling
round to the nobleman, ‘will produce to me a greater martyr than Mrs
Wititterly, all I can say is, that I shall be glad to see that martyr,
whether male or female--that’s all, my lord.’

Pyke and Pluck promptly remarked that certainly nothing could be fairer
than that; and the call having been by this time protracted to a very
great length, they obeyed Sir Mulberry’s look, and rose to go. This
brought Sir Mulberry himself and Lord Verisopht on their legs also.
Many protestations of friendship, and expressions anticipative of the
pleasure which must inevitably flow from so happy an acquaintance, were
exchanged, and the visitors departed, with renewed assurances that at
all times and seasons the mansion of the Wititterlys would be honoured
by receiving them beneath its roof.

That they came at all times and seasons--that they dined there one day,
supped the next, dined again on the next, and were constantly to and
fro on all--that they made parties to visit public places, and met by
accident at lounges--that upon all these occasions Miss Nickleby was
exposed to the constant and unremitting persecution of Sir Mulberry
Hawk, who now began to feel his character, even in the estimation of his
two dependants, involved in the successful reduction of her pride--that
she had no intervals of peace or rest, except at those hours when she
could sit in her solitary room, and weep over the trials of the day--all
these were consequences naturally flowing from the well-laid plans of
Sir Mulberry, and their able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke and
Pluck.

And thus for a fortnight matters went on. That any but the weakest and
silliest of people could have seen in one interview that Lord Verisopht,
though he was a lord, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, though he was a baronet,
were not persons accustomed to be the best possible companions, and were
certainly not calculated by habits, manners, tastes, or conversation, to
shine with any very great lustre in the society of ladies, need scarcely
be remarked. But with Mrs. Wititterly the two titles were all sufficient;
coarseness became humour, vulgarity softened itself down into the most
charming eccentricity; insolence took the guise of an easy absence of
reserve, attainable only by those who had had the good fortune to mix
with high folks.

If the mistress put such a construction upon the behaviour of her new
friends, what could the companion urge against them? If they accustomed
themselves to very little restraint before the lady of the house, with
how much more freedom could they address her paid dependent! Nor was
even this the worst. As the odious Sir Mulberry Hawk attached himself
to Kate with less and less of disguise, Mrs. Wititterly began to grow
jealous of the superior attractions of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling
had led to her banishment from the drawing-room when such company was
there, Kate would have been only too happy and willing that it should
have existed, but unfortunately for her she possessed that native
grace and true gentility of manner, and those thousand nameless
accomplishments which give to female society its greatest charm; if
these be valuable anywhere, they were especially so where the lady of
the house was a mere animated doll. The consequence was, that Kate had
the double mortification of being an indispensable part of the circle
when Sir Mulberry and his friends were there, and of being exposed, on
that very account, to all Mrs. Wititterly’s ill-humours and caprices when
they were gone. She became utterly and completely miserable.

Mrs. Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to Sir
Mulberry, but when she was more than usually out of temper, attributed
the circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervous indisposition.
However, as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat
taken with Kate, and that she, Mrs. Wititterly, was quite a secondary
person, dawned upon that lady’s mind and gradually developed itself,
she became possessed with a large quantity of highly proper and most
virtuous indignation, and felt it her duty, as a married lady and a
moral member of society, to mention the circumstance to ‘the young
person’ without delay.

Accordingly Mrs. Wititterly broke ground next morning, during a pause in
the novel-reading.

‘Miss Nickleby,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, ‘I wish to speak to you very
gravely. I am sorry to have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry, but
you leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.’ Here Mrs. Wititterly tossed
her head--not passionately, only virtuously--and remarked, with some
appearance of excitement, that she feared that palpitation of the heart
was coming on again.

‘Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,’ resumed the lady, ‘is very far from
pleasing me--very far. I am very anxious indeed that you should do well,
but you may depend upon it, Miss Nickleby, you will not, if you go on as
you do.’

‘Ma’am!’ exclaimed Kate, proudly.

‘Don’t agitate me by speaking in that way, Miss Nickleby, don’t,’ said
Mrs. Wititterly, with some violence, ‘or you’ll compel me to ring the
bell.’

Kate looked at her, but said nothing.

‘You needn’t suppose,’ resumed Mrs. Wititterly, ‘that your looking at me
in that way, Miss Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I am going
to say, which I feel to be a religious duty. You needn’t direct your
glances towards me,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, with a sudden burst of spite;
‘I am not Sir Mulberry, no, nor Lord Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby,
nor am I Mr. Pyke, nor Mr. Pluck either.’

Kate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; and resting her
elbow on the table, covered her eyes with her hand.

‘If such things had been done when I was a young girl,’ said Mrs
Wititterly (this, by the way, must have been some little time before),
‘I don’t suppose anybody would have believed it.’

‘I don’t think they would,’ murmured Kate. ‘I do not think anybody would
believe, without actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to undergo!’

‘Don’t talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, if you
please,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quite surprising
in so great an invalid. ‘I will not be answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not
accustomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for an instant. Do
you hear?’ she added, waiting with some apparent inconsistency FOR an
answer.

‘I do hear you, ma’am,’ replied Kate, ‘with surprise--with greater
surprise than I can express.’

‘I have always considered you a particularly well-behaved young person
for your station in life,’ said Mrs. Wititterly; ‘and as you are a person
of healthy appearance, and neat in your dress and so forth, I have taken
an interest in you, as I do still, considering that I owe a sort of duty
to that respectable old female, your mother. For these reasons, Miss
Nickleby, I must tell you once for all, and begging you to mind what I
say, that I must insist upon your immediately altering your very forward
behaviour to the gentlemen who visit at this house. It really is not
becoming,’ said Mrs. Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke;
‘it is improper--quite improper.’

‘Oh!’ cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; ‘is not this,
is not this, too cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enough that I should
have suffered as I have, night and day; that I should almost have sunk
in my own estimation from very shame of having been brought into contact
with such people; but must I also be exposed to this unjust and most
unfounded charge!’

‘You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,’ said Mrs
Wititterly, ‘that when you use such terms as “unjust”, and “unfounded”,
you charge me, in effect, with stating that which is untrue.’

‘I do,’ said Kate with honest indignation. ‘Whether you make this
accusation of yourself, or at the prompting of others, is alike to me. I
say it IS vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it possible!’ cried Kate,
‘that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not have seen the misery
these men have caused me? Is it possible that you, ma’am, can have been
present, and failed to mark the insulting freedom that their every look
bespoke? Is it possible that you can have avoided seeing, that these
libertines, in their utter disrespect for you, and utter disregard
of all gentlemanly behaviour, and almost of decency, have had but one
object in introducing themselves here, and that the furtherance of their
designs upon a friendless, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating
confession, might have hoped to receive from one so much her senior
something like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not--I cannot believe it!’

If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she
certainly would not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she
had been lashed, upon such an injudicious speech as this. Its effect
was precisely what a more experienced observer would have foreseen.
Mrs. Wititterly received the attack upon her veracity with exemplary
calmness, and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate’s account
of her own sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held in
disregard by the gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and this blow
was no sooner followed up by the remark concerning her seniority, than
she fell back upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.

‘What is the matter?’ cried Mr. Wititterly, bouncing into the room.
‘Heavens, what do I see? Julia! Julia! look up, my life, look up!’

But Julia looked down most perseveringly, and screamed still louder; so
Mr. Wititterly rang the bell, and danced in a frenzied manner round
the sofa on which Mrs. Wititterly lay; uttering perpetual cries for Sir
Tumley Snuffim, and never once leaving off to ask for any explanation of
the scene before him.

‘Run for Sir Tumley,’ cried Mr. Wititterly, menacing the page with both
fists. ‘I knew it, Miss Nickleby,’ he said, looking round with an air of
melancholy triumph, ‘that society has been too much for her. This is all
soul, you know, every bit of it.’ With this assurance Mr. Wititterly took
up the prostrate form of Mrs. Wititterly, and carried her bodily off to
bed.

Kate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffim had paid his visit and looked in
with a report, that, through the special interposition of a merciful
Providence (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs. Wititterly had gone to sleep.
She then hastily attired herself for walking, and leaving word that she
should return within a couple of hours, hurried away towards her uncle’s
house.

It had been a good day with Ralph Nickleby--quite a lucky day; and as he
walked to and fro in his little back-room with his hands clasped behind
him, adding up in his own mind all the sums that had been, or would be,
netted from the business done since morning, his mouth was drawn into a
hard stern smile; while the firmness of the lines and curves that made
it up, as well as the cunning glance of his cold, bright eye, seemed to
tell, that if any resolution or cunning would increase the profits, they
would not fail to be excited for the purpose.

‘Very good!’ said Ralph, in allusion, no doubt, to some proceeding of
the day. ‘He defies the usurer, does he? Well, we shall see. “Honesty is
the best policy,” is it? We’ll try that too.’

He stopped, and then walked on again.

‘He is content,’ said Ralph, relaxing into a smile, ‘to set his known
character and conduct against the power of money--dross, as he calls it.
Why, what a dull blockhead this fellow must be! Dross to, dross! Who’s
that?’

‘Me,’ said Newman Noggs, looking in. ‘Your niece.’

‘What of her?’ asked Ralph sharply.

‘She’s here.’

‘Here!’

Newman jerked his head towards his little room, to signify that she was
waiting there.

‘What does she want?’ asked Ralph.

‘I don’t know,’ rejoined Newman. ‘Shall I ask?’ he added quickly.

‘No,’ replied Ralph. ‘Show her in! Stay.’ He hastily put away a
padlocked cash-box that was on the table, and substituted in its stead
an empty purse. ‘There,’ said Ralph. ‘NOW she may come in.’

Newman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre, beckoned the young lady to
advance, and having placed a chair for her, retired; looking stealthily
over his shoulder at Ralph as he limped slowly out.

‘Well,’ said Ralph, roughly enough; but still with something more of
kindness in his manner than he would have exhibited towards anybody
else. ‘Well, my--dear. What now?’

Kate raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and with an effort
to master her emotion strove to speak, but in vain. So drooping her head
again, she remained silent. Her face was hidden from his view, but Ralph
could see that she was weeping.

‘I can guess the cause of this!’ thought Ralph, after looking at her
for some time in silence. ‘I can--I can--guess the cause. Well! Well!’
thought Ralph--for the moment quite disconcerted, as he watched the
anguish of his beautiful niece. ‘Where is the harm? only a few tears;
and it’s an excellent lesson for her, an excellent lesson.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Ralph, drawing a chair opposite, and sitting
down.

He was rather taken aback by the sudden firmness with which Kate looked
up and answered him.

‘The matter which brings me to you, sir,’ she said, ‘is one which should
call the blood up into your cheeks, and make you burn to hear, as it
does me to tell. I have been wronged; my feelings have been outraged,
insulted, wounded past all healing, and by your friends.’

‘Friends!’ cried Ralph, sternly. ‘I have no friends, girl.’

‘By the men I saw here, then,’ returned Kate, quickly. ‘If they were no
friends of yours, and you knew what they were,--oh, the more shame on
you, uncle, for bringing me among them. To have subjected me to what
I was exposed to here, through any misplaced confidence or imperfect
knowledge of your guests, would have required some strong excuse; but
if you did it--as I now believe you did--knowing them well, it was most
dastardly and cruel.’

Ralph drew back in utter amazement at this plain speaking, and regarded
Kate with the sternest look. But she met his gaze proudly and firmly,
and although her face was very pale, it looked more noble and handsome,
lighted up as it was, than it had ever appeared before.

‘There is some of that boy’s blood in you, I see,’ said Ralph, speaking
in his harshest tones, as something in the flashing eye reminded him of
Nicholas at their last meeting.

‘I hope there is!’ replied Kate. ‘I should be proud to know it. I am
young, uncle, and all the difficulties and miseries of my situation have
kept it down, but I have been roused today beyond all endurance, and
come what may, I WILL NOT, as I am your brother’s child, bear these
insults longer.’

‘What insults, girl?’ demanded Ralph, sharply.

‘Remember what took place here, and ask yourself,’ replied Kate,
colouring deeply. ‘Uncle, you must--I am sure you will--release me from
such vile and degrading companionship as I am exposed to now. I do not
mean,’ said Kate, hurrying to the old man, and laying her arm upon his
shoulder; ‘I do not mean to be angry and violent--I beg your pardon if
I have seemed so, dear uncle,--but you do not know what I have suffered,
you do not indeed. You cannot tell what the heart of a young girl
is--I have no right to expect you should; but when I tell you that I am
wretched, and that my heart is breaking, I am sure you will help me. I
am sure, I am sure you will!’

Ralph looked at her for an instant; then turned away his head, and beat
his foot nervously upon the ground.

‘I have gone on day after day,’ said Kate, bending over him, and timidly
placing her little hand in his, ‘in the hope that this persecution would
cease; I have gone on day after day, compelled to assume the appearance
of cheerfulness, when I was most unhappy. I have had no counsellor, no
adviser, no one to protect me. Mama supposes that these are honourable
men, rich and distinguished, and how CAN I--how can I undeceive
her--when she is so happy in these little delusions, which are the only
happiness she has? The lady with whom you placed me, is not the person
to whom I could confide matters of so much delicacy, and I have come at
last to you, the only friend I have at hand--almost the only friend I
have at all--to entreat and implore you to assist me.’

‘How can I assist you, child?’ said Ralph, rising from his chair, and
pacing up and down the room in his old attitude.

‘You have influence with one of these men, I KNOW,’ rejoined Kate,
emphatically. ‘Would not a word from you induce them to desist from this
unmanly course?’

‘No,’ said Ralph, suddenly turning; ‘at least--that--I can’t say it, if
it would.’

‘Can’t say it!’

‘No,’ said Ralph, coming to a dead stop, and clasping his hands more
tightly behind him. ‘I can’t say it.’

Kate fell back a step or two, and looked at him, as if in doubt whether
she had heard aright.

‘We are connected in business,’ said Ralph, poising himself alternately
on his toes and heels, and looking coolly in his niece’s face, ‘in
business, and I can’t afford to offend them. What is it after all? We
have all our trials, and this is one of yours. Some girls would be proud
to have such gallants at their feet.’

‘Proud!’ cried Kate.

‘I don’t say,’ rejoined Ralph, raising his forefinger, ‘but that you do
right to despise them; no, you show your good sense in that, as indeed
I knew from the first you would. Well. In all other respects you are
comfortably bestowed. It’s not much to bear. If this young lord does dog
your footsteps, and whisper his drivelling inanities in your ears, what
of it? It’s a dishonourable passion. So be it; it won’t last long. Some
other novelty will spring up one day, and you will be released. In the
mean time--’

‘In the mean time,’ interrupted Kate, with becoming pride and
indignation, ‘I am to be the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the
other; justly condemned by all women of right feeling, and despised by
all honest and honourable men; sunken in my own esteem, and degraded in
every eye that looks upon me. No, not if I work my fingers to the bone,
not if I am driven to the roughest and hardest labour. Do not mistake
me. I will not disgrace your recommendation. I will remain in the house
in which it placed me, until I am entitled to leave it by the terms of
my engagement; though, mind, I see these men no more. When I quit it, I
will hide myself from them and you, and, striving to support my mother
by hard service, I will live, at least, in peace, and trust in God to
help me.’

With these words, she waved her hand, and quitted the room, leaving
Ralph Nickleby motionless as a statue.

The surprise with which Kate, as she closed the room-door, beheld, close
beside it, Newman Noggs standing bolt upright in a little niche in the
wall like some scarecrow or Guy Faux laid up in winter quarters, almost
occasioned her to call aloud. But, Newman laying his finger upon his
lips, she had the presence of mind to refrain.

‘Don’t,’ said Newman, gliding out of his recess, and accompanying
her across the hall. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ Two very large tears,
by-the-bye, were running down Newman’s face as he spoke.

‘I see how it is,’ said poor Noggs, drawing from his pocket what seemed
to be a very old duster, and wiping Kate’s eyes with it, as gently as if
she were an infant. ‘You’re giving way now. Yes, yes, very good; that’s
right, I like that. It was right not to give way before him. Yes, yes!
Ha, ha, ha! Oh, yes. Poor thing!’

With these disjointed exclamations, Newman wiped his own eyes with the
afore-mentioned duster, and, limping to the street-door, opened it to
let her out.

‘Don’t cry any more,’ whispered Newman. ‘I shall see you soon. Ha! ha!
ha! And so shall somebody else too. Yes, yes. Ho! ho!’

‘God bless you,’ answered Kate, hurrying out, ‘God bless you.’

‘Same to you,’ rejoined Newman, opening the door again a little way to
say so. ‘Ha, ha, ha! Ho! ho! ho!’

And Newman Noggs opened the door once again to nod cheerfully, and
laugh--and shut it, to shake his head mournfully, and cry.

Ralph remained in the same attitude till he heard the noise of the
closing door, when he shrugged his shoulders, and after a few turns
about the room--hasty at first, but gradually becoming slower, as he
relapsed into himself--sat down before his desk.

It is one of those problems of human nature, which may be noted down,
but not solved;--although Ralph felt no remorse at that moment for his
conduct towards the innocent, true-hearted girl; although his libertine
clients had done precisely what he had expected, precisely what he most
wished, and precisely what would tend most to his advantage, still he
hated them for doing it, from the very bottom of his soul.

‘Ugh!’ said Ralph, scowling round, and shaking his clenched hand as the
faces of the two profligates rose up before his mind; ‘you shall pay for
this. Oh! you shall pay for this!’

As the usurer turned for consolation to his books and papers, a
performance was going on outside his office door, which would have
occasioned him no small surprise, if he could by any means have become
acquainted with it.

Newman Noggs was the sole actor. He stood at a little distance from the
door, with his face towards it; and with the sleeves of his coat
turned back at the wrists, was occupied in bestowing the most vigorous,
scientific, and straightforward blows upon the empty air.

At first sight, this would have appeared merely a wise precaution in
a man of sedentary habits, with the view of opening the chest and
strengthening the muscles of the arms. But the intense eagerness and
joy depicted in the face of Newman Noggs, which was suffused with
perspiration; the surprising energy with which he directed a constant
succession of blows towards a particular panel about five feet eight
from the ground, and still worked away in the most untiring and
persevering manner, would have sufficiently explained to the attentive
observer, that his imagination was thrashing, to within an inch of his
life, his body’s most active employer, Mr. Ralph Nickleby.



CHAPTER 29

Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the
Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles


The unexpected success and favour with which his experiment at
Portsmouth had been received, induced Mr. Crummles to prolong his stay in
that town for a fortnight beyond the period he had originally assigned
for the duration of his visit, during which time Nicholas personated a
vast variety of characters with undiminished success, and attracted so
many people to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that
a benefit was considered by the manager a very promising speculation.
Nicholas assenting to the terms proposed, the benefit was had, and by it
he realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.

Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to enclose
to honest John Browdie the amount of his friendly loan, which he
accompanied with many expressions of gratitude and esteem, and many
cordial wishes for his matrimonial happiness. To Newman Noggs he
forwarded one half of the sum he had realised, entreating him to take
an opportunity of handing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the
warmest assurances of his love and affection. He made no mention of the
way in which he had employed himself; merely informing Newman that
a letter addressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office,
Portsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthy friend to
write full particulars of the situation of his mother and sister, and
an account of all the grand things that Ralph Nickleby had done for them
since his departure from London.

‘You are out of spirits,’ said Smike, on the night after the letter had
been dispatched.

‘Not I!’ rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession
would have made the boy miserable all night; ‘I was thinking about my
sister, Smike.’

‘Sister!’

‘Ay.’

‘Is she like you?’ inquired Smike.

‘Why, so they say,’ replied Nicholas, laughing, ‘only a great deal
handsomer.’

‘She must be VERY beautiful,’ said Smike, after thinking a little while
with his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.

‘Anybody who didn’t know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say
you were an accomplished courtier,’ said Nicholas.

‘I don’t even know what that is,’ replied Smike, shaking his head.
‘Shall I ever see your sister?’

‘To be sure,’ cried Nicholas; ‘we shall all be together one of these
days--when we are rich, Smike.’

‘How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be
kind to you?’ asked Smike. ‘I cannot make that out.’

‘Why, it is a long story,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and one you would
have some difficulty in comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy--you
understand what that is?’

‘Oh, yes, I understand that,’ said Smike.

‘Well, it is owing to him,’ returned Nicholas. ‘He is rich, and not so
easily punished as YOUR old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is
a villain, and has done me wrong.’

‘Has he though?’ asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. ‘What is his
name? Tell me his name.’

‘Ralph--Ralph Nickleby.’

‘Ralph Nickleby,’ repeated Smike. ‘Ralph. I’ll get that name by heart.’

He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock
at the door disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it,
Mr. Folair, the pantomimist, thrust in his head.

Mr. Folair’s head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually
high in the crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the
present occasion he wore it very much on one side, with the back part
forward in consequence of its being the least rusty; round his neck he
wore a flaming red worsted comforter, whereof the straggling ends peeped
out beneath his threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very tight and
buttoned all the way up. He carried in his hand one very dirty glove,
and a cheap dress cane with a glass handle; in short, his whole
appearance was unusually dashing, and demonstrated a far more scrupulous
attention to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestowing upon it.

‘Good-evening, sir,’ said Mr. Folair, taking off the tall hat, and
running his fingers through his hair. ‘I bring a communication. Hem!’

‘From whom and what about?’ inquired Nicholas. ‘You are unusually
mysterious tonight.’

‘Cold, perhaps,’ returned Mr. Folair; ‘cold, perhaps. That is the fault
of my position--not of myself, Mr. Johnson. My position as a mutual
friend requires it, sir.’ Mr. Folair paused with a most impressive look,
and diving into the hat before noticed, drew from thence a small piece
of whity-brown paper curiously folded, whence he brought forth a note
which it had served to keep clean, and handing it over to Nicholas,
said--

‘Have the goodness to read that, sir.’

Nicholas, in a state of much amazement, took the note and broke the
seal, glancing at Mr. Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and
pursing up his mouth with great dignity, was sitting with his eyes
steadily fixed upon the ceiling.

It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair,
Esq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when
he found it to be couched in the following laconic terms:--

“Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr. Johnson, and will feel
obliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be
most convenient to him to meet Mr. L. at the Theatre, for the purpose of
having his nose pulled in the presence of the company.

“Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to neglect making an appointment,
as he has invited two or three professional friends to witness the
ceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon any account whatever.

“PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT.”

Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so
exquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was
obliged to bite his lip and read the note over two or three times before
he could muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile
messenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the
expression of his face in the slightest degree.

‘Do you know the contents of this note, sir?’ he asked, at length.

‘Yes,’ rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately
carrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.

‘And how dare you bring it here, sir?’ asked Nicholas, tearing it into
very little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger.
‘Had you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?’

Mr. Folair turned his head--now ornamented with several fragments of the
note--towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity, briefly
replied ‘No.’

‘Then,’ said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the
door, ‘you had better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you
may find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and that within a dozen
seconds.’

‘I say, Johnson,’ remonstrated Mr. Folair, suddenly losing all his
dignity, ‘none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman’s
wardrobe.’

‘Leave the room,’ returned Nicholas. ‘How could you presume to come here
on such an errand, you scoundrel?’

‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Mr. Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually
getting himself out of it. ‘There--that’s enough.’

‘Enough!’ cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. ‘Take yourself off,
sir.’

‘Pooh! pooh! I tell you,’ returned Mr. Folair, waving his hand in
deprecation of any further wrath; ‘I wasn’t in earnest. I only brought
it in joke.’

‘You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,’
said Nicholas, ‘or you may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a
dangerous reminder for the subject of your facetiousness. Was it written
in joke, too, pray?’

‘No, no, that’s the best of it,’ returned the actor; ‘right down
earnest--honour bright.’

Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which,
at all times more calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially
so at that moment, when with one knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled
his old hat round upon his hand, and affected the extremest agony lest
any of the nap should have been knocked off--an ornament which it is
almost superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.

‘Come, sir,’ said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. ‘Have the
goodness to explain.’

‘Why, I’ll tell you how it is,’ said Mr. Folair, sitting himself down
in a chair with great coolness. ‘Since you came here Lenville has done
nothing but second business, and, instead of having a reception every
night as he used to have, they have let him come on as if he was
nobody.’

‘What do you mean by a reception?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Jupiter!’ exclaimed Mr. Folair, ‘what an unsophisticated shepherd you
are, Johnson! Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he
has gone on night after night, never getting a hand, and you getting a
couple of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at length he got
quite desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a
real sword, and pink you--not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up
for a month or two.’

‘Very considerate,’ remarked Nicholas.

‘Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional
reputation being at stake,’ said Mr. Folair, quite seriously. ‘But his
heart failed him, and he cast about for some other way of annoying
you, and making himself popular at the same time--for that’s the point.
Notoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,’
said Mr. Folair, stopping to make a calculation in his mind, ‘it would
have been worth--ah, it would have been worth eight or ten shillings a
week to him. All the town would have come to see the actor who nearly
killed a man by mistake; I shouldn’t wonder if it had got him an
engagement in London. However, he was obliged to try some other mode of
getting popular, and this one occurred to him. It’s a clever idea, really.
If you had shown the white feather, and let him pull your nose, he’d
have got it into the paper; if you had sworn the peace against him, it
would have been in the paper too, and he’d have been just as much talked
about as you--don’t you see?’

‘Oh, certainly,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘but suppose I were to turn the
tables, and pull HIS nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?’

‘Why, I don’t think it would,’ replied Mr. Folair, scratching his head,
‘because there wouldn’t be any romance about it, and he wouldn’t be
favourably known. To tell you the truth though, he didn’t calculate much
upon that, for you’re always so mild-spoken, and are so popular among
the women, that we didn’t suspect you of showing fight. If you did,
however, he has a way of getting out of it easily, depend upon that.’

‘Has he?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘We will try, tomorrow morning. In the
meantime, you can give whatever account of our interview you like best.
Good-night.’

As Mr. Folair was pretty well known among his fellow-actors for a man who
delighted in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not
much doubt but that he had secretly prompted the tragedian in the course
he had taken, and, moreover, that he would have carried his mission with
a very high hand if he had not been disconcerted by the very unexpected
demonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worth his
while to be serious with him, however, so he dismissed the pantomimist,
with a gentle hint that if he offended again it would be under
the penalty of a broken head; and Mr. Folair, taking the caution in
exceedingly good part, walked away to confer with his principal,
and give such an account of his proceedings as he might think best
calculated to carry on the joke.

He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state of extreme bodily
fear; for when that young gentleman walked with much deliberation down
to the theatre next morning at the usual hour, he found all the company
assembled in evident expectation, and Mr. Lenville, with his severest
stage face, sitting majestically on a table, whistling defiance.

Now the ladies were on the side of Nicholas, and the gentlemen (being
jealous) were on the side of the disappointed tragedian; so that the
latter formed a little group about the redoubtable Mr. Lenville, and the
former looked on at a little distance in some trepidation and anxiety.
On Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr. Lenville laughed a scornful
laugh, and made some general remark touching the natural history of
puppies.

‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, looking quietly round, ‘are you there?’

‘Slave!’ returned Mr. Lenville, flourishing his right arm, and
approaching Nicholas with a theatrical stride. But somehow he appeared
just at that moment a little startled, as if Nicholas did not look quite
so frightened as he had expected, and came all at once to an awkward
halt, at which the assembled ladies burst into a shrill laugh.

‘Object of my scorn and hatred!’ said Mr. Lenville, ‘I hold ye in
contempt.’

Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of this performance; and
the ladies, by way of encouragement, laughed louder than before; whereat
Mr. Lenville assumed his bitterest smile, and expressed his opinion that
they were ‘minions’.

‘But they shall not protect ye!’ said the tragedian, taking an upward
look at Nicholas, beginning at his boots and ending at the crown of his
head, and then a downward one, beginning at the crown of his head,
and ending at his boots--which two looks, as everybody knows, express
defiance on the stage. ‘They shall not protect ye--boy!’

Thus speaking, Mr. Lenville folded his arms, and treated Nicholas to that
expression of face with which, in melodramatic performances, he was in
the habit of regarding the tyrannical kings when they said, ‘Away
with him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat;’ and which,
accompanied with a little jingling of fetters, had been known to produce
great effects in its time.

Whether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no very deep
impression on Mr. Lenville’s adversary, however, but rather seemed to
increase the good-humour expressed in his countenance; in which stage of
the contest, one or two gentlemen, who had come out expressly to witness
the pulling of Nicholas’s nose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it
were to be done at all it had better be done at once, and that if Mr
Lenville didn’t mean to do it he had better say so, and not keep them
waiting there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of his right
coat sleeve for the performance of the operation, and walked in a very
stately manner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to within
the requisite distance, and then, without the smallest discomposure,
knocked him down.

Before the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from the boards,
Mrs. Lenville (who, as has been before hinted, was in an interesting
state) rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and uttering a piercing
scream threw herself upon the body.

‘Do you see this, monster? Do you see THIS?’ cried Mr. Lenville, sitting
up, and pointing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him very tight
round the waist.

‘Come,’ said Nicholas, nodding his head, ‘apologise for the insolent
note you wrote to me last night, and waste no more time in talking.’

‘Never!’ cried Mr. Lenville.

‘Yes--yes--yes!’ screamed his wife. ‘For my sake--for mine,
Lenville--forego all idle forms, unless you would see me a blighted
corse at your feet.’

‘This is affecting!’ said Mr. Lenville, looking round him, and drawing
the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘The ties of nature are strong.
The weak husband and the father--the father that is yet to be--relents.
I apologise.’

‘Humbly and submissively?’ said Nicholas.

‘Humbly and submissively,’ returned the tragedian, scowling upwards.
‘But only to save her,--for a time will come--’

‘Very good,’ said Nicholas; ‘I hope Mrs. Lenville may have a good one;
and when it does come, and you are a father, you shall retract it if you
have the courage. There. Be careful, sir, to what lengths your jealousy
carries you another time; and be careful, also, before you venture
too far, to ascertain your rival’s temper.’ With this parting advice
Nicholas picked up Mr. Lenville’s ash stick which had flown out of his
hand, and breaking it in half, threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing
slightly to the spectators as he walked out.

The profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, and the
people who had been most anxious to have his nose pulled in the morning,
embraced occasions of taking him aside, and telling him with great
feeling, how very friendly they took it that he should have treated that
Lenville so properly, who was a most unbearable fellow, and on whom they
had all, by a remarkable coincidence, at one time or other contemplated
the infliction of condign punishment, which they had only been
restrained from administering by considerations of mercy; indeed, to
judge from the invariable termination of all these stories, there never
was such a charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the male members
of Mr. Crummles’s company.

Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the little world of
the theatre, with the utmost moderation and good humour. The crestfallen
Mr. Lenville made an expiring effort to obtain revenge by sending a
boy into the gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to popular
indignation, and was promptly turned out without having his money back.

‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas when the first piece was over, and he had
almost finished dressing to go home, ‘is there any letter yet?’

‘Yes,’ replied Smike, ‘I got this one from the post-office.’

‘From Newman Noggs,’ said Nicholas, casting his eye upon the cramped
direction; ‘it’s no easy matter to make his writing out. Let me see--let
me see.’

By dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrived to make
himself master of the contents, which were certainly not of a nature
to set his mind at ease. Newman took upon himself to send back the ten
pounds, observing that he had ascertained that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor
Kate was in actual want of money at the moment, and that a time might
shortly come when Nicholas might want it more. He entreated him not to
be alarmed at what he was about to say;--there was no bad news--they
were in good health--but he thought circumstances might occur, or were
occurring, which would render it absolutely necessary that Kate should
have her brother’s protection, and if so, Newman said, he would write to
him to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.

Nicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thought of it
the more he began to fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph. Once
or twice he felt tempted to repair to London at all hazards without an
hour’s delay, but a little reflection assured him that if such a step
were necessary, Newman would have spoken out and told him so at once.

‘At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility of my
going away suddenly,’ said Nicholas; ‘I should lose no time in doing
that.’ As the thought occurred to him, he took up his hat and hurried to
the green-room.

‘Well, Mr. Johnson,’ said Mrs. Crummles, who was seated there in full
regal costume, with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her maternal arms,
‘next week for Ryde, then for Winchester, then for--’

‘I have some reason to fear,’ interrupted Nicholas, ‘that before you
leave here my career with you will have closed.’

‘Closed!’ cried Mrs. Crummles, raising her hands in astonishment.

‘Closed!’ cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tights that
she actually laid her hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for
support.

‘Why he don’t mean to say he’s going!’ exclaimed Mrs. Grudden, making her
way towards Mrs. Crummles. ‘Hoity toity! Nonsense.’

The phenomenon, being of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable,
raised a loud cry, and Miss Belvawney and Miss Bravassa actually shed
tears. Even the male performers stopped in their conversation, and
echoed the word ‘Going!’ although some among them (and they had been
the loudest in their congratulations that day) winked at each other
as though they would not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an
opinion, indeed, which the honest Mr. Folair, who was ready dressed for
the savage, openly stated in so many words to a demon with whom he was
sharing a pot of porter.

Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although he could
not yet speak with any degree of certainty; and getting away as soon as
he could, went home to con Newman’s letter once more, and speculate upon
it afresh.

How trifling all that had been occupying his time and thoughts for many
weeks seemed to him during that sleepless night, and how constantly and
incessantly present to his imagination was the one idea that Kate in the
midst of some great trouble and distress might even then be looking--and
vainly too--for him!



CHAPTER 30

Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, who suddenly withdraws
himself from the Society of Mr. Vincent Crummles and his Theatrical
Companions


Mr. Vincent Crummles was no sooner acquainted with the public
announcement which Nicholas had made relative to the probability of
his shortly ceasing to be a member of the company, than he evinced many
tokens of grief and consternation; and, in the extremity of his despair,
even held out certain vague promises of a speedy improvement not only in
the amount of his regular salary, but also in the contingent emoluments
appertaining to his authorship. Finding Nicholas bent upon quitting the
society--for he had now determined that, even if no further tidings came
from Newman, he would, at all hazards, ease his mind by repairing to
London and ascertaining the exact position of his sister--Mr. Crummles
was fain to content himself by calculating the chances of his coming
back again, and taking prompt and energetic measures to make the most of
him before he went away.

‘Let me see,’ said Mr. Crummles, taking off his outlaw’s wig, the better
to arrive at a cool-headed view of the whole case. ‘Let me see. This is
Wednesday night. We’ll have posters out the first thing in the morning,
announcing positively your last appearance for tomorrow.’

‘But perhaps it may not be my last appearance, you know,’ said Nicholas.
‘Unless I am summoned away, I should be sorry to inconvenience you by
leaving before the end of the week.’

‘So much the better,’ returned Mr. Crummles. ‘We can have positively
your last appearance, on Thursday--re-engagement for one night more, on
Friday--and, yielding to the wishes of numerous influential patrons, who
were disappointed in obtaining seats, on Saturday. That ought to bring
three very decent houses.’

‘Then I am to make three last appearances, am I?’ inquired Nicholas,
smiling.

‘Yes,’ rejoined the manager, scratching his head with an air of some
vexation; ‘three is not enough, and it’s very bungling and irregular
not to have more, but if we can’t help it we can’t, so there’s no use
in talking. A novelty would be very desirable. You couldn’t sing a comic
song on the pony’s back, could you?’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I couldn’t indeed.’

‘It has drawn money before now,’ said Mr. Crummles, with a look of
disappointment. ‘What do you think of a brilliant display of fireworks?’

‘That it would be rather expensive,’ replied Nicholas, drily.

‘Eighteen-pence would do it,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘You on the top of
a pair of steps with the phenomenon in an attitude; “Farewell!” on a
transparency behind; and nine people at the wings with a squib in each
hand--all the dozen and a half going off at once--it would be very
grand--awful from the front, quite awful.’

As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with the solemnity of the
proposed effect, but, on the contrary, received the proposition in a
most irreverent manner, and laughed at it very heartily, Mr. Crummles
abandoned the project in its birth, and gloomily observed that they
must make up the best bill they could with combats and hornpipes, and so
stick to the legitimate drama.

For the purpose of carrying this object into instant execution, the
manager at once repaired to a small dressing-room, adjacent, where
Mrs. Crummles was then occupied in exchanging the habiliments of
a melodramatic empress for the ordinary attire of matrons in the
nineteenth century. And with the assistance of this lady, and the
accomplished Mrs. Grudden (who had quite a genius for making out bills,
being a great hand at throwing in the notes of admiration, and knowing
from long experience exactly where the largest capitals ought to go), he
seriously applied himself to the composition of the poster.

‘Heigho!’ sighed Nicholas, as he threw himself back in the prompter’s
chair, after telegraphing the needful directions to Smike, who had been
playing a meagre tailor in the interlude, with one skirt to his coat,
and a little pocket-handkerchief with a large hole in it, and a woollen
nightcap, and a red nose, and other distinctive marks peculiar to
tailors on the stage. ‘Heigho! I wish all this were over.’

‘Over, Mr. Johnson!’ repeated a female voice behind him, in a kind of
plaintive surprise.

‘It was an ungallant speech, certainly,’ said Nicholas, looking up to
see who the speaker was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. ‘I would not
have made it if I had known you had been within hearing.’

‘What a dear that Mr. Digby is!’ said Miss Snevellicci, as the tailor
went off on the opposite side, at the end of the piece, with great
applause. (Smike’s theatrical name was Digby.)

‘I’ll tell him presently, for his gratification, that you said so,’
returned Nicholas.

‘Oh you naughty thing!’ rejoined Miss Snevellicci. ‘I don’t know though,
that I should much mind HIS knowing my opinion of him; with some other
people, indeed, it might be--’ Here Miss Snevellicci stopped, as though
waiting to be questioned, but no questioning came, for Nicholas was
thinking about more serious matters.

‘How kind it is of you,’ resumed Miss Snevellicci, after a short
silence, ‘to sit waiting here for him night after night, night after
night, no matter how tired you are; and taking so much pains with him,
and doing it all with as much delight and readiness as if you were
coining gold by it!’

‘He well deserves all the kindness I can show him, and a great deal
more,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is the most grateful, single-hearted,
affectionate creature that ever breathed.’

‘So odd, too,’ remarked Miss Snevellicci, ‘isn’t he?’

‘God help him, and those who have made him so; he is indeed,’ rejoined
Nicholas, shaking his head.

‘He is such a devilish close chap,’ said Mr. Folair, who had come up a
little before, and now joined in the conversation. ‘Nobody can ever get
anything out of him.’

‘What SHOULD they get out of him?’ asked Nicholas, turning round with
some abruptness.

‘Zooks! what a fire-eater you are, Johnson!’ returned Mr. Folair, pulling
up the heel of his dancing shoe. ‘I’m only talking of the natural
curiosity of the people here, to know what he has been about all his
life.’

‘Poor fellow! it is pretty plain, I should think, that he has not the
intellect to have been about anything of much importance to them or
anybody else,’ said Nicholas.

‘Ay,’ rejoined the actor, contemplating the effect of his face in a lamp
reflector, ‘but that involves the whole question, you know.’

‘What question?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Why, the who he is and what he is, and how you two, who are so
different, came to be such close companions,’ replied Mr. Folair,
delighted with the opportunity of saying something disagreeable. ‘That’s
in everybody’s mouth.’

‘The “everybody” of the theatre, I suppose?’ said Nicholas,
contemptuously.

‘In it and out of it too,’ replied the actor. ‘Why, you know, Lenville
says--’

‘I thought I had silenced him effectually,’ interrupted Nicholas,
reddening.

‘Perhaps you have,’ rejoined the immovable Mr. Folair; ‘if you have, he
said this before he was silenced: Lenville says that you’re a regular
stick of an actor, and that it’s only the mystery about you that has
caused you to go down with the people here, and that Crummles keeps
it up for his own sake; though Lenville says he don’t believe there’s
anything at all in it, except your having got into a scrape and run away
from somewhere, for doing something or other.’

‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, forcing a smile.

‘That’s a part of what he says,’ added Mr. Folair. ‘I mention it as the
friend of both parties, and in strict confidence. I don’t agree with
him, you know. He says he takes Digby to be more knave than fool; and
old Fluggers, who does the heavy business you know, HE says that when he
delivered messages at Covent Garden the season before last, there used
to be a pickpocket hovering about the coach-stand who had exactly the
face of Digby; though, as he very properly says, Digby may not be the
same, but only his brother, or some near relation.’

‘Oh!’ cried Nicholas again.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Folair, with undisturbed calmness, ‘that’s what they say.
I thought I’d tell you, because really you ought to know. Oh! here’s
this blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh, you little imposition, I should
like to--quite ready, my darling,--humbug--Ring up, Mrs. G., and let the
favourite wake ‘em.’

Uttering in a loud voice such of the latter allusions as were
complimentary to the unconscious phenomenon, and giving the rest in a
confidential ‘aside’ to Nicholas, Mr. Folair followed the ascent of
the curtain with his eyes, regarded with a sneer the reception of Miss
Crummles as the Maiden, and, falling back a step or two to advance with
the better effect, uttered a preliminary howl, and ‘went on’ chattering
his teeth and brandishing his tin tomahawk as the Indian Savage.

‘So these are some of the stories they invent about us, and bandy from
mouth to mouth!’ thought Nicholas. ‘If a man would commit an inexpiable
offence against any society, large or small, let him be successful. They
will forgive him any crime but that.’

‘You surely don’t mind what that malicious creature says, Mr. Johnson?’
observed Miss Snevellicci in her most winning tones.

‘Not I,’ replied Nicholas. ‘If I were going to remain here, I might
think it worth my while to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk till
they are hoarse. But here,’ added Nicholas, as Smike approached, ‘here
comes the subject of a portion of their good-nature, so let he and I say
good night together.’

‘No, I will not let either of you say anything of the kind,’ returned
Miss Snevellicci. ‘You must come home and see mama, who only came to
Portsmouth today, and is dying to behold you. Led, my dear, persuade Mr
Johnson.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ returned Miss Ledrook, with considerable vivacity, ‘if
YOU can’t persuade him--’ Miss Ledrook said no more, but intimated, by
a dexterous playfulness, that if Miss Snevellicci couldn’t persuade him,
nobody could.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Lillyvick have taken lodgings in our house, and share our
sitting-room for the present,’ said Miss Snevellicci. ‘Won’t that induce
you?’

‘Surely,’ returned Nicholas, ‘I can require no possible inducement
beyond your invitation.’

‘Oh no! I dare say,’ rejoined Miss Snevellicci. And Miss Ledrook said,
‘Upon my word!’ Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that Miss Ledrook was a
giddy thing; and Miss Ledrook said that Miss Snevellicci needn’t colour
up quite so much; and Miss Snevellicci beat Miss Ledrook, and Miss
Ledrook beat Miss Snevellicci.

‘Come,’ said Miss Ledrook, ‘it’s high time we were there, or we shall
have poor Mrs. Snevellicci thinking that you have run away with her
daughter, Mr. Johnson; and then we should have a pretty to-do.’

‘My dear Led,’ remonstrated Miss Snevellicci, ‘how you do talk!’

Miss Ledrook made no answer, but taking Smike’s arm in hers, left her
friend and Nicholas to follow at their pleasure; which it pleased them,
or rather pleased Nicholas, who had no great fancy for a TETE-A-TETE
under the circumstances, to do at once.

There were not wanting matters of conversation when they reached the
street, for it turned out that Miss Snevellicci had a small basket to
carry home, and Miss Ledrook a small bandbox, both containing such minor
articles of theatrical costume as the lady performers usually carried to
and fro every evening. Nicholas would insist upon carrying the basket,
and Miss Snevellicci would insist upon carrying it herself, which
gave rise to a struggle, in which Nicholas captured the basket and
the bandbox likewise. Then Nicholas said, that he wondered what could
possibly be inside the basket, and attempted to peep in, whereat Miss
Snevellicci screamed, and declared that if she thought he had seen,
she was sure she should faint away. This declaration was followed by a
similar attempt on the bandbox, and similar demonstrations on the part
of Miss Ledrook, and then both ladies vowed that they wouldn’t move a
step further until Nicholas had promised that he wouldn’t offer to peep
again. At last Nicholas pledged himself to betray no further curiosity,
and they walked on: both ladies giggling very much, and declaring
that they never had seen such a wicked creature in all their born
days--never.

Lightening the way with such pleasantry as this, they arrived at the
tailor’s house in no time; and here they made quite a little party,
there being present besides Mr. Lillyvick and Mrs. Lillyvick, not only
Miss Snevellicci’s mama, but her papa also. And an uncommonly fine man
Miss Snevellicci’s papa was, with a hook nose, and a white forehead, and
curly black hair, and high cheek bones, and altogether quite a handsome
face, only a little pimply as though with drinking. He had a very
broad chest had Miss Snevellicci’s papa, and he wore a threadbare blue
dress-coat buttoned with gilt buttons tight across it; and he no sooner
saw Nicholas come into the room, than he whipped the two forefingers of
his right hand in between the two centre buttons, and sticking his other
arm gracefully a-kimbo seemed to say, ‘Now, here I am, my buck, and what
have you got to say to me?’

Such was, and in such an attitude sat Miss Snevellicci’s papa, who had
been in the profession ever since he had first played the ten-year-old
imps in the Christmas pantomimes; who could sing a little, dance a
little, fence a little, act a little, and do everything a little, but
not much; who had been sometimes in the ballet, and sometimes in the
chorus, at every theatre in London; who was always selected in virtue
of his figure to play the military visitors and the speechless noblemen;
who always wore a smart dress, and came on arm-in-arm with a smart lady
in short petticoats,--and always did it too with such an air that people
in the pit had been several times known to cry out ‘Bravo!’ under the
impression that he was somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci’s papa, upon
whom some envious persons cast the imputation that he occasionally beat
Miss Snevellicci’s mama, who was still a dancer, with a neat little
figure and some remains of good looks; and who now sat, as she
danced,--being rather too old for the full glare of the foot-lights,--in
the background.

To these good people Nicholas was presented with much formality. The
introduction being completed, Miss Snevellicci’s papa (who was scented
with rum-and-water) said that he was delighted to make the acquaintance
of a gentleman so highly talented; and furthermore remarked, that there
hadn’t been such a hit made--no, not since the first appearance of his
friend Mr. Glavormelly, at the Coburg.

‘You have seen him, sir?’ said Miss Snevellicci’s papa.

‘No, really I never did,’ replied Nicholas.

‘You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir!’ said Miss Snevellicci’s
papa. ‘Then you have never seen acting yet. If he had lived--’

‘Oh, he is dead, is he?’ interrupted Nicholas.

‘He is,’ said Mr. Snevellicci, ‘but he isn’t in Westminster Abbey, more’s
the shame. He was a--. Well, no matter. He is gone to that bourne from
whence no traveller returns. I hope he is appreciated THERE.’

So saying Miss Snevellicci’s papa rubbed the tip of his nose with a very
yellow silk handkerchief, and gave the company to understand that these
recollections overcame him.

‘Well, Mr. Lillyvick,’ said Nicholas, ‘and how are you?’

‘Quite well, sir,’ replied the collector. ‘There is nothing like the
married state, sir, depend upon it.’

‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas, laughing.

‘Ah! nothing like it, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick solemnly. ‘How do you
think,’ whispered the collector, drawing him aside, ‘how do you think
she looks tonight?’

‘As handsome as ever,’ replied Nicholas, glancing at the late Miss
Petowker.

‘Why, there’s air about her, sir,’ whispered the collector, ‘that I
never saw in anybody. Look at her now she moves to put the kettle on.
There! Isn’t it fascination, sir?’

‘You’re a lucky man,’ said Nicholas.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ rejoined the collector. ‘No. Do you think I am though,
eh? Perhaps I may be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn’t have done much
better if I had been a young man, could I? You couldn’t have done much
better yourself, could you--eh--could you?’ With such inquires, and
many more such, Mr. Lillyvick jerked his elbow into Nicholas’s side, and
chuckled till his face became quite purple in the attempt to keep down
his satisfaction.

By this time the cloth had been laid under the joint superintendence of
all the ladies, upon two tables put together, one being high and narrow,
and the other low and broad. There were oysters at the top, sausages
at the bottom, a pair of snuffers in the centre, and baked potatoes
wherever it was most convenient to put them. Two additional chairs were
brought in from the bedroom: Miss Snevellicci sat at the head of the
table, and Mr. Lillyvick at the foot; and Nicholas had not only
the honour of sitting next Miss Snevellicci, but of having Miss
Snevellicci’s mama on his right hand, and Miss Snevellicci’s papa over
the way. In short, he was the hero of the feast; and when the table was
cleared and something warm introduced, Miss Snevellicci’s papa got up
and proposed his health in a speech containing such affecting allusions
to his coming departure, that Miss Snevellicci wept, and was compelled
to retire into the bedroom.

‘Hush! Don’t take any notice of it,’ said Miss Ledrook, peeping in from
the bedroom. ‘Say, when she comes back, that she exerts herself too
much.’

Miss Ledrook eked out this speech with so many mysterious nods and
frowns before she shut the door again, that a profound silence came upon
all the company, during which Miss Snevellicci’s papa looked very
big indeed--several sizes larger than life--at everybody in turn, but
particularly at Nicholas, and kept on perpetually emptying his tumbler
and filling it again, until the ladies returned in a cluster, with Miss
Snevellicci among them.

‘You needn’t alarm yourself a bit, Mr. Snevellicci,’ said Mrs. Lillyvick.
‘She is only a little weak and nervous; she has been so ever since the
morning.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Snevellicci, ‘that’s all, is it?’

‘Oh yes, that’s all. Don’t make a fuss about it,’ cried all the ladies
together.

Now this was not exactly the kind of reply suited to Mr. Snevellicci’s
importance as a man and a father, so he picked out the unfortunate Mrs
Snevellicci, and asked her what the devil she meant by talking to him in
that way.

‘Dear me, my dear!’ said Mrs. Snevellicci.

‘Don’t call me your dear, ma’am,’ said Mr. Snevellicci, ‘if you please.’

‘Pray, pa, don’t,’ interposed Miss Snevellicci.

‘Don’t what, my child?’

‘Talk in that way.’

‘Why not?’ said Mr. Snevellicci. ‘I hope you don’t suppose there’s
anybody here who is to prevent my talking as I like?’

‘Nobody wants to, pa,’ rejoined his daughter.

‘Nobody would if they did want to,’ said Mr. Snevellicci. ‘I am not
ashamed of myself, Snevellicci is my name; I’m to be found in Broad
Court, Bow Street, when I’m in town. If I’m not at home, let any man
ask for me at the stage-door. Damme, they know me at the stage-door
I suppose. Most men have seen my portrait at the cigar shop round the
corner. I’ve been mentioned in the newspapers before now, haven’t I?
Talk! I’ll tell you what; if I found out that any man had been tampering
with the affections of my daughter, I wouldn’t talk. I’d astonish him
without talking; that’s my way.’

So saying, Mr. Snevellicci struck the palm of his left hand three smart
blows with his clenched fist; pulled a phantom nose with his right thumb
and forefinger, and swallowed another glassful at a draught. ‘That’s my
way,’ repeated Mr. Snevellicci.

Most public characters have their failings; and the truth is that Mr
Snevellicci was a little addicted to drinking; or, if the whole truth
must be told, that he was scarcely ever sober. He knew in his cups three
distinct stages of intoxication,--the dignified--the quarrelsome--the
amorous. When professionally engaged he never got beyond the dignified;
in private circles he went through all three, passing from one to
another with a rapidity of transition often rather perplexing to those
who had not the honour of his acquaintance.

Thus Mr. Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed another glassful than he
smiled upon all present in happy forgetfulness of having exhibited
symptoms of pugnacity, and proposed ‘The ladies! Bless their hearts!’ in
a most vivacious manner.

‘I love ‘em,’ said Mr. Snevellicci, looking round the table, ‘I love ‘em,
every one.’

‘Not every one,’ reasoned Mr. Lillyvick, mildly.

‘Yes, every one,’ repeated Mr. Snevellicci.

‘That would include the married ladies, you know,’ said Mr. Lillyvick.

‘I love them too, sir,’ said Mr. Snevellicci.

The collector looked into the surrounding faces with an aspect of grave
astonishment, seeming to say, ‘This is a nice man!’ and appeared a
little surprised that Mrs. Lillyvick’s manner yielded no evidences of
horror and indignation.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ said Mr. Snevellicci. ‘I love them
and they love me.’ And as if this avowal were not made in sufficient
disregard and defiance of all moral obligations, what did Mr. Snevellicci
do? He winked--winked openly and undisguisedly; winked with his right
eye--upon Henrietta Lillyvick!

The collector fell back in his chair in the intensity of his
astonishment. If anybody had winked at her as Henrietta Petowker, it
would have been indecorous in the last degree; but as Mrs. Lillyvick!
While he thought of it in a cold perspiration, and wondered whether
it was possible that he could be dreaming, Mr. Snevellicci repeated the
wink, and drinking to Mrs. Lillyvick in dumb show, actually blew her a
kiss! Mr. Lillyvick left his chair, walked straight up to the other
end of the table, and fell upon him--literally fell upon
him--instantaneously. Mr. Lillyvick was no light weight, and consequently
when he fell upon Mr. Snevellicci, Mr. Snevellicci fell under the table.
Mr. Lillyvick followed him, and the ladies screamed.

‘What is the matter with the men! Are they mad?’ cried Nicholas, diving
under the table, dragging up the collector by main force, and thrusting
him, all doubled up, into a chair, as if he had been a stuffed figure.
‘What do you mean to do? What do you want to do? What is the matter with
you?’

While Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike had performed the same
office for Mr. Snevellicci, who now regarded his late adversary in tipsy
amazement.

‘Look here, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, pointing to his astonished
wife, ‘here is purity and elegance combined, whose feelings have been
outraged--violated, sir!’

‘Lor, what nonsense he talks!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lillyvick in answer to the
inquiring look of Nicholas. ‘Nobody has said anything to me.’

‘Said, Henrietta!’ cried the collector. ‘Didn’t I see him--’ Mr
Lillyvick couldn’t bring himself to utter the word, but he counterfeited
the motion of the eye.

‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Lillyvick. ‘Do you suppose nobody is ever to look at
me? A pretty thing to be married indeed, if that was law!’

‘You didn’t mind it?’ cried the collector.

‘Mind it!’ repeated Mrs. Lillyvick contemptuously. ‘You ought to go down
on your knees and beg everybody’s pardon, that you ought.’

‘Pardon, my dear?’ said the dismayed collector.

‘Yes, and mine first,’ replied Mrs. Lillyvick. ‘Do you suppose I ain’t
the best judge of what’s proper and what’s improper?’

‘To be sure,’ cried all the ladies. ‘Do you suppose WE shouldn’t be the
first to speak, if there was anything that ought to be taken notice of?’

‘Do you suppose THEY don’t know, sir?’ said Miss Snevellicci’s papa,
pulling up his collar, and muttering something about a punching of
heads, and being only withheld by considerations of age. With which Miss
Snevellicci’s papa looked steadily and sternly at Mr. Lillyvick for some
seconds, and then rising deliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies
all round, beginning with Mrs. Lillyvick.

The unhappy collector looked piteously at his wife, as if to see whether
there was any one trait of Miss Petowker left in Mrs. Lillyvick, and
finding too surely that there was not, begged pardon of all the company
with great humility, and sat down such a crest-fallen, dispirited,
disenchanted man, that despite all his selfishness and dotage, he was
quite an object of compassion.

Miss Snevellicci’s papa being greatly exalted by this triumph, and
incontestable proof of his popularity with the fair sex, quickly grew
convivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering more than one song of
no inconsiderable length, and regaling the social circle between-whiles
with recollections of divers splendid women who had been supposed to
entertain a passion for himself, several of whom he toasted by name,
taking occasion to remark at the same time that if he had been a little
more alive to his own interest, he might have been rolling at that
moment in his chariot-and-four. These reminiscences appeared to awaken
no very torturing pangs in the breast of Mrs. Snevellicci, who was
sufficiently occupied in descanting to Nicholas upon the manifold
accomplishments and merits of her daughter. Nor was the young lady
herself at all behind-hand in displaying her choicest allurements; but
these, heightened as they were by the artifices of Miss Ledrook, had no
effect whatever in increasing the attentions of Nicholas, who, with the
precedent of Miss Squeers still fresh in his memory, steadily resisted
every fascination, and placed so strict a guard upon his behaviour that
when he had taken his leave the ladies were unanimous in pronouncing him
quite a monster of insensibility.

Next day the posters appeared in due course, and the public were
informed, in all the colours of the rainbow, and in letters afflicted
with every possible variation of spinal deformity, how that Mr. Johnson
would have the honour of making his last appearance that evening, and
how that an early application for places was requested, in consequence
of the extraordinary overflow attendant on his performances,--it being
a remarkable fact in theatrical history, but one long since established
beyond dispute, that it is a hopeless endeavour to attract people to a
theatre unless they can be first brought to believe that they will never
get into it.

Nicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering the theatre at night,
to account for the unusual perturbation and excitement visible in the
countenances of all the company, but he was not long in doubt as to the
cause, for before he could make any inquiry respecting it Mr. Crummles
approached, and in an agitated tone of voice, informed him that there
was a London manager in the boxes.

‘It’s the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,’ said Crummles, dragging
Nicholas to the little hole in the curtain that he might look through at
the London manager. ‘I have not the smallest doubt it’s the fame of the
phenomenon--that’s the man; him in the great-coat and no shirt-collar.
She shall have ten pound a week, Johnson; she shall not appear on the
London boards for a farthing less. They shan’t engage her either, unless
they engage Mrs. Crummles too--twenty pound a week for the pair; or I’ll
tell you what, I’ll throw in myself and the two boys, and they shall
have the family for thirty. I can’t say fairer than that. They must take
us all, if none of us will go without the others. That’s the way some of
the London people do, and it always answers. Thirty pound a week--it’s
too cheap, Johnson. It’s dirt cheap.’

Nicholas replied, that it certainly was; and Mr. Vincent Crummles taking
several huge pinches of snuff to compose his feelings, hurried away to
tell Mrs. Crummles that he had quite settled the only terms that could be
accepted, and had resolved not to abate one single farthing.

When everybody was dressed and the curtain went up, the excitement
occasioned by the presence of the London manager increased a
thousand-fold. Everybody happened to know that the London manager had
come down specially to witness his or her own performance, and all were
in a flutter of anxiety and expectation. Some of those who were not
on in the first scene, hurried to the wings, and there stretched their
necks to have a peep at him; others stole up into the two little private
boxes over the stage-doors, and from that position reconnoitred the
London manager. Once the London manager was seen to smile--he smiled
at the comic countryman’s pretending to catch a blue-bottle, while Mrs
Crummles was making her greatest effect. ‘Very good, my fine fellow,’
said Mr. Crummles, shaking his fist at the comic countryman when he came
off, ‘you leave this company next Saturday night.’

In the same way, everybody who was on the stage beheld no audience but
one individual; everybody played to the London manager. When Mr. Lenville
in a sudden burst of passion called the emperor a miscreant, and then
biting his glove, said, ‘But I must dissemble,’ instead of looking
gloomily at the boards and so waiting for his cue, as is proper in such
cases, he kept his eye fixed upon the London manager. When Miss Bravassa
sang her song at her lover, who according to custom stood ready to shake
hands with her between the verses, they looked, not at each other, but
at the London manager. Mr. Crummles died point blank at him; and when the
two guards came in to take the body off after a very hard death, it was
seen to open its eyes and glance at the London manager. At length the
London manager was discovered to be asleep, and shortly after that
he woke up and went away, whereupon all the company fell foul of the
unhappy comic countryman, declaring that his buffoonery was the sole
cause; and Mr. Crummles said, that he had put up with it a long time, but
that he really couldn’t stand it any longer, and therefore would feel
obliged by his looking out for another engagement.

All this was the occasion of much amusement to Nicholas, whose only
feeling upon the subject was one of sincere satisfaction that the great
man went away before he appeared. He went through his part in the
two last pieces as briskly as he could, and having been received with
unbounded favour and unprecedented applause--so said the bills for next
day, which had been printed an hour or two before--he took Smike’s arm
and walked home to bed.

With the post next morning came a letter from Newman Noggs, very inky,
very short, very dirty, very small, and very mysterious, urging Nicholas
to return to London instantly; not to lose an instant; to be there that
night if possible.

‘I will,’ said Nicholas. ‘Heaven knows I have remained here for the
best, and sorely against my own will; but even now I may have dallied
too long. What can have happened? Smike, my good fellow, here--take my
purse. Put our things together, and pay what little debts we owe--quick,
and we shall be in time for the morning coach. I will only tell them
that we are going, and will return to you immediately.’

So saying, he took his hat, and hurrying away to the lodgings of Mr
Crummles, applied his hand to the knocker with such hearty good-will,
that he awakened that gentleman, who was still in bed, and caused Mr
Bulph the pilot to take his morning’s pipe very nearly out of his mouth
in the extremity of his surprise.

The door being opened, Nicholas ran upstairs without any ceremony, and
bursting into the darkened sitting-room on the one-pair front, found
that the two Master Crummleses had sprung out of the sofa-bedstead and
were putting on their clothes with great rapidity, under the impression
that it was the middle of the night, and the next house was on fire.

Before he could undeceive them, Mr. Crummles came down in a flannel gown
and nightcap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that circumstances
had occurred which rendered it necessary for him to repair to London
immediately.

‘So goodbye,’ said Nicholas; ‘goodbye, goodbye.’

He was half-way downstairs before Mr. Crummles had sufficiently recovered
his surprise to gasp out something about the posters.

‘I can’t help it,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Set whatever I may have earned
this week against them, or if that will not repay you, say at once what
will. Quick, quick.’

‘We’ll cry quits about that,’ returned Crummles. ‘But can’t we have one
last night more?’

‘Not an hour--not a minute,’ replied Nicholas, impatiently.

‘Won’t you stop to say something to Mrs. Crummles?’ asked the manager,
following him down to the door.

‘I couldn’t stop if it were to prolong my life a score of years,’
rejoined Nicholas. ‘Here, take my hand, and with it my hearty
thanks.--Oh! that I should have been fooling here!’

Accompanying these words with an impatient stamp upon the ground, he
tore himself from the manager’s detaining grasp, and darting rapidly
down the street was out of sight in an instant.

‘Dear me, dear me,’ said Mr. Crummles, looking wistfully towards the
point at which he had just disappeared; ‘if he only acted like that,
what a deal of money he’d draw! He should have kept upon this circuit;
he’d have been very useful to me. But he don’t know what’s good for him.
He is an impetuous youth. Young men are rash, very rash.’

Mr. Crummles being in a moralising mood, might possibly have moralised
for some minutes longer if he had not mechanically put his hand towards
his waistcoat pocket, where he was accustomed to keep his snuff. The
absence of any pocket at all in the usual direction, suddenly recalled
to his recollection the fact that he had no waistcoat on; and this
leading him to a contemplation of the extreme scantiness of his
attire, he shut the door abruptly, and retired upstairs with great
precipitation.

Smike had made good speed while Nicholas was absent, and with his help
everything was soon ready for their departure. They scarcely stopped to
take a morsel of breakfast, and in less than half an hour arrived at the
coach-office: quite out of breath with the haste they had made to reach
it in time. There were yet a few minutes to spare, so, having secured
the places, Nicholas hurried into a slopseller’s hard by, and bought
Smike a great-coat. It would have been rather large for a substantial
yeoman, but the shopman averring (and with considerable truth) that
it was a most uncommon fit, Nicholas would have purchased it in his
impatience if it had been twice the size.

As they hurried up to the coach, which was now in the open street and
all ready for starting, Nicholas was not a little astonished to find
himself suddenly clutched in a close and violent embrace, which nearly
took him off his legs; nor was his amazement at all lessened by hearing
the voice of Mr. Crummles exclaim, ‘It is he--my friend, my friend!’

‘Bless my heart,’ cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager’s arms,
‘what are you about?’

The manager made no reply, but strained him to his breast again,
exclaiming as he did so, ‘Farewell, my noble, my lion-hearted boy!’

In fact, Mr. Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity for
professional display, had turned out for the express purpose of taking a
public farewell of Nicholas; and to render it the more imposing, he was
now, to that young gentleman’s most profound annoyance, inflicting upon
him a rapid succession of stage embraces, which, as everybody knows, are
performed by the embracer’s laying his or her chin on the shoulder of
the object of affection, and looking over it. This Mr. Crummles did in
the highest style of melodrama, pouring forth at the same time all
the most dismal forms of farewell he could think of, out of the stock
pieces. Nor was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was going
through a similar ceremony with Smike; while Master Percy Crummles, with
a very little second-hand camlet cloak, worn theatrically over his left
shoulder, stood by, in the attitude of an attendant officer, waiting to
convey the two victims to the scaffold.

The lookers-on laughed very heartily, and as it was as well to put a
good face upon the matter, Nicholas laughed too when he had succeeded
in disengaging himself; and rescuing the astonished Smike, climbed up
to the coach roof after him, and kissed his hand in honour of the absent
Mrs. Crummles as they rolled away.



CHAPTER 31

Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the
success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel


In blissful unconsciousness that his nephew was hastening at the utmost
speed of four good horses towards his sphere of action, and that every
passing minute diminished the distance between them, Ralph Nickleby sat
that morning occupied in his customary avocations, and yet unable to
prevent his thoughts wandering from time to time back to the interview
which had taken place between himself and his niece on the previous
day. At such intervals, after a few moments of abstraction, Ralph
would mutter some peevish interjection, and apply himself with renewed
steadiness of purpose to the ledger before him, but again and again the
same train of thought came back despite all his efforts to prevent it,
confusing him in his calculations, and utterly distracting his attention
from the figures over which he bent. At length Ralph laid down his pen,
and threw himself back in his chair as though he had made up his mind to
allow the obtrusive current of reflection to take its own course, and,
by giving it full scope, to rid himself of it effectually.

‘I am not a man to be moved by a pretty face,’ muttered Ralph sternly.
‘There is a grinning skull beneath it, and men like me who look and work
below the surface see that, and not its delicate covering. And yet
I almost like the girl, or should if she had been less proudly and
squeamishly brought up. If the boy were drowned or hanged, and the
mother dead, this house should be her home. I wish they were, with all
my soul.’

Notwithstanding the deadly hatred which Ralph felt towards Nicholas,
and the bitter contempt with which he sneered at poor Mrs
Nickleby--notwithstanding the baseness with which he had behaved, and
was then behaving, and would behave again if his interest prompted
him, towards Kate herself--still there was, strange though it may seem,
something humanising and even gentle in his thoughts at that moment. He
thought of what his home might be if Kate were there; he placed her in
the empty chair, looked upon her, heard her speak; he felt again upon
his arm the gentle pressure of the trembling hand; he strewed his
costly rooms with the hundred silent tokens of feminine presence and
occupation; he came back again to the cold fireside and the silent
dreary splendour; and in that one glimpse of a better nature, born as
it was in selfish thoughts, the rich man felt himself friendless,
childless, and alone. Gold, for the instant, lost its lustre in his
eyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which it could
never purchase.

A very slight circumstance was sufficient to banish such reflections
from the mind of such a man. As Ralph looked vacantly out across the
yard towards the window of the other office, he became suddenly aware of
the earnest observation of Newman Noggs, who, with his red nose almost
touching the glass, feigned to be mending a pen with a rusty fragment of
a knife, but was in reality staring at his employer with a countenance
of the closest and most eager scrutiny.

Ralph exchanged his dreamy posture for his accustomed business attitude:
the face of Newman disappeared, and the train of thought took to flight,
all simultaneously, and in an instant.

After a few minutes, Ralph rang his bell. Newman answered the summons,
and Ralph raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if he almost feared
to read there, a knowledge of his recent thoughts.

There was not the smallest speculation, however, in the countenance of
Newman Noggs. If it be possible to imagine a man, with two eyes in his
head, and both wide open, looking in no direction whatever, and seeing
nothing, Newman appeared to be that man while Ralph Nickleby regarded
him.

‘How now?’ growled Ralph.

‘Oh!’ said Newman, throwing some intelligence into his eyes all at
once, and dropping them on his master, ‘I thought you rang.’ With which
laconic remark Newman turned round and hobbled away.

‘Stop!’ said Ralph.

Newman stopped; not at all disconcerted.

‘I did ring.’

‘I knew you did.’

‘Then why do you offer to go if you know that?’

‘I thought you rang to say you didn’t ring,’ replied Newman. ‘You often
do.’

‘How dare you pry, and peer, and stare at me, sirrah?’ demanded Ralph.

‘Stare!’ cried Newman, ‘at YOU! Ha, ha!’ which was all the explanation
Newman deigned to offer.

‘Be careful, sir,’ said Ralph, looking steadily at him. ‘Let me have no
drunken fooling here. Do you see this parcel?’

‘It’s big enough,’ rejoined Newman.

‘Carry it into the city; to Cross, in Broad Street, and leave it
there--quick. Do you hear?’

Newman gave a dogged kind of nod to express an affirmative reply, and,
leaving the room for a few seconds, returned with his hat. Having made
various ineffective attempts to fit the parcel (which was some two feet
square) into the crown thereof, Newman took it under his arm, and
after putting on his fingerless gloves with great precision and nicety,
keeping his eyes fixed upon Mr. Ralph Nickleby all the time, he adjusted
his hat upon his head with as much care, real or pretended, as if it
were a bran-new one of the most expensive quality, and at last departed
on his errand.

He executed his commission with great promptitude and dispatch, only
calling at one public-house for half a minute, and even that might be
said to be in his way, for he went in at one door and came out at the
other; but as he returned and had got so far homewards as the Strand,
Newman began to loiter with the uncertain air of a man who has not quite
made up his mind whether to halt or go straight forwards. After a
very short consideration, the former inclination prevailed, and making
towards the point he had had in his mind, Newman knocked a modest double
knock, or rather a nervous single one, at Miss La Creevy’s door.

It was opened by a strange servant, on whom the odd figure of the
visitor did not appear to make the most favourable impression possible,
inasmuch as she no sooner saw him than she very nearly closed it, and
placing herself in the narrow gap, inquired what he wanted. But Newman
merely uttering the monosyllable ‘Noggs,’ as if it were some cabalistic
word, at sound of which bolts would fly back and doors open, pushed
briskly past and gained the door of Miss La Creevy’s sitting-room,
before the astonished servant could offer any opposition.

‘Walk in if you please,’ said Miss La Creevy in reply to the sound of
Newman’s knuckles; and in he walked accordingly.

‘Bless us!’ cried Miss La Creevy, starting as Newman bolted in; ‘what
did you want, sir?’

‘You have forgotten me,’ said Newman, with an inclination of the head.
‘I wonder at that. That nobody should remember me who knew me in other
days, is natural enough; but there are few people who, seeing me once,
forget me NOW.’ He glanced, as he spoke, at his shabby clothes and
paralytic limb, and slightly shook his head.

‘I did forget you, I declare,’ said Miss La Creevy, rising to receive
Newman, who met her half-way, ‘and I am ashamed of myself for doing so;
for you are a kind, good creature, Mr. Noggs. Sit down and tell me all
about Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing! I haven’t seen her for this many a
week.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Newman.

‘Why, the truth is, Mr. Noggs,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘that I have been
out on a visit--the first visit I have made for fifteen years.’

‘That is a long time,’ said Newman, sadly.

‘So it is a very long time to look back upon in years, though, somehow
or other, thank Heaven, the solitary days roll away peacefully and
happily enough,’ replied the miniature painter. ‘I have a brother, Mr
Noggs--the only relation I have--and all that time I never saw him once.
Not that we ever quarrelled, but he was apprenticed down in the country,
and he got married there; and new ties and affections springing up about
him, he forgot a poor little woman like me, as it was very reasonable
he should, you know. Don’t suppose that I complain about that, because I
always said to myself, “It is very natural; poor dear John is making his
way in the world, and has a wife to tell his cares and troubles to, and
children now to play about him, so God bless him and them, and send we
may all meet together one day where we shall part no more.” But what
do you think, Mr. Noggs,’ said the miniature painter, brightening up and
clapping her hands, ‘of that very same brother coming up to London at
last, and never resting till he found me out; what do you think of his
coming here and sitting down in that very chair, and crying like a child
because he was so glad to see me--what do you think of his insisting on
taking me down all the way into the country to his own house (quite a
sumptuous place, Mr. Noggs, with a large garden and I don’t know how many
fields, and a man in livery waiting at table, and cows and horses and
pigs and I don’t know what besides), and making me stay a whole month,
and pressing me to stop there all my life--yes, all my life--and so did
his wife, and so did the children--and there were four of them, and one,
the eldest girl of all, they--they had named her after me eight good
years before, they had indeed. I never was so happy; in all my life I
never was!’ The worthy soul hid her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed
aloud; for it was the first opportunity she had had of unburdening her
heart, and it would have its way.

‘But bless my life,’ said Miss La Creevy, wiping her eyes after a short
pause, and cramming her handkerchief into her pocket with great bustle
and dispatch; ‘what a foolish creature I must seem to you, Mr. Noggs! I
shouldn’t have said anything about it, only I wanted to explain to you
how it was I hadn’t seen Miss Nickleby.’

‘Have you seen the old lady?’ asked Newman.

‘You mean Mrs. Nickleby?’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘Then I tell you what, Mr
Noggs, if you want to keep in the good books in that quarter, you had
better not call her the old lady any more, for I suspect she wouldn’t be
best pleased to hear you. Yes, I went there the night before last, but
she was quite on the high ropes about something, and was so grand and
mysterious, that I couldn’t make anything of her: so, to tell you the
truth, I took it into my head to be grand too, and came away in state. I
thought she would have come round again before this, but she hasn’t been
here.’

‘About Miss Nickleby--’ said Newman.

‘Why, she was here twice while I was away,’ returned Miss La Creevy. ‘I
was afraid she mightn’t like to have me calling on her among those great
folks in what’s-its-name Place, so I thought I’d wait a day or two, and
if I didn’t see her, write.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Newman, cracking his fingers.

‘However, I want to hear all the news about them from you,’ said Miss La
Creevy. ‘How is the old rough and tough monster of Golden Square? Well,
of course; such people always are. I don’t mean how is he in health, but
how is he going on: how is he behaving himself?’

‘Damn him!’ cried Newman, dashing his cherished hat on the floor; ‘like
a false hound.’

‘Gracious, Mr. Noggs, you quite terrify me!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy,
turning pale.

‘I should have spoilt his features yesterday afternoon if I could have
afforded it,’ said Newman, moving restlessly about, and shaking his fist
at a portrait of Mr. Canning over the mantelpiece. ‘I was very near it.
I was obliged to put my hands in my pockets, and keep ‘em there very
tight. I shall do it some day in that little back-parlour, I know I
shall. I should have done it before now, if I hadn’t been afraid of
making bad worse. I shall double-lock myself in with him and have it out
before I die, I’m quite certain of it.’

‘I shall scream if you don’t compose yourself, Mr. Noggs,’ said Miss La
Creevy; ‘I’m sure I shan’t be able to help it.’

‘Never mind,’ rejoined Newman, darting violently to and fro. ‘He’s
coming up tonight: I wrote to tell him. He little thinks I know; he
little thinks I care. Cunning scoundrel! he don’t think that. Not
he, not he. Never mind, I’ll thwart him--I, Newman Noggs. Ho, ho, the
rascal!’

Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of fury, Newman Noggs jerked
himself about the room with the most eccentric motion ever beheld in a
human being: now sparring at the little miniatures on the wall, and
now giving himself violent thumps on the head, as if to heighten the
delusion, until he sank down in his former seat quite breathless and
exhausted.

‘There,’ said Newman, picking up his hat; ‘that’s done me good. Now I’m
better, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

It took some little time to reassure Miss La Creevy, who had been almost
frightened out of her senses by this remarkable demonstration; but that
done, Newman faithfully related all that had passed in the interview
between Kate and her uncle, prefacing his narrative with a statement
of his previous suspicions on the subject, and his reasons for forming
them; and concluding with a communication of the step he had taken in
secretly writing to Nicholas.

Though little Miss La Creevy’s indignation was not so singularly
displayed as Newman’s, it was scarcely inferior in violence and
intensity. Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had happened to make his appearance
in the room at that moment, there is some doubt whether he would not
have found Miss La Creevy a more dangerous opponent than even Newman
Noggs himself.

‘God forgive me for saying so,’ said Miss La Creevy, as a wind-up to all
her expressions of anger, ‘but I really feel as if I could stick this
into him with pleasure.’

It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, it being in
fact nothing more nor less than a black-lead pencil; but discovering her
mistake, the little portrait painter exchanged it for a mother-of-pearl
fruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperate thoughts, she made a
lunge as she spoke, which would have scarcely disturbed the crumb of a
half-quartern loaf.

‘She won’t stop where she is after tonight,’ said Newman. ‘That’s a
comfort.’

‘Stop!’ cried Miss La Creevy, ‘she should have left there, weeks ago.’

‘--If we had known of this,’ rejoined Newman. ‘But we didn’t. Nobody
could properly interfere but her mother or brother. The mother’s
weak--poor thing--weak. The dear young man will be here tonight.’

‘Heart alive!’ cried Miss La Creevy. ‘He will do something desperate, Mr
Noggs, if you tell him all at once.’

Newman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtful look.

‘Depend upon it,’ said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, ‘if you are not very
careful in breaking out the truth to him, he will do some violence upon
his uncle or one of these men that will bring some terrible calamity
upon his own head, and grief and sorrow to us all.’

‘I never thought of that,’ rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more
and more. ‘I came to ask you to receive his sister in case he brought
her here, but--’

‘But this is a matter of much greater importance,’ interrupted Miss La
Creevy; ‘that you might have been sure of before you came, but the end
of this, nobody can foresee, unless you are very guarded and careful.’

‘What CAN I do?’ cried Newman, scratching his head with an air of great
vexation and perplexity. ‘If he was to talk of pistoling ‘em all, I
should be obliged to say, “Certainly--serve ‘em right.”’

Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearing this, and
instantly set about extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he would
use his utmost endeavours to pacify the wrath of Nicholas; which, after
some demur, was conceded. They then consulted together on the safest and
surest mode of communicating to him the circumstances which had rendered
his presence necessary.

‘He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,’ said
Miss La Creevy. ‘That is of the greatest consequence. He must not be
told until late at night.’

‘But he’ll be in town between six and seven this evening,’ replied
Newman. ‘I can’t keep it from him when he asks me.’

‘Then you must go out, Mr. Noggs,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘You can easily
have been kept away by business, and must not return till nearly
midnight.’

‘Then he will come straight here,’ retorted Newman.

‘So I suppose,’ observed Miss La Creevy; ‘but he won’t find me at home,
for I’ll go straight to the city the instant you leave me, make up
matters with Mrs. Nickleby, and take her away to the theatre, so that he
may not even know where his sister lives.’

Upon further discussion, this appeared the safest and most feasible mode
of proceeding that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it was finally
determined that matters should be so arranged, and Newman, after
listening to many supplementary cautions and entreaties, took his leave
of Miss La Creevy and trudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as
he went upon a vast number of possibilities and impossibilities which
crowded upon his brain, and arose out of the conversation that had just
terminated.



CHAPTER 32

Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable
Proceedings to which it gives rise


‘London at last!’ cried Nicholas, throwing back his greatcoat and
rousing Smike from a long nap. ‘It seemed to me as though we should
never reach it.’

‘And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,’ observed the coachman,
looking over his shoulder at Nicholas with no very pleasant expression
of countenance.

‘Ay, I know that,’ was the reply; ‘but I have been very anxious to be at
my journey’s end, and that makes the way seem long.’

‘Well,’ remarked the coachman, ‘if the way seemed long with such cattle
as you’ve sat behind, you MUST have been most uncommon anxious;’ and
so saying, he let out his whip-lash and touched up a little boy on the
calves of his legs by way of emphasis.

They rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street of London,
now displaying long double rows of brightly-burning lamps, dotted here
and there with the chemists’ glaring lights, and illuminated besides
with the brilliant flood that streamed from the windows of the shops,
where sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of the richest colours,
the most inviting delicacies, and most sumptuous articles of luxurious
ornament, succeeded each other in rich and glittering profusion. Streams
of people apparently without end poured on and on, jostling each other
in the crowd and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches
that surrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes and
makes, mingled up together in one moving mass, like running water, lent
their ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.

As they dashed by the quickly-changing and ever-varying objects, it was
curious to observe in what a strange procession they passed before the
eye. Emporiums of splendid dresses, the materials brought from every
quarter of the world; tempting stores of everything to stimulate and
pamper the sated appetite and give new relish to the oft-repeated feast;
vessels of burnished gold and silver, wrought into every exquisite form
of vase, and dish, and goblet; guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines
of destruction; screws and irons for the crooked, clothes for the
newly-born, drugs for the sick, coffins for the dead, and churchyards
for the buried--all these jumbled each with the other and flocking side
by side, seemed to flit by in motley dance like the fantastic groups of
the old Dutch painter, and with the same stern moral for the unheeding
restless crowd.

Nor were there wanting objects in the crowd itself to give new point
and purpose to the shifting scene. The rags of the squalid ballad-singer
fluttered in the rich light that showed the goldsmith’s treasures, pale
and pinched-up faces hovered about the windows where was tempting food,
hungry eyes wandered over the profusion guarded by one thin sheet
of brittle glass--an iron wall to them; half-naked shivering figures
stopped to gaze at Chinese shawls and golden stuffs of India. There
was a christening party at the largest coffin-maker’s and a funeral
hatchment had stopped some great improvements in the bravest mansion.
Life and death went hand in hand; wealth and poverty stood side by side;
repletion and starvation laid them down together.

But it was London; and the old country lady inside, who had put her head
out of the coach-window a mile or two this side Kingston, and cried out
to the driver that she was sure he must have passed it and forgotten to
set her down, was satisfied at last.

Nicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike at the inn where the coach
stopped, and repaired, without the delay of another moment, to the
lodgings of Newman Noggs; for his anxiety and impatience had increased
with every succeeding minute, and were almost beyond control.

There was a fire in Newman’s garret; and a candle had been left burning;
the floor was cleanly swept, the room was as comfortably arranged as
such a room could be, and meat and drink were placed in order upon the
table. Everything bespoke the affectionate care and attention of Newman
Noggs, but Newman himself was not there.

‘Do you know what time he will be home?’ inquired Nicholas, tapping at
the door of Newman’s front neighbour.

‘Ah, Mr. Johnson!’ said Crowl, presenting himself. ‘Welcome, sir. How
well you’re looking! I never could have believed--’

‘Pardon me,’ interposed Nicholas. ‘My question--I am extremely anxious
to know.’

‘Why, he has a troublesome affair of business,’ replied Crowl, ‘and will
not be home before twelve o’clock. He was very unwilling to go, I can
tell you, but there was no help for it. However, he left word that you
were to make yourself comfortable till he came back, and that I was to
entertain you, which I shall be very glad to do.’

In proof of his extreme readiness to exert himself for the general
entertainment, Mr. Crowl drew a chair to the table as he spoke, and
helping himself plentifully to the cold meat, invited Nicholas and Smike
to follow his example.

Disappointed and uneasy, Nicholas could touch no food, so, after he had
seen Smike comfortably established at the table, he walked out (despite
a great many dissuasions uttered by Mr. Crowl with his mouth full), and
left Smike to detain Newman in case he returned first.

As Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas betook himself straight to
her house. Finding her from home, he debated within himself for some
time whether he should go to his mother’s residence, and so compromise
her with Ralph Nickleby. Fully persuaded, however, that Newman would not
have solicited him to return unless there was some strong reason which
required his presence at home, he resolved to go there, and hastened
eastwards with all speed.

Mrs. Nickleby would not be at home, the girl said, until past twelve, or
later. She believed Miss Nickleby was well, but she didn’t live at home
now, nor did she come home except very seldom. She couldn’t say where
she was stopping, but it was not at Madame Mantalini’s. She was sure of
that.

With his heart beating violently, and apprehending he knew not what
disaster, Nicholas returned to where he had left Smike. Newman had not
been home. He wouldn’t be, till twelve o’clock; there was no chance of
it. Was there no possibility of sending to fetch him if it were only for
an instant, or forwarding to him one line of writing to which he might
return a verbal reply? That was quite impracticable. He was not at
Golden Square, and probably had been sent to execute some commission at
a distance.

Nicholas tried to remain quietly where he was, but he felt so nervous
and excited that he could not sit still. He seemed to be losing time
unless he was moving. It was an absurd fancy, he knew, but he was wholly
unable to resist it. So, he took up his hat and rambled out again.

He strolled westward this time, pacing the long streets with hurried
footsteps, and agitated by a thousand misgivings and apprehensions
which he could not overcome. He passed into Hyde Park, now silent and
deserted, and increased his rate of walking as if in the hope of leaving
his thoughts behind. They crowded upon him more thickly, however, now
there were no passing objects to attract his attention; and the one idea
was always uppermost, that some stroke of ill-fortune must have occurred
so calamitous in its nature that all were fearful of disclosing it to
him. The old question arose again and again--What could it be? Nicholas
walked till he was weary, but was not one bit the wiser; and indeed he
came out of the Park at last a great deal more confused and perplexed
than when he went in.

He had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink since early in the
morning, and felt quite worn out and exhausted. As he returned
languidly towards the point from which he had started, along one of the
thoroughfares which lie between Park Lane and Bond Street, he passed a
handsome hotel, before which he stopped mechanically.

‘An expensive place, I dare say,’ thought Nicholas; ‘but a pint of wine
and a biscuit are no great debauch wherever they are had. And yet I
don’t know.’

He walked on a few steps, but looking wistfully down the long vista of
gas-lamps before him, and thinking how long it would take to reach the
end of it and being besides in that kind of mood in which a man is most
disposed to yield to his first impulse--and being, besides, strongly
attracted to the hotel, in part by curiosity, and in part by some
odd mixture of feelings which he would have been troubled to
define--Nicholas turned back again, and walked into the coffee-room.

It was very handsomely furnished. The walls were ornamented with the
choicest specimens of French paper, enriched with a gilded cornice of
elegant design. The floor was covered with a rich carpet; and two superb
mirrors, one above the chimneypiece and one at the opposite end of the
room reaching from floor to ceiling, multiplied the other beauties and
added new ones of their own to enhance the general effect. There was
a rather noisy party of four gentlemen in a box by the fire-place, and
only two other persons present--both elderly gentlemen, and both alone.

Observing all this in the first comprehensive glance with which a
stranger surveys a place that is new to him, Nicholas sat himself down
in the box next to the noisy party, with his back towards them, and
postponing his order for a pint of claret until such time as the waiter
and one of the elderly gentlemen should have settled a disputed
question relative to the price of an item in the bill of fare, took up a
newspaper and began to read.

He had not read twenty lines, and was in truth himself dozing, when he
was startled by the mention of his sister’s name. ‘Little Kate Nickleby’
were the words that caught his ear. He raised his head in amazement, and
as he did so, saw by the reflection in the opposite glass, that two of
the party behind him had risen and were standing before the fire. ‘It
must have come from one of them,’ thought Nicholas. He waited to hear
more with a countenance of some indignation, for the tone of speech had
been anything but respectful, and the appearance of the individual whom
he presumed to have been the speaker was coarse and swaggering.

This person--so Nicholas observed in the same glance at the mirror which
had enabled him to see his face--was standing with his back to the fire
conversing with a younger man, who stood with his back to the company,
wore his hat, and was adjusting his shirt-collar by the aid of the
glass. They spoke in whispers, now and then bursting into a loud laugh,
but Nicholas could catch no repetition of the words, nor anything
sounding at all like the words, which had attracted his attention.

At length the two resumed their seats, and more wine being ordered, the
party grew louder in their mirth. Still there was no reference made to
anybody with whom he was acquainted, and Nicholas became persuaded
that his excited fancy had either imagined the sounds altogether, or
converted some other words into the name which had been so much in his
thoughts.

‘It is remarkable too,’ thought Nicholas: ‘if it had been “Kate” or
“Kate Nickleby,” I should not have been so much surprised: but “little
Kate Nickleby!”’

The wine coming at the moment prevented his finishing the sentence. He
swallowed a glassful and took up the paper again. At that instant--

‘Little Kate Nickleby!’ cried the voice behind him.

‘I was right,’ muttered Nicholas as the paper fell from his hand. ‘And
it was the man I supposed.’

‘As there was a proper objection to drinking her in heel-taps,’ said the
voice, ‘we’ll give her the first glass in the new magnum. Little Kate
Nickleby!’

‘Little Kate Nickleby,’ cried the other three. And the glasses were set
down empty.

Keenly alive to the tone and manner of this slight and careless mention
of his sister’s name in a public place, Nicholas fired at once; but he
kept himself quiet by a great effort, and did not even turn his head.

‘The jade!’ said the same voice which had spoken before. ‘She’s a true
Nickleby--a worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph--she hangs back to be
more sought after--so does he; nothing to be got out of Ralph unless you
follow him up, and then the money comes doubly welcome, and the bargain
doubly hard, for you’re impatient and he isn’t. Oh! infernal cunning.’

‘Infernal cunning,’ echoed two voices.

Nicholas was in a perfect agony as the two elderly gentlemen opposite,
rose one after the other and went away, lest they should be the means of
his losing one word of what was said. But the conversation was suspended
as they withdrew, and resumed with even greater freedom when they had
left the room.

‘I am afraid,’ said the younger gentleman, ‘that the old woman has grown
jea-a-lous, and locked her up. Upon my soul it looks like it.’

‘If they quarrel and little Nickleby goes home to her mother, so much
the better,’ said the first. ‘I can do anything with the old lady.
She’ll believe anything I tell her.’

‘Egad that’s true,’ returned the other voice. ‘Ha, ha, ha! Poor deyvle!’

The laugh was taken up by the two voices which always came in together,
and became general at Mrs. Nickleby’s expense. Nicholas turned burning
hot with rage, but he commanded himself for the moment, and waited to
hear more.

What he heard need not be repeated here. Suffice it that as the wine
went round he heard enough to acquaint him with the characters and
designs of those whose conversation he overhead; to possess him with the
full extent of Ralph’s villainy, and the real reason of his own presence
being required in London. He heard all this and more. He heard his
sister’s sufferings derided, and her virtuous conduct jeered at and
brutally misconstrued; he heard her name bandied from mouth to mouth,
and herself made the subject of coarse and insolent wagers, free speech,
and licentious jesting.

The man who had spoken first, led the conversation, and indeed almost
engrossed it, being only stimulated from time to time by some slight
observation from one or other of his companions. To him then Nicholas
addressed himself when he was sufficiently composed to stand before the
party, and force the words from his parched and scorching throat.

‘Let me have a word with you, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘With me, sir?’ retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful
surprise.

‘I said with you,’ replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty, for
his passion choked him.

‘A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!’ exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising
his wine-glass to his lips, and looking round upon his friends.

‘Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?’ said
Nicholas sternly.

Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him either
name his business or leave the table.

Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.

‘There, sir,’ said Nicholas; ‘my business you will guess.’

A momentary expression of astonishment, not unmixed with some confusion,
appeared in the face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name; but he subdued
it in an instant, and tossing the card to Lord Verisopht, who sat
opposite, drew a toothpick from a glass before him, and very leisurely
applied it to his mouth.

‘Your name and address?’ said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion
kindled.

‘I shall give you neither,’ replied Sir Mulberry.

‘If there is a gentleman in this party,’ said Nicholas, looking round
and scarcely able to make his white lips form the words, ‘he will
acquaint me with the name and residence of this man.’

There was a dead silence.

‘I am the brother of the young lady who has been the subject of
conversation here,’ said Nicholas. ‘I denounce this person as a liar,
and impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend here, he will save him
the disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name--and utterly
useless one--for I will find it out, nor leave him until I have.’

Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his
companions, said--

‘Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of his
station; and his pretty sister shall save him a broken head, if he talks
till midnight.’

‘You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!’ said Nicholas, ‘and shall be
proclaimed so to the world. I WILL know you; I will follow you home if
you walk the streets till morning.’

Sir Mulberry’s hand involuntarily closed upon the decanter, and he
seemed for an instant about to launch it at the head of his challenger.
But he only filled his glass, and laughed in derision.

Nicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and,
summoning the waiter, paid his bill.

‘Do you know that person’s name?’ he inquired of the man in an audible
voice; pointing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.

Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always spoken
together, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.

‘That gentleman, sir?’ replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knew his cue,
and answered with just as little respect, and just as much impertinence
as he could safely show: ‘no, sir, I do not, sir.’

‘Here, you sir,’ cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; ‘do you
know THAT person’s name?’

‘Name, sir? No, sir.’

‘Then you’ll find it there,’ said Sir Mulberry, throwing Nicholas’s card
towards him; ‘and when you have made yourself master of it, put that
piece of pasteboard in the fire--do you hear me?’

The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised the
matter by sticking the card in the chimney-glass. Having done this, he
retired.

Nicholas folded his arms, and biting his lip, sat perfectly quiet;
sufficiently expressing by his manner, however, a firm determination to
carry his threat of following Sir Mulberry home, into steady execution.

It was evident from the tone in which the younger member of the party
appeared to remonstrate with his friend, that he objected to this course
of proceeding, and urged him to comply with the request which Nicholas
had made. Sir Mulberry, however, who was not quite sober, and who was
in a sullen and dogged state of obstinacy, soon silenced the
representations of his weak young friend, and further seemed--as if to
save himself from a repetition of them--to insist on being left alone.
However this might have been, the young gentleman and the two who had
always spoken together, actually rose to go after a short interval, and
presently retired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.

It will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition of
Nicholas, the minutes appeared to move with leaden wings indeed, and
that their progress did not seem the more rapid from the monotonous
ticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of its little bell which
told the quarters. But there he sat; and in his old seat on the opposite
side of the room reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his legs upon the
cushion, and his handkerchief thrown negligently over his knees:
finishing his magnum of claret with the utmost coolness and
indifference.

Thus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour--Nicholas
would have thought for three hours at least, but that the little
bell had only gone four times. Twice or thrice he looked angrily and
impatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in the same attitude,
putting his glass to his lips from time to time, and looking vacantly
at the wall, as if he were wholly ignorant of the presence of any living
person.

At length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coolly to the
glass, and having surveyed himself therein, turned round and honoured
Nicholas with a long and contemptuous stare. Nicholas stared again with
right good-will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his shoulders, smiled slightly,
rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to help him on with his greatcoat.

The man did so, and held the door open.

‘Don’t wait,’ said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.

Sir Mulberry took several turns up and down the room, whistling
carelessly all the time; stopped to finish the last glass of claret
which he had poured out a few minutes before, walked again, put on his
hat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves, and, at last, walked
slowly out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chafing until he was
nearly wild, darted from his seat, and followed him: so closely, that
before the door had swung upon its hinges after Sir Mulberry’s passing
out, they stood side by side in the street together.

There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the apron,
and jumped out to the horse’s head.

‘Will you make yourself known to me?’ asked Nicholas in a suppressed
voice.

‘No,’ replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an
oath. ‘No.’

‘If you trust to your horse’s speed, you will find yourself mistaken,’
said Nicholas. ‘I will accompany you. By Heaven I will, if I hang on to
the foot-board.’

‘You shall be horsewhipped if you do,’ returned Sir Mulberry.

‘You are a villain,’ said Nicholas.

‘You are an errand-boy for aught I know,’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk.

‘I am the son of a country gentleman,’ returned Nicholas, ‘your equal in
birth and education, and your superior I trust in everything besides.
I tell you again, Miss Nickleby is my sister. Will you or will you not
answer for your unmanly and brutal conduct?’

‘To a proper champion--yes. To you--no,’ returned Sir Mulberry, taking
the reins in his hand. ‘Stand out of the way, dog. William, let go her
head.’

‘You had better not,’ cried Nicholas, springing on the step as Sir
Mulberry jumped in, and catching at the reins. ‘He has no command over
the horse, mind. You shall not go--you shall not, I swear--till you have
told me who you are.’

The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high-spirited animal and
thorough-bred, plunged so violently that he could scarcely hold her.

‘Leave go, I tell you!’ thundered his master.

The man obeyed. The animal reared and plunged as though it would dash
the carriage into a thousand pieces, but Nicholas, blind to all sense
of danger, and conscious of nothing but his fury, still maintained his
place and his hold upon the reins.

‘Will you unclasp your hand?’

‘Will you tell me who you are?’

‘No!’

‘No!’

In less time than the quickest tongue could tell it, these words were
exchanged, and Sir Mulberry shortening his whip, applied it furiously
to the head and shoulders of Nicholas. It was broken in the struggle;
Nicholas gained the heavy handle, and with it laid open one side of his
antagonist’s face from the eye to the lip. He saw the gash; knew that
the mare had darted off at a wild mad gallop; a hundred lights danced in
his eyes, and he felt himself flung violently upon the ground.

He was giddy and sick, but staggered to his feet directly, roused by the
loud shouts of the men who were tearing up the street, and screaming to
those ahead to clear the way. He was conscious of a torrent of people
rushing quickly by--looking up, could discern the cabriolet whirled
along the foot-pavement with frightful rapidity--then heard a loud cry,
the smashing of some heavy body, and the breaking of glass--and then the
crowd closed in in the distance, and he could see or hear no more.

The general attention had been entirely directed from himself to the
person in the carriage, and he was quite alone. Rightly judging that
under such circumstances it would be madness to follow, he turned down a
bye-street in search of the nearest coach-stand, finding after a minute
or two that he was reeling like a drunken man, and aware for the first
time of a stream of blood that was trickling down his face and breast.



CHAPTER 33

In which Mr. Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process,
from all Commerce with his Relations


Smike and Newman Noggs, who in his impatience had returned home long
before the time agreed upon, sat before the fire, listening anxiously
to every footstep on the stairs, and the slightest sound that stirred
within the house, for the approach of Nicholas. Time had worn on, and
it was growing late. He had promised to be back in an hour; and his
prolonged absence began to excite considerable alarm in the minds of
both, as was abundantly testified by the blank looks they cast upon each
other at every new disappointment.

At length a coach was heard to stop, and Newman ran out to light
Nicholas up the stairs. Beholding him in the trim described at
the conclusion of the last chapter, he stood aghast in wonder and
consternation.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Nicholas, hurrying him back into the room.
‘There is no harm done, beyond what a basin of water can repair.’

‘No harm!’ cried Newman, passing his hands hastily over the back and
arms of Nicholas, as if to assure himself that he had broken no bones.
‘What have you been doing?’

‘I know all,’ interrupted Nicholas; ‘I have heard a part, and guessed
the rest. But before I remove one jot of these stains, I must hear the
whole from you. You see I am collected. My resolution is taken. Now, my
good friend, speak out; for the time for any palliation or concealment
is past, and nothing will avail Ralph Nickleby now.’

‘Your dress is torn in several places; you walk lame, and I am sure you
are suffering pain,’ said Newman. ‘Let me see to your hurts first.’

‘I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little soreness and stiffness
that will soon pass off,’ said Nicholas, seating himself with some
difficulty. ‘But if I had fractured every limb, and still preserved my
senses, you should not bandage one till you had told me what I have the
right to know. Come,’ said Nicholas, giving his hand to Noggs. ‘You had
a sister of your own, you told me once, who died before you fell into
misfortune. Now think of her, and tell me, Newman.’

‘Yes, I will, I will,’ said Noggs. ‘I’ll tell you the whole truth.’

Newman did so. Nicholas nodded his head from time to time, as it
corroborated the particulars he had already gleaned; but he fixed his
eyes upon the fire, and did not look round once.

His recital ended, Newman insisted upon his young friend’s stripping off
his coat and allowing whatever injuries he had received to be properly
tended. Nicholas, after some opposition, at length consented, and, while
some pretty severe bruises on his arms and shoulders were being rubbed
with oil and vinegar, and various other efficacious remedies which
Newman borrowed from the different lodgers, related in what manner they
had been received. The recital made a strong impression on the warm
imagination of Newman; for when Nicholas came to the violent part of the
quarrel, he rubbed so hard, as to occasion him the most exquisite pain,
which he would not have exhibited, however, for the world, it being
perfectly clear that, for the moment, Newman was operating on Sir
Mulberry Hawk, and had quite lost sight of his real patient.

This martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with Newman that while he was
otherwise occupied next morning, arrangements should be made for his
mother’s immediately quitting her present residence, and also for
dispatching Miss La Creevy to break the intelligence to her. He then
wrapped himself in Smike’s greatcoat, and repaired to the inn where they
were to pass the night, and where (after writing a few lines to Ralph,
the delivery of which was to be intrusted to Newman next day), he
endeavoured to obtain the repose of which he stood so much in need.

Drunken men, they say, may roll down precipices, and be quite
unconscious of any serious personal inconvenience when their reason
returns. The remark may possibly apply to injuries received in other
kinds of violent excitement: certain it is, that although Nicholas
experienced some pain on first awakening next morning, he sprung out of
bed as the clock struck seven, with very little difficulty, and was soon
as much on the alert as if nothing had occurred.

Merely looking into Smike’s room, and telling him that Newman Noggs
would call for him very shortly, Nicholas descended into the street,
and calling a hackney coach, bade the man drive to Mrs. Wititterly’s,
according to the direction which Newman had given him on the previous
night.

It wanted a quarter to eight when they reached Cadogan Place. Nicholas
began to fear that no one might be stirring at that early hour, when he
was relieved by the sight of a female servant, employed in cleaning the
door-steps. By this functionary he was referred to the doubtful page,
who appeared with dishevelled hair and a very warm and glossy face, as
of a page who had just got out of bed.

By this young gentleman he was informed that Miss Nickleby was then
taking her morning’s walk in the gardens before the house. On the
question being propounded whether he could go and find her, the page
desponded and thought not; but being stimulated with a shilling, the
page grew sanguine and thought he could.

‘Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in great haste to
see her,’ said Nicholas.

The plated buttons disappeared with an alacrity most unusual to them,
and Nicholas paced the room in a state of feverish agitation which made
the delay even of a minute insupportable. He soon heard a light footstep
which he well knew, and before he could advance to meet her, Kate had
fallen on his neck and burst into tears.

‘My darling girl,’ said Nicholas as he embraced her. ‘How pale you are!’

‘I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,’ sobbed poor Kate; ‘so very,
very miserable. Do not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or I shall die of a
broken heart.’

‘I will leave you nowhere,’ answered Nicholas--‘never again, Kate,’ he
cried, moved in spite of himself as he folded her to his heart. ‘Tell
me that I acted for the best. Tell me that we parted because I feared to
bring misfortune on your head; that it was a trial to me no less than to
yourself, and that if I did wrong it was in ignorance of the world and
unknowingly.’

‘Why should I tell you what we know so well?’ returned Kate soothingly.
‘Nicholas--dear Nicholas--how can you give way thus?’

‘It is such bitter reproach to me to know what you have undergone,’
returned her brother; ‘to see you so much altered, and yet so kind and
patient--God!’ cried Nicholas, clenching his fist and suddenly changing
his tone and manner, ‘it sets my whole blood on fire again. You must
leave here with me directly; you should not have slept here last night,
but that I knew all this too late. To whom can I speak, before we drive
away?’

This question was most opportunely put, for at that instant Mr
Wititterly walked in, and to him Kate introduced her brother, who at
once announced his purpose, and the impossibility of deferring it.

‘The quarter’s notice,’ said Mr. Wititterly, with the gravity of a man on
the right side, ‘is not yet half expired. Therefore--’

‘Therefore,’ interposed Nicholas, ‘the quarter’s salary must be lost,
sir. You will excuse this extreme haste, but circumstances require that
I should immediately remove my sister, and I have not a moment’s time to
lose. Whatever she brought here I will send for, if you will allow me,
in the course of the day.’

Mr. Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposition to Kate’s immediate
departure; with which, indeed, he was rather gratified than otherwise,
Sir Tumley Snuffim having given it as his opinion, that she rather
disagreed with Mrs. Wititterly’s constitution.

‘With regard to the trifle of salary that is due,’ said Mr. Wititterly,
‘I will’--here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing--‘I
will--owe it to Miss Nickleby.’

Mr. Wititterly, it should be observed, was accustomed to owe small
accounts, and to leave them owing. All men have some little pleasant way
of their own; and this was Mr. Wititterly’s.

‘If you please,’ said Nicholas. And once more offering a hurried apology
for so sudden a departure, he hurried Kate into the vehicle, and bade
the man drive with all speed into the city.

To the city they went accordingly, with all the speed the hackney coach
could make; and as the horses happened to live at Whitechapel and to be
in the habit of taking their breakfast there, when they breakfasted
at all, they performed the journey with greater expedition than could
reasonably have been expected.

Nicholas sent Kate upstairs a few minutes before him, that his
unlooked-for appearance might not alarm his mother, and when the way had
been paved, presented himself with much duty and affection. Newman had
not been idle, for there was a little cart at the door, and the effects
were hurrying out already.

Now, Mrs. Nickleby was not the sort of person to be told anything in
a hurry, or rather to comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy or
importance on a short notice. Wherefore, although the good lady had been
subjected to a full hour’s preparation by little Miss La Creevy, and was
now addressed in most lucid terms both by Nicholas and his sister, she
was in a state of singular bewilderment and confusion, and could by no
means be made to comprehend the necessity of such hurried proceedings.

‘Why don’t you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he can possibly
mean by it?’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘My dear mother,’ returned Nicholas, ‘the time for talking has gone
by. There is but one step to take, and that is to cast him off with the
scorn and indignation he deserves. Your own honour and good name demand
that, after the discovery of his vile proceedings, you should not be
beholden to him one hour, even for the shelter of these bare walls.’

‘To be sure,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, crying bitterly, ‘he is a brute, a
monster; and the walls are very bare, and want painting too, and I have
had this ceiling whitewashed at the expense of eighteen-pence, which is
a very distressing thing, considering that it is so much gone into your
uncle’s pocket. I never could have believed it--never.’

‘Nor I, nor anybody else,’ said Nicholas.

‘Lord bless my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby. ‘To think that that Sir
Mulberry Hawk should be such an abandoned wretch as Miss La Creevy says
he is, Nicholas, my dear; when I was congratulating myself every day on
his being an admirer of our dear Kate’s, and thinking what a thing it
would be for the family if he was to become connected with us, and use
his interest to get you some profitable government place. There are
very good places to be got about the court, I know; for a friend of ours
(Miss Cropley, at Exeter, my dear Kate, you recollect), he had one, and
I know that it was the chief part of his duty to wear silk stockings,
and a bag wig like a black watch-pocket; and to think that it should
come to this after all--oh, dear, dear, it’s enough to kill one, that it
is!’ With which expressions of sorrow, Mrs. Nickleby gave fresh vent to
her grief, and wept piteously.

As Nicholas and his sister were by this time compelled to superintend
the removal of the few articles of furniture, Miss La Creevy devoted
herself to the consolation of the matron, and observed with great
kindness of manner that she must really make an effort, and cheer up.

‘Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, with a petulance
not unnatural in her unhappy circumstances, ‘it’s very easy to say cheer
up, but if you had as many occasions to cheer up as I have had--and
there,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, stopping short. ‘Think of Mr. Pyke and Mr
Pluck, two of the most perfect gentlemen that ever lived, what am I too
say to them--what can I say to them? Why, if I was to say to them, “I’m
told your friend Sir Mulberry is a base wretch,” they’d laugh at me.’

‘They will laugh no more at us, I take it,’ said Nicholas, advancing.
‘Come, mother, there is a coach at the door, and until Monday, at all
events, we will return to our old quarters.’

‘--Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into the bargain,’
added Miss La Creevy. ‘Now, let me go with you downstairs.’

But Mrs. Nickleby was not to be so easily moved, for first she insisted
on going upstairs to see that nothing had been left, and then on going
downstairs to see that everything had been taken away; and when she was
getting into the coach she had a vision of a forgotten coffee-pot on the
back-kitchen hob, and after she was shut in, a dismal recollection of
a green umbrella behind some unknown door. At last Nicholas, in a
condition of absolute despair, ordered the coachman to drive away,
and in the unexpected jerk of a sudden starting, Mrs. Nickleby lost a
shilling among the straw, which fortunately confined her attention to
the coach until it was too late to remember anything else.

Having seen everything safely out, discharged the servant, and locked
the door, Nicholas jumped into a cabriolet and drove to a bye place near
Golden Square where he had appointed to meet Noggs; and so quickly had
everything been done, that it was barely half-past nine when he reached
the place of meeting.

‘Here is the letter for Ralph,’ said Nicholas, ‘and here the key. When
you come to me this evening, not a word of last night. Ill news travels
fast, and they will know it soon enough. Have you heard if he was much
hurt?’

Newman shook his head.

‘I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,’ said Nicholas.

‘You had better take some rest,’ returned Newman. ‘You are fevered and
ill.’

Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing the indisposition he
really felt, now that the excitement which had sustained him was over,
took a hurried farewell of Newman Noggs, and left him.

Newman was not three minutes’ walk from Golden Square, but in the course
of that three minutes he took the letter out of his hat and put it in
again twenty times at least. First the front, then the back, then the
sides, then the superscription, then the seal, were objects of Newman’s
admiration. Then he held it at arm’s length as if to take in the whole
at one delicious survey, and then he rubbed his hands in a perfect
ecstasy with his commission.

He reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laid the
letter and key upon the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph
Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes, the well-known creaking of
his boots was heard on the stairs, and then the bell rung.

‘Has the post come in?’

‘No.’

‘Any other letters?’

‘One.’ Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.

‘What’s this?’ asked Ralph, taking up the key.

‘Left with the letter;--a boy brought them--quarter of an hour ago, or
less.’

Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as
follows:--

‘You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I could heap upon your
head which would carry with them one thousandth part of the grovelling
shame that this assurance will awaken even in your breast.

‘Your brother’s widow and her orphan child spurn the shelter of your
roof, and shun you with disgust and loathing. Your kindred renounce you,
for they know no shame but the ties of blood which bind them in name
with you.

‘You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May every
recollection of your life cling to your false heart, and cast their
darkness on your death-bed.’

Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fell into
a fit of musing; the paper fluttered from his hand and dropped upon the
floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held it still.

Suddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it all crumpled into
his pocket, turned furiously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask him
why he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved, with his back towards him,
following up, with the worn and blackened stump of an old pen, some
figures in an Interest-table which was pasted against the wall, and
apparently quite abstracted from every other object.



CHAPTER 34

Wherein Mr. Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has
been already made acquainted


‘What a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this confounded
old cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every tinkle of which is enough to
throw a strong man into blue convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh
demmit,’--said Mr. Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as he
spoke, on Ralph Nickleby’s scraper.

‘I didn’t hear the bell more than once,’ replied Newman.

‘Then you are most immensely and outr-i-geously deaf,’ said Mr
Mantalini, ‘as deaf as a demnition post.’

Mr. Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making his
way to the door of Ralph’s office with very little ceremony, when Newman
interposed his body; and hinting that Mr. Nickleby was unwilling to be
disturbed, inquired whether the client’s business was of a pressing
nature.

‘It is most demnebly particular,’ said Mr. Mantalini. ‘It is to melt some
scraps of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling, demd
mint sauce.’

Newman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr. Mantalini’s proffered
card, limped with it into his master’s office. As he thrust his head in
at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed the thoughtful posture into
which he had fallen after perusing his nephew’s letter, and that he
seemed to have been reading it again, as he once more held it open in
his hand. The glance was but momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed,
turned to demand the cause of the interruption.

As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and
grasping Ralph’s horny hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he had
never seen him looking so well in all his life.

‘There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance,’ said Mr. Mantalini,
seating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and whiskers. ‘You look
quite juvenile and jolly, demmit!’

‘We are alone,’ returned Ralph, tartly. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Good!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, displaying his teeth. ‘What did I want! Yes.
Ha, ha! Very good. WHAT did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!’

‘What DO you want, man?’ demanded Ralph, sternly.

‘Demnition discount,’ returned Mr. Mantalini, with a grin, and shaking
his head waggishly.

‘Money is scarce,’ said Ralph.

‘Demd scarce, or I shouldn’t want it,’ interrupted Mr. Mantalini.

‘The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,’ continued
Ralph. ‘I don’t want to do business just now, in fact I would rather
not; but as you are a friend--how many bills have you there?’

‘Two,’ returned Mr. Mantalini.

‘What is the gross amount?’

‘Demd trifling--five-and-seventy.’

‘And the dates?’

‘Two months, and four.’

‘I’ll do them for you--mind, for YOU; I wouldn’t for many people--for
five-and-twenty pounds,’ said Ralph, deliberately.

‘Oh demmit!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably at
this handsome proposal.

‘Why, that leaves you fifty,’ retorted Ralph. ‘What would you have? Let
me see the names.’

‘You are so demd hard, Nickleby,’ remonstrated Mr. Mantalini.

‘Let me see the names,’ replied Ralph, impatiently extending his hand
for the bills. ‘Well! They are not sure, but they are safe enough. Do
you consent to the terms, and will you take the money? I don’t want you
to do so. I would rather you didn’t.’

‘Demmit, Nickleby, can’t you--’ began Mr. Mantalini.

‘No,’ replied Ralph, interrupting him. ‘I can’t. Will you take the
money--down, mind; no delay, no going into the city and pretending to
negotiate with some other party who has no existence, and never had. Is
it a bargain, or is it not?’

Ralph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, and carelessly rattled
his cash-box, as though by mere accident. The sound was too much for Mr
Mantalini. He closed the bargain directly it reached his ears, and Ralph
told the money out upon the table.

He had scarcely done so, and Mr. Mantalini had not yet gathered it all
up, when a ring was heard at the bell, and immediately afterwards Newman
ushered in no less a person than Madame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr
Mantalini evinced considerable discomposure, and swept the cash into his
pocket with remarkable alacrity.

‘Oh, you ARE here,’ said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.

‘Yes, my life and soul, I am,’ replied her husband, dropping on his
knees, and pouncing with kitten-like playfulness upon a stray sovereign.
‘I am here, my soul’s delight, upon Tom Tiddler’s ground, picking up the
demnition gold and silver.’

‘I am ashamed of you,’ said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.

‘Ashamed--of ME, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charming sweetness,
but naughty fibs,’ returned Mr. Mantalini. ‘It knows it is not ashamed of
its own popolorum tibby.’

Whatever were the circumstances which had led to such a result,
it certainly appeared as though the popolorum tibby had rather
miscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady’s affection. Madame
Mantalini only looked scornful in reply; and, turning to Ralph, begged
him to excuse her intrusion.

‘Which is entirely attributable,’ said Madame, ‘to the gross misconduct
and most improper behaviour of Mr. Mantalini.’

‘Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!’

‘Of you,’ returned his wife. ‘But I will not allow it. I will not submit
to be ruined by the extravagance and profligacy of any man. I call Mr
Nickleby to witness the course I intend to pursue with you.’

‘Pray don’t call me to witness anything, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Settle it
between yourselves, settle it between yourselves.’

‘No, but I must beg you as a favour,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘to hear
me give him notice of what it is my fixed intention to do--my fixed
intention, sir,’ repeated Madame Mantalini, darting an angry look at her
husband.

‘Will she call me “Sir”?’ cried Mantalini. ‘Me who dote upon her with
the demdest ardour! She, who coils her fascinations round me like a pure
angelic rattlesnake! It will be all up with my feelings; she will throw
me into a demd state.’

‘Don’t talk of feelings, sir,’ rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating
herself, and turning her back upon him. ‘You don’t consider mine.’

‘I do not consider yours, my soul!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.

‘No,’ replied his wife.

And notwithstanding various blandishments on the part of Mr. Mantalini,
Madame Mantalini still said no, and said it too with such determined and
resolute ill-temper, that Mr. Mantalini was clearly taken aback.

‘His extravagance, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini, addressing
herself to Ralph, who leant against his easy-chair with his hands behind
him, and regarded the amiable couple with a smile of the supremest and
most unmitigated contempt,--‘his extravagance is beyond all bounds.’

‘I should scarcely have supposed it,’ answered Ralph, sarcastically.

‘I assure you, Mr. Nickleby, however, that it is,’ returned Madame
Mantalini. ‘It makes me miserable! I am under constant apprehensions,
and in constant difficulty. And even this,’ said Madame Mantalini,
wiping her eyes, ‘is not the worst. He took some papers of value out of
my desk this morning without asking my permission.’

Mr. Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trousers pocket.

‘I am obliged,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘since our late misfortunes,
to pay Miss Knag a great deal of money for having her name in the
business, and I really cannot afford to encourage him in all his
wastefulness. As I have no doubt that he came straight here, Mr
Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of, into money, and as you
have assisted us very often before, and are very much connected with us
in this kind of matters, I wish you to know the determination at which
his conduct has compelled me to arrive.’

Mr. Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife’s bonnet, and
fitting a sovereign into one of his eyes, winked with the other at
Ralph. Having achieved this performance with great dexterity, he whipped
the coin into his pocket, and groaned again with increased penitence.

‘I have made up my mind,’ said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of impatience
manifested themselves in Ralph’s countenance, ‘to allowance him.’

‘To do that, my joy?’ inquired Mr. Mantalini, who did not seem to have
caught the words.

‘To put him,’ said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, and prudently
abstaining from the slightest glance at her husband, lest his many
graces should induce her to falter in her resolution, ‘to put him upon a
fixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundred and twenty pounds
a year for his clothes and pocket-money, he may consider himself a very
fortunate man.’

Mr. Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amount of the
proposed stipend, but when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and cane
upon the floor, and drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, gave vent to
his feelings in a dismal moan.

‘Demnition!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, suddenly skipping out of his chair,
and as suddenly skipping into it again, to the great discomposure of his
lady’s nerves. ‘But no. It is a demd horrid dream. It is not reality.
No!’

Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr. Mantalini closed his eyes and
waited patiently till such time as he should wake up.

‘A very judicious arrangement,’ observed Ralph with a sneer, ‘if your
husband will keep within it, ma’am--as no doubt he will.’

‘Demmit!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini, opening his eyes at the sound of
Ralph’s voice, ‘it is a horrid reality. She is sitting there before me.
There is the graceful outline of her form; it cannot be mistaken--there
is nothing like it. The two countesses had no outlines at all, and the
dowager’s was a demd outline. Why is she so excruciatingly beautiful
that I cannot be angry with her, even now?’

‘You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,’ returned Madame
Mantalini--still reproachfully, but in a softened tone.

‘I am a demd villain!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, smiting himself on the head.
‘I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign in halfpence and
drown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angry with her, even then,
for I will put a note in the twopenny-post as I go along, to tell her
where the body is. She will be a lovely widow. I shall be a body. Some
handsome women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.’

‘Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature,’ said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at
the dreadful picture.

‘She calls me cruel--me--me--who for her sake will become a demd, damp,
moist, unpleasant body!’ exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.

‘You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a
thing,’ replied Madame Mantalini.

‘Can I live to be mistrusted?’ cried her husband. ‘Have I cut my heart
into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them
all away, one after another, to the same little engrossing demnition
captivater, and can I live to be suspected by her? Demmit, no I can’t.’

‘Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,’
reasoned Madame Mantalini.

‘I don’t want any sum,’ replied her disconsolate husband; ‘I shall
require no demd allowance. I will be a body.’

On this repetition of Mr. Mantalini’s fatal threat, Madame Mantalini
wrung her hands, and implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby; and
after a great quantity of tears and talking, and several attempts on
the part of Mr. Mantalini to reach the door, preparatory to straightway
committing violence upon himself, that gentleman was prevailed upon,
with difficulty, to promise that he wouldn’t be a body. This great point
attained, Madame Mantalini argued the question of the allowance, and Mr
Mantalini did the same, taking occasion to show that he could live with
uncommon satisfaction upon bread and water, and go clad in rags, but
that he could not support existence with the additional burden of
being mistrusted by the object of his most devoted and disinterested
affection. This brought fresh tears into Madame Mantalini’s eyes, which
having just begun to open to some few of the demerits of Mr. Mantalini,
were only open a very little way, and could be easily closed again. The
result was, that without quite giving up the allowance question, Madame
Mantalini, postponed its further consideration; and Ralph saw, clearly
enough, that Mr. Mantalini had gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and
that, for some time longer at all events, his degradation and downfall
were postponed.

‘But it will come soon enough,’ thought Ralph; ‘all love--bah! that I
should use the cant of boys and girls--is fleeting enough; though that
which has its sole root in the admiration of a whiskered face like that
of yonder baboon, perhaps lasts the longest, as it originates in the
greater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime the fools bring grist
to my mill, so let them live out their day, and the longer it is, the
better.’

These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry small
caresses and endearments, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged between
the objects of his thoughts.

‘If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr. Nickleby,’ said Madame
Mantalini, ‘we will take our leaves. I am sure we have detained him much
too long already.’

Mr. Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame
Mantalini several times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words
that he had nothing more to say.

‘Demmit! I have, though,’ he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph
into a corner. ‘Here’s an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry. Such a
demd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind of thing as never was--eh?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Ralph.

‘Don’t you know, demmit?’ asked Mr. Mantalini.

‘I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last night,
and severely injured, and that his life is in some danger,’ answered
Ralph with great composure; ‘but I see nothing extraordinary in
that--accidents are not miraculous events, when men live hard, and drive
after dinner.’

‘Whew!’ cried Mr. Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. ‘Then don’t you
know how it was?’

‘Not unless it was as I have just supposed,’ replied Ralph, shrugging
his shoulders carelessly, as if to give his questioner to understand
that he had no curiosity upon the subject.

‘Demmit, you amaze me,’ cried Mantalini.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders again, as if it were no great feat to amaze
Mr. Mantalini, and cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman Noggs,
which had several times appeared behind a couple of panes of glass in
the room door; it being a part of Newman’s duty, when unimportant people
called, to make various feints of supposing that the bell had rung for
him to show them out: by way of a gentle hint to such visitors that it
was time to go.

‘Don’t you know,’ said Mr. Mantalini, taking Ralph by the button, ‘that
it wasn’t an accident at all, but a demd, furious, manslaughtering
attack made upon him by your nephew?’

‘What!’ snarled Ralph, clenching his fists and turning a livid white.

‘Demmit, Nickleby, you’re as great a tiger as he is,’ said Mantalini,
alarmed at these demonstrations.

‘Go on,’ cried Ralph. ‘Tell me what you mean. What is this story? Who
told you? Speak,’ growled Ralph. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘’Gad, Nickleby,’ said Mr. Mantalini, retreating towards his wife, ‘what
a demneble fierce old evil genius you are! You’re enough to frighten the
life and soul out of her little delicious wits--flying all at once into
such a blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never was, demmit!’

‘Pshaw,’ rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. ‘It is but manner.’

‘It is a demd uncomfortable, private-madhouse-sort of a manner,’ said Mr
Mantalini, picking up his cane.

Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr. Mantalini
had derived his information.

‘From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,’ replied
Mantalini. ‘Demnition pleasant, and a tip-top sawyer.’

‘And what said he?’ asked Ralph, knitting his brows.

‘That it happened this way--that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse,
fell upon him with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab,
swore he would ride home with him, if he rode upon the horse’s back or
hooked himself on to the horse’s tail; smashed his countenance, which
is a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse,
pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and--’

‘And was killed?’ interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. ‘Was he? Is he
dead?’

Mantalini shook his head.

‘Ugh,’ said Ralph, turning away. ‘Then he has done nothing. Stay,’
he added, looking round again. ‘He broke a leg or an arm, or put his
shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a rib or two? His
neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and slow-healing
injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.’

‘No,’ rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. ‘Unless he was dashed
into such little pieces that they blew away, he wasn’t hurt, for he went
off as quiet and comfortable as--as--as demnition,’ said Mr. Mantalini,
rather at a loss for a simile.

‘And what,’ said Ralph, hesitating a little, ‘what was the cause of
quarrel?’

‘You are the demdest, knowing hand,’ replied Mr. Mantalini, in an
admiring tone, ‘the cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox--oh
dem!--to pretend now not to know that it was the little bright-eyed
niece--the softest, sweetest, prettiest--’

‘Alfred!’ interposed Madame Mantalini.

‘She is always right,’ rejoined Mr. Mantalini soothingly, ‘and when she
says it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and when she walks
along the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say, with envy,
she has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say with rapture,
he has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be right and neither
wrong, upon my life and soul--oh demmit!’

With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the
purpose, Mr. Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph
Nickleby, and drawing his lady’s arm through his, led her mincingly
away.

‘So, so,’ muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; ‘this devil is loose
again, and thwarting me, as he was born to do, at every turn. He told
me once there should be a day of reckoning between us, sooner or later.
I’ll make him a true prophet, for it shall surely come.’

‘Are you at home?’ asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.

‘No,’ replied Ralph, with equal abruptness.

Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.

‘You’re quite sure you’re not at home, are you?’ said Newman.

‘What does the idiot mean?’ cried Ralph, testily.

‘He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may have
heard your voice--that’s all,’ said Newman, rubbing his hands.

‘Who has?’ demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence he had just
heard, and his clerk’s provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of
irritation.

The necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked-for entrance
of a third party--the individual in question--who, bringing his one
eye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph Nickleby, made a great many
shambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with his hands on
his knees, and his short black trousers drawn up so high in the legs by
the exertion of seating himself, that they scarcely reached below the
tops of his Wellington boots.

‘Why, this IS a surprise!’ said Ralph, bending his gaze upon the
visitor, and half smiling as he scrutinised him attentively; ‘I should
know your face, Mr. Squeers.’

‘Ah!’ replied that worthy, ‘and you’d have know’d it better, sir, if
it hadn’t been for all that I’ve been a-going through. Just lift that
little boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and tell him to come
in here, will you, my man?’ said Squeers, addressing himself to Newman.
‘Oh, he’s lifted his-self off. My son, sir, little Wackford. What do you
think of him, sir, for a specimen of the Dotheboys Hall feeding? Ain’t
he fit to bust out of his clothes, and start the seams, and make the
very buttons fly off with his fatness? Here’s flesh!’ cried Squeers,
turning the boy about, and indenting the plumpest parts of his figure
with divers pokes and punches, to the great discomposure of his son
and heir. ‘Here’s firmness, here’s solidness! Why you can hardly get up
enough of him between your finger and thumb to pinch him anywheres.’

In however good condition Master Squeers might have been, he certainly
did not present this remarkable compactness of person, for on his
father’s closing his finger and thumb in illustration of his remark,
he uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the most natural manner
possible.

‘Well,’ remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, ‘I had him there; but
that’s because we breakfasted early this morning, and he hasn’t had his
lunch yet. Why you couldn’t shut a bit of him in a door, when he’s had
his dinner. Look at them tears, sir,’ said Squeers, with a triumphant
air, as Master Wackford wiped his eyes with the cuff of his jacket,
‘there’s oiliness!’

‘He looks well, indeed,’ returned Ralph, who, for some purposes of his
own, seemed desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. ‘But how is Mrs
Squeers, and how are you?’

‘Mrs. Squeers, sir,’ replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, ‘is as she
always is--a mother to them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort, and
a joy to all them as knows her. One of our boys--gorging his-self with
vittles, and then turning in; that’s their way--got a abscess on him
last week. To see how she operated upon him with a pen-knife! Oh Lor!’
said Squeers, heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great many times,
‘what a member of society that woman is!’

Mr. Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarter of a
minute, as if this allusion to his lady’s excellences had naturally
led his mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge
in Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waiting for him to say
something.

‘Have you quite recovered that scoundrel’s attack?’ asked Ralph.

‘I’ve only just done it, if I’ve done it now,’ replied Squeers. ‘I was
one blessed bruise, sir,’ said Squeers, touching first the roots of his
hair, and then the toes of his boots, ‘from HERE to THERE. Vinegar and
brown paper, vinegar and brown paper, from morning to night. I suppose
there was a matter of half a ream of brown paper stuck upon me, from
first to last. As I laid all of a heap in our kitchen, plastered all
over, you might have thought I was a large brown-paper parcel, chock
full of nothing but groans. Did I groan loud, Wackford, or did I groan
soft?’ asked Mr. Squeers, appealing to his son.

‘Loud,’ replied Wackford.

‘Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition, Wackford, or
was they glad?’ asked Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental manner.

‘Gl--’

‘Eh?’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round.

‘Sorry,’ rejoined his son.

‘Oh!’ said Squeers, catching him a smart box on the ear. ‘Then take
your hands out of your pockets, and don’t stammer when you’re asked a
question. Hold your noise, sir, in a gentleman’s office, or I’ll run
away from my family and never come back any more; and then what would
become of all them precious and forlorn lads as would be let loose on
the world, without their best friend at their elbers?’

‘Were you obliged to have medical attendance?’ inquired Ralph.

‘Ay, was I,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and a precious bill the medical
attendant brought in too; but I paid it though.’

Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might be expressive of
either sympathy or astonishment--just as the beholder was pleased to
take it.

‘Yes, I paid it, every farthing,’ replied Squeers, who seemed to know
the man he had to deal with, too well to suppose that any blinking of
the question would induce him to subscribe towards the expenses; ‘I
wasn’t out of pocket by it after all, either.’

‘No!’ said Ralph.

‘Not a halfpenny,’ replied Squeers. ‘The fact is, we have only one extra
with our boys, and that is for doctors when required--and not then,
unless we’re sure of our customers. Do you see?’

‘I understand,’ said Ralph.

‘Very good,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Then, after my bill was run up, we
picked out five little boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure pay)
that had never had the scarlet fever, and we sent one to a cottage where
they’d got it, and he took it, and then we put the four others to sleep
with him, and THEY took it, and then the doctor came and attended ‘em
once all round, and we divided my total among ‘em, and added it on to
their little bills, and the parents paid it. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘And a good plan too,’ said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.

‘I believe you,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We always do it. Why, when Mrs
Squeers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the
hooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged her expenses among
‘em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!’

Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest
approach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr. Squeers had enjoyed
the professional joke to his heart’s content, inquired what had brought
him to town.

‘Some bothering law business,’ replied Squeers, scratching his head,
‘connected with an action, for what they call neglect of a boy. I don’t
know what they would have. He had as good grazing, that boy had, as
there is about us.’

Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.

‘Grazing,’ said Squeers, raising his voice, under the impression that as
Ralph failed to comprehend him, he must be deaf. ‘When a boy gets weak
and ill and don’t relish his meals, we give him a change of diet--turn
him out, for an hour or so every day, into a neighbour’s turnip field,
or sometimes, if it’s a delicate case, a turnip field and a piece of
carrots alternately, and let him eat as many as he likes. There an’t
better land in the country than this perwerse lad grazed on, and yet he
goes and catches cold and indigestion and what not, and then his friends
brings a lawsuit against ME! Now, you’d hardly suppose,’ added Squeers,
moving in his chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, ‘that
people’s ingratitude would carry them quite as far as that; would you?’

‘A hard case, indeed,’ observed Ralph.

‘You don’t say more than the truth when you say that,’ replied Squeers.
‘I don’t suppose there’s a man going, as possesses the fondness for
youth that I do. There’s youth to the amount of eight hundred pound a
year at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I’d take sixteen hundred
pound worth if I could get ‘em, and be as fond of every individual
twenty pound among ‘em as nothing should equal it!’

‘Are you stopping at your old quarters?’ asked Ralph.

‘Yes, we are at the Saracen,’ replied Squeers, ‘and as it don’t want
very long to the end of the half-year, we shall continney to stop there
till I’ve collected the money, and some new boys too, I hope. I’ve
brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and
guardians. I shall put him in the advertisement, this time. Look at that
boy--himself a pupil. Why he’s a miracle of high feeding, that boy is!’

‘I should like to have a word with you,’ said Ralph, who had both
spoken and listened mechanically for some time, and seemed to have been
thinking.

‘As many words as you like, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Wackford, you go
and play in the back office, and don’t move about too much or you’ll get
thin, and that won’t do. You haven’t got such a thing as twopence, Mr
Nickleby, have you?’ said Squeers, rattling a bunch of keys in his coat
pocket, and muttering something about its being all silver.

‘I--think I have,’ said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after much
rummaging in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.

‘Thankee,’ said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. ‘Here! You go and
buy a tart--Mr. Nickleby’s man will show you where--and mind you buy a
rich one. Pastry,’ added Squeers, closing the door on Master Wackford,
‘makes his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks that a healthy
sign.’

With this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke it out,
Mr. Squeers moved his chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph
Nickleby at no great distance off; and having planted it to his entire
satisfaction, sat down.

‘Attend to me,’ said Ralph, bending forward a little.

Squeers nodded.

‘I am not to suppose,’ said Ralph, ‘that you are dolt enough to forgive
or forget, very readily, the violence that was committed upon you, or
the exposure which accompanied it?’

‘Devil a bit,’ replied Squeers, tartly.

‘Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you could
get one?’ said Ralph.

‘Show me one, and try,’ rejoined Squeers.

‘Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?’ said Ralph,
raising his eyes to the schoolmaster’s face.

‘N-n-no, I don’t know that,’ replied Squeers. ‘I thought that if it
was in your power to make me, besides the trifle of money you sent, any
compensation--’

‘Ah!’ cried Ralph, interrupting him. ‘You needn’t go on.’

After a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in
contemplation, he again broke silence by asking:

‘Who is this boy that he took with him?’

Squeers stated his name.

‘Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable or rebellious? Speak
out, man,’ retorted Ralph.

‘Why, he wasn’t young,’ answered Squeers; ‘that is, not young for a boy,
you know.’

‘That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?’ interrupted Ralph.

‘Well,’ returned Squeers, briskly, as if he felt relieved by the
suggestion, ‘he might have been nigh twenty. He wouldn’t seem so old,
though, to them as didn’t know him, for he was a little wanting here,’
touching his forehead; ‘nobody at home, you know, if you knocked ever so
often.’

‘And you DID knock pretty often, I dare say?’ muttered Ralph.

‘Pretty well,’ returned Squeers with a grin.

‘When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt of this trifle of money as
you call it,’ said Ralph, ‘you told me his friends had deserted him long
ago, and that you had not the faintest clue or trace to tell you who he
was. Is that the truth?’

‘It is, worse luck!’ replied Squeers, becoming more and more easy and
familiar in his manner, as Ralph pursued his inquiries with the less
reserve. ‘It’s fourteen years ago, by the entry in my book, since a
strange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and left him
there; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in advance. He
might have been five or six year old at that time--not more.’

‘What more do you know about him?’ demanded Ralph.

‘Devilish little, I’m sorry to say,’ replied Squeers. ‘The money was
paid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He had given an
address in London, had this chap; but when it came to the point, of
course nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad out of--out
of--’

‘Charity?’ suggested Ralph drily.

‘Charity, to be sure,’ returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, ‘and when he
begins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoundrel of
a Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the most vexatious and
aggeravating part of the whole affair is,’ said Squeers, dropping his
voice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph, ‘that some questions
have been asked about him at last--not of me, but, in a roundabout kind
of way, of people in our village. So, that just when I might have had
all arrears paid up, perhaps, and perhaps--who knows? such things have
happened in our business before--a present besides for putting him out
to a farmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to
disgrace his parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our
boys are--damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don’t collar him in open
day, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.’

‘We will both cry quits with him before long,’ said Ralph, laying his
hand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.

‘Quits!’ echoed Squeers. ‘Ah! and I should like to leave a small balance
in his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs. Squeers could
catch hold of him. Bless her heart! She’d murder him, Mr. Nickleby--she
would, as soon as eat her dinner.’

‘We will talk of this again,’ said Ralph. ‘I must have time to think of
it. To wound him through his own affections and fancies--. If I could
strike him through this boy--’

‘Strike him how you like, sir,’ interrupted Squeers, ‘only hit him hard
enough, that’s all--and with that, I’ll say good-morning. Here!--just
chuck that little boy’s hat off that corner peg, and lift him off the
stool will you?’

Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr. Squeers betook himself to the
little back-office, and fitted on his child’s hat with parental anxiety,
while Newman, with his pen behind his ear, sat, stiff and immovable, on
his stool, regarding the father and son by turns with a broad stare.

‘He’s a fine boy, an’t he?’ said Squeers, throwing his head a little
on one side, and falling back to the desk, the better to estimate the
proportions of little Wackford.

‘Very,’ said Newman.

‘Pretty well swelled out, an’t he?’ pursued Squeers. ‘He has the fatness
of twenty boys, he has.’

‘Ah!’ replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of Squeers,
‘he has;--the fatness of twenty!--more! He’s got it all. God help that
others. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!’

Having uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon his
desk and began to write with most marvellous rapidity.

‘Why, what does the man mean?’ cried Squeers, colouring. ‘Is he drunk?’

Newman made no reply.

‘Is he mad?’ said Squeers.

But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his
own; so, Mr. Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk
AND mad; and, with this parting observation, he led his hopeful son
away.

In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of a struggling
and lingering regard for Kate, had his detestation of Nicholas
augmented. It might be, that to atone for the weakness of inclining to
any one person, he held it necessary to hate some other more intensely
than before; but such had been the course of his feelings. And now,
to be defied and spurned, to be held up to her in the worst and most
repulsive colours, to know that she was taught to hate and despise
him: to feel that there was infection in his touch, and taint in his
companionship--to know all this, and to know that the mover of it all
was that same boyish poor relation who had twitted him in their very
first interview, and openly bearded and braved him since, wrought his
quiet and stealthy malignity to such a pitch, that there was scarcely
anything he would not have hazarded to gratify it, if he could have seen
his way to some immediate retaliation.

But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; and although he
cast about all that day, and kept a corner of his brain working on the
one anxious subject through all the round of schemes and business that
came with it, night found him at last, still harping on the same theme,
and still pursuing the same unprofitable reflections.

‘When my brother was such as he,’ said Ralph, ‘the first comparisons
were drawn between us--always in my disfavour. HE was open, liberal,
gallant, gay; I a crafty hunks of cold and stagnant blood, with no
passion but love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst for gain. I
recollected it well when I first saw this whipster; but I remember it
better now.’

He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas’s letter into atoms; and as he
spoke, he scattered it in a tiny shower about him.

‘Recollections like these,’ pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, ‘flock
upon me--when I resign myself to them--in crowds, and from countless
quarters. As a portion of the world affect to despise the power of
money, I must try and show them what it is.’

And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind for slumber, Ralph
Nickleby went to bed.



CHAPTER 35

Smike becomes known to Mrs. Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with
new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family


Having established his mother and sister in the apartments of the
kind-hearted miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry Hawk
was in no danger of losing his life, Nicholas turned his thoughts to
poor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman Noggs, had remained, in
a disconsolate state, at that worthy creature’s lodgings, waiting, with
much anxiety, for further intelligence of his protector.

‘As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we live,
or whatever fortune is in reserve for us,’ thought Nicholas, ‘I must
present the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him for his
own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent I could
wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.’

Nicholas said ‘they’, but his misgivings were confined to one person.
He was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother’s peculiarities, and was
not quite so certain that Smike would find favour in the eyes of Mrs
Nickleby.

‘However,’ thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent errand;
‘she cannot fail to become attached to him, when she knows what a
devoted creature he is, and as she must quickly make the discovery, his
probation will be a short one.’

‘I was afraid,’ said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again, ‘that you
had fallen into some fresh trouble; the time seemed so long, at last,
that I almost feared you were lost.’

‘Lost!’ replied Nicholas gaily. ‘You will not be rid of me so easily,
I promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousand times yet,
and the harder the thrust that pushes me down, the more quickly I shall
rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take you home.’

‘Home!’ faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.

‘Ay,’ rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. ‘Why not?’

‘I had such hopes once,’ said Smike; ‘day and night, day and night,
for many years. I longed for home till I was weary, and pined away with
grief, but now--’

‘And what now?’ asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. ‘What now,
old friend?’

‘I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,’ replied Smike,
pressing his hand; ‘except one, except one. I shall never be an old man;
and if your hand placed me in the grave, and I could think, before I
died, that you would come and look upon it sometimes with one of your
kind smiles, and in the summer weather, when everything was alive--not
dead like me--I could go to that home almost without a tear.’

‘Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with me?’
said Nicholas.

‘Because I should change; not those about me. And if they forgot me,
I should never know it,’ replied Smike. ‘In the churchyard we are all
alike, but here there are none like me. I am a poor creature, but I know
that.’

‘You are a foolish, silly creature,’ said Nicholas cheerfully. ‘If
that is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here’s a dismal face for
ladies’ company!--my pretty sister too, whom you have so often asked me
about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for shame!’

Smike brightened up and smiled.

‘When I talk of home,’ pursued Nicholas, ‘I talk of mine--which is yours
of course. If it were defined by any particular four walls and a roof,
God knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to say whereabouts it lay;
but that is not what I mean. When I speak of home, I speak of the place
where--in default of a better--those I love are gathered together; and
if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it by the
same good name notwithstanding. And now, for what is my present home,
which, however alarming your expectations may be, will neither terrify
you by its extent nor its magnificence!’

So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a great
deal more to the same purpose, and pointing out various things to amuse
and interest him as they went along, led the way to Miss La Creevy’s
house.

‘And this, Kate,’ said Nicholas, entering the room where his sister sat
alone, ‘is the faithful friend and affectionate fellow-traveller whom I
prepared you to receive.’

Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at first,
but Kate advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a sweet
voice, how anxious she had been to see him after all her brother
had told her, and how much she had to thank him for having comforted
Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he began to be
very doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and became still more
flurried. However, he managed to say, in a broken voice, that Nicholas
was his only friend, and that he would lay down his life to help him;
and Kate, although she was so kind and considerate, seemed to be so
wholly unconscious of his distress and embarrassment, that he recovered
almost immediately and felt quite at home.

Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be presented also.
And Miss La Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully talkative: not to
Smike, for that would have made him uneasy at first, but to Nicholas and
his sister. Then, after a time, she would speak to Smike himself now and
then, asking him whether he was a judge of likenesses, and whether he
thought that picture in the corner was like herself, and whether he
didn’t think it would have looked better if she had made herself ten
years younger, and whether he didn’t think, as a matter of general
observation, that young ladies looked better not only in pictures, but
out of them too, than old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious
remarks, which were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that
Smike thought, within himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen;
even nicer than Mrs. Grudden, of Mr. Vincent Crummles’s theatre; and she
was a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly louder,
than Miss La Creevy.

At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in; and
Nicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling her
his mother, led her towards the chair from which Smike had risen when
she entered the room.

‘You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed, my dear
mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘so you will be favourably disposed towards him,
I know.’

‘I am sure, my dear Nicholas,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, looking very hard
at her new friend, and bending to him with something more of majesty
than the occasion seemed to require: ‘I am sure any friend of yours
has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must have, of course, you
know, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a very great pleasure
to me to be introduced to anybody you take an interest in. There can be
no doubt about that; none at all; not the least in the world,’ said Mrs
Nickleby. ‘At the same time I must say, Nicholas, my dear, as I used
to say to your poor dear papa, when he WOULD bring gentlemen home to
dinner, and there was nothing in the house, that if he had come the
day before yesterday--no, I don’t mean the day before yesterday now;
I should have said, perhaps, the year before last--we should have been
better able to entertain him.’

With which remarks, Mrs. Nickleby turned to her daughter, and inquired,
in an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was going to stop all
night.

‘Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I don’t see that
it’s possible for him to sleep anywhere, and that’s the truth.’

Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of annoyance or
irritation, breathed a few words into her mother’s ear.

‘La, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, shrinking back, ‘how you do
tickle one! Of course, I understand THAT, my love, without your telling
me; and I said the same to Nicholas, and I AM very much pleased. You
didn’t tell me, Nicholas, my dear,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, turning round
with an air of less reserve than she had before assumed, ‘what your
friend’s name is.’

‘His name, mother,’ replied Nicholas, ‘is Smike.’

The effect of this communication was by no means anticipated; but the
name was no sooner pronounced, than Mrs. Nickleby dropped upon a chair,
and burst into a fit of crying.

‘What is the matter?’ exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.

‘It’s so like Pyke,’ cried Mrs. Nickleby; ‘so exactly like Pyke. Oh!
don’t speak to me--I shall be better presently.’

And after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all its
stages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a full tumbler,
and spilling the remainder, Mrs. Nickleby WAS better, and remarked, with
a feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.

‘It’s a weakness in our family,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘so, of course,
I can’t be blamed for it. Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly the
same--precisely. The least excitement, the slightest surprise--she
fainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, that when
she was a young lady, and before she was married, she was turning
a corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran against her own
hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;--the mere
suddenness of the encounter made her faint away directly. Wait, though,’
added Mrs. Nickleby, pausing to consider. ‘Let me be sure I’m right. Was
it her hairdresser who had escaped from a bear, or was it a bear who had
escaped from her hairdresser’s? I declare I can’t remember just now, but
the hairdresser was a very handsome man, I know, and quite a gentleman
in his manners; so that it has nothing to do with the point of the
story.’

Mrs. Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her retrospective
moods, improved in temper from that moment, and glided, by an easy
change of the conversation occasionally, into various other anecdotes,
no less remarkable for their strict application to the subject in hand.

‘Mr. Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?’ said Mrs. Nickleby,
after dinner, and when she had been silent for some time.

‘Certainly, mother,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I see you have not forgotten his
melancholy history.’

‘O dear no,’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Ah! melancholy, indeed. You don’t
happen, Mr. Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles of Grimble Hall,
somewhere in the North Riding, do you?’ said the good lady, addressing
herself to him. ‘A very proud man, Sir Thomas Grimble, with six grown-up
and most lovely daughters, and the finest park in the county.’

‘My dear mother,’ reasoned Nicholas, ‘do you suppose that the
unfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receive many
cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in the neighbourhood?’

‘Really, my dear, I don’t know why it should be so very extraordinary,’
said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I know that when I was at school, I always went at
least twice every half-year to the Hawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they
are much richer than the Grimbles, and connected with them in marriage;
so you see it’s not so very unlikely, after all.’

Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs. Nickleby was
suddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike’s real name, and an
irresistible tendency to call him Mr. Slammons; which circumstance she
attributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names in point of
sound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt with an M. But
whatever doubt there might be on this point, there was none as to his
being a most excellent listener; which circumstance had considerable
influence in placing them on the very best terms, and inducing Mrs
Nickleby to express the highest opinion of his general deportment and
disposition.

Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and agreeable
footing, until the Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself from
it for a short time, seriously to reflect upon the state of his affairs,
and to determine, if he could, upon some course of life, which would
enable him to support those who were so entirely dependent upon his
exertions.

Mr. Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate was
acquainted with the whole history of his connection with that gentleman,
his mother was not; and he foresaw a thousand fretful objections, on
her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage. There were graver
reasons, too, against his returning to that mode of life. Independently
of those arising out of its spare and precarious earnings, and his own
internal conviction that he could never hope to aspire to any great
distinction, even as a provincial actor, how could he carry his sister
from town to town, and place to place, and debar her from any other
associates than those with whom he would be compelled, almost without
distinction, to mingle? ‘It won’t do,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head;
‘I must try something else.’

It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into effect.
With no greater experience of the world than he had acquired for himself
in his short trials; with a sufficient share of headlong rashness and
precipitation (qualities not altogether unnatural at his time of life);
with a very slender stock of money, and a still more scanty stock
of friends; what could he do? ‘Egad!’ said Nicholas, ‘I’ll try that
Register Office again.’

He smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for, an
instant before, he had been internally blaming his own precipitation.
He did not laugh himself out of the intention, however, for on he went:
picturing to himself, as he approached the place, all kinds of splendid
possibilities, and impossibilities too, for that matter, and thinking
himself, perhaps with good reason, very fortunate to be endowed with so
buoyant and sanguine a temperament.

The office looked just the same as when he had left it last, and,
indeed, with one or two exceptions, there seemed to be the very same
placards in the window that he had seen before. There were the same
unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous servants,
and the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable masters and
mistresses, and the same magnificent estates for the investment of
capital, and the same enormous quantities of capital to be invested in
estates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all sorts for people
who wanted to make their fortunes. And a most extraordinary proof it
was of the national prosperity, that people had not been found to avail
themselves of such advantages long ago.

As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman happened
to stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the window-panes from
left to right in search of some capital-text placard which should be
applicable to his own case, caught sight of this old gentleman’s figure,
and instinctively withdrew his eyes from the window, to observe the same
more closely.

He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, made pretty
large, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky legs
clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head protected by
a low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy grazier might
wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled double chin rested
in the folds of a white neckerchief--not one of your stiff-starched
apoplectic cravats, but a good, easy, old-fashioned white neckcloth that
a man might go to bed in and be none the worse for. But what principally
attracted the attention of Nicholas was the old gentleman’s eye,--never
was such a clear, twinkling, honest, merry, happy eye, as that. And
there he stood, looking a little upward, with one hand thrust into the
breast of his coat, and the other playing with his old-fashioned gold
watch-chain: his head thrown a little on one side, and his hat a little
more on one side than his head, (but that was evidently accident; not
his ordinary way of wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing
about his mouth, and such a comical expression of mingled slyness,
simplicity, kind-heartedness, and good-humour, lighting up his jolly
old face, that Nicholas would have been content to have stood there
and looked at him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile, that
there was such a thing as a soured mind or a crabbed countenance to be
met with in the whole wide world.

But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not to
be made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of having been the
subject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas; and the latter,
fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the window instantly.

Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to placard,
and Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his face again.
Grafted upon the quaintness and oddity of his appearance, was something
so indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much worth, and there were
so many little lights hovering about the corners of his mouth and eyes,
that it was not a mere amusement, but a positive pleasure and delight to
look at him.

This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught Nicholas
in the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholas coloured and looked
embarrassed: for the truth is, that he had begun to wonder whether the
stranger could, by any possibility, be looking for a clerk or secretary;
and thinking this, he felt as if the old gentleman must know it.

Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of minutes
in passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholas caught his eye
again, and, in the awkwardness of the moment, stammered out an apology.

‘No offence. Oh no offence!’ said the old man.

This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so exactly what
it should have been from such a speaker, and there was such a cordiality
in the manner, that Nicholas was emboldened to speak again.

‘A great many opportunities here, sir,’ he said, half smiling as he
motioned towards the window.

‘A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have seriously
thought so very often, I dare say,’ replied the old man. ‘Poor fellows,
poor fellows!’

He moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was about to
speak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to
cut him short. After a little of that hesitation which may be sometimes
observed between two people in the street who have exchanged a nod,
and are both uncertain whether they shall turn back and speak, or not,
Nicholas found himself at the old man’s side.

‘You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to say?’

‘Merely that I almost hoped--I mean to say, thought--you had some object
in consulting those advertisements,’ said Nicholas.

‘Ay, ay? what object now--what object?’ returned the old man, looking
slyly at Nicholas. ‘Did you think I wanted a situation now--eh? Did you
think I did?’

Nicholas shook his head.

‘Ha! ha!’ laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and wrists as
if he were washing them. ‘A very natural thought, at all events, after
seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same of you, at first;
upon my word I did.’

‘If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been far
from the truth,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Eh?’ cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot. ‘What! Dear
me! No, no. Well-behaved young gentleman reduced to such a necessity! No
no, no no.’

Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.

‘Stay,’ said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they
could converse with less interruption. ‘What d’ye mean, eh?’

‘Merely that your kind face and manner--both so unlike any I have ever
seen--tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger in this
wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,’ returned
Nicholas.

‘Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It IS a wilderness,’ said the old
man with much animation. ‘It was a wilderness to me once. I came here
barefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!’ and he raised his hat
from his head, and looked very grave.

‘What’s the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?’ said the old
man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking him up the
street. ‘You’re--Eh?’ laying his finger on the sleeve of his black coat.
‘Who’s it for, eh?’

‘My father,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Ah!’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Bad thing for a young man to lose
his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?’

Nicholas sighed.

‘Brothers and sisters too? Eh?’

‘One sister,’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?’ said the
old man, looking wistfully into the face of the young one.

‘I have been tolerably well educated,’ said Nicholas.

‘Fine thing,’ said the old gentleman, ‘education a great thing: a very
great thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others. A very
fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me hear it all.
No impertinent curiosity--no, no, no.’

There was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which
all this was said, and such a complete disregard of all conventional
restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could not resist it. Among
men who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so
contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection
instantly, and ran over the main points of his little history without
reserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as lightly as possible
upon his uncle’s treatment of Kate. The old man listened with great
attention, and when he had concluded, drew his arm eagerly through his
own.

‘Don’t say another word. Not another word’ said he. ‘Come along with me.
We mustn’t lose a minute.’

So saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford Street, and
hailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushed Nicholas in before
him, and followed himself.

As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless excitement,
and whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediately interposed with:
‘Don’t say another word, my dear sir, on any account--not another word,’
the young man thought it better to attempt no further interruption.
Into the city they journeyed accordingly, without interchanging any
conversation; and the farther they went, the more Nicholas wondered what
the end of the adventure could possibly be.

The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they reached
the Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him along
Threadneedle Street, and through some lanes and passages on the right,
until they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little square. Into the
oldest and cleanest-looking house of business in the square, he led the
way. The only inscription on the door-post was ‘Cheeryble, Brothers;’
but from a hasty glance at the directions of some packages which were
lying about, Nicholas supposed that the brothers Cheeryble were German
merchants.

Passing through a warehouse which presented every indication of a
thriving business, Mr. Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to
be, from the respect which had been shown him by the warehousemen
and porters whom they passed) led him into a little partitioned-off
counting-house like a large glass case, in which counting-house there
sat--as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed into the
glass case before the top was put on, and had never come out since--a
fat, elderly, large-faced clerk, with silver spectacles and a powdered
head.

‘Is my brother in his room, Tim?’ said Mr. Cheeryble, with no less
kindness of manner than he had shown to Nicholas.

‘Yes, he is, sir,’ replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle-glasses
towards his principal, and his eyes towards Nicholas, ‘but Mr. Trimmers
is with him.’

‘Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?’ said Mr. Cheeryble.

‘He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a man who
was killed in the East India Docks this morning, sir,’ rejoined Tim.
‘Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.’

‘He is a good creature,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, with great earnestness. ‘He
is a kind soul. I am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers is one of
the best friends we have. He makes a thousand cases known to us that we
should never discover of ourselves. I am VERY much obliged to Trimmers.’
Saying which, Mr. Cheeryble rubbed his hands with infinite delight, and
Mr. Trimmers happening to pass the door that instant, on his way out,
shot out after him and caught him by the hand.

‘I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I take it
very friendly of you, very friendly indeed,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, dragging
him into a corner to get out of hearing. ‘How many children are there,
and what has my brother Ned given, Trimmers?’

‘There are six children,’ replied the gentleman, ‘and your brother has
given us twenty pounds.’

‘My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you’re a good fellow too,
Trimmers,’ said the old man, shaking him by both hands with trembling
eagerness. ‘Put me down for another twenty--or--stop a minute, stop a
minute. We mustn’t look ostentatious; put me down ten pound, and Tim
Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound for Mr. Trimmers, Tim.
God bless you, Trimmers--and come and dine with us some day this week;
you’ll always find a knife and fork, and we shall be delighted. Now, my
dear sir--cheque from Mr. Linkinwater, Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar,
and six poor children--oh dear, dear, dear!’

Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any friendly
remonstrances from the collector of the subscription on the large amount
of his donation, Mr. Cheeryble led Nicholas, equally astonished and
affected by what he had seen and heard in this short space, to the
half-opened door of another room.

‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and
stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare
time for a word or two with me?’

‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from the inside, so
like in its tones to that which had just spoken, that Nicholas started,
and almost thought it was the same, ‘don’t ask me such a question, but
come in directly.’

They went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of Nicholas
when his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting with another
old gentleman, the very type and model of himself--the same face, the
same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the same breeches
and gaiters--nay, there was the very same white hat hanging against the
wall!

As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted up by
beaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to
behold in infants, and which, in men so old, was inexpressibly touching:
Nicholas could observe that the last old gentleman was something stouter
than his brother; this, and a slight additional shade of clumsiness in
his gait and stature, formed the only perceptible difference between
them. Nobody could have doubted their being twin brothers.

‘Brother Ned,’ said Nicholas’s friend, closing the room-door, ‘here is a
young friend of mine whom we must assist. We must make proper inquiries
into his statements, in justice to him as well as to ourselves, and if
they are confirmed--as I feel assured they will be--we must assist him,
we must assist him, brother Ned.’

‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,’ returned the
other. ‘When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He SHALL be
assisted. What are his necessities, and what does he require? Where is
Tim Linkinwater? Let us have him here.’

Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic and
earnest delivery; both had lost nearly the same teeth, which imparted
the same peculiarity to their speech; and both spoke as if, besides
possessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest and most
unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting the plums from
Fortune’s choicest pudding, retained a few for present use, and kept
them in their mouths.

‘Where is Tim Linkinwater?’ said brother Ned.

‘Stop, stop, stop!’ said brother Charles, taking the other aside. ‘I’ve
a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan. Tim is getting old, and Tim has
been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s
mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor
brother died, was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’

‘No, no, no,’ replied the other. ‘Certainly not. Not half enough, not
half.’

‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and prevail
upon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleep in the fresh
air, besides, two or three times a week (which he could, if he began
business an hour later in the morning), old Tim Linkinwater would grow
young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old Tim
Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim
Linkinwater quite a little boy, don’t you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor
Tim!’

And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a tear
of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

‘But hear this first--hear this first, brother Ned,’ said the old man,
hastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas: ‘I’ll tell it
you myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman is modest, and is
a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn’t feel it right that he should tell us
his story over and over again as if he was a beggar, or as if we doubted
him. No, no no.’

‘No, no, no,’ returned the other, nodding his head gravely. ‘Very right,
my dear brother, very right.’

‘He will tell me I’m wrong, if I make a mistake,’ said Nicholas’s
friend. ‘But whether I do or not, you’ll be very much affected, brother
Ned, remembering the time when we were two friendless lads, and earned
our first shilling in this great city.’

The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence; and in his own homely
manner, brother Charles related the particulars he had heard from
Nicholas. The conversation which ensued was a long one, and when it was
over, a secret conference of almost equal duration took place between
brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It is no disparagement
to Nicholas to say, that before he had been closeted with the two
brothers ten minutes, he could only wave his hand at every fresh
expression of kindness and sympathy, and sob like a little child.

At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together, when Tim
instantly walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in a very brief
sentence (for Tim was ordinarily a man of few words), that he had taken
down the address in the Strand, and would call upon him that evening,
at eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his spectacles and put them on,
preparatory to hearing what more the brothers Cheeryble had got to say.

‘Tim,’ said brother Charles, ‘you understand that we have an intention
of taking this young gentleman into the counting-house?’

Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and quite
approved of it; and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew himself up
and looked particularly fat, and very important. After which, there was
a profound silence.

‘I’m not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,’ said Tim,
breaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. ‘I’m not going to
sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I’m not going into the country either. A
pretty thing at this time of day, certainly. Pho!’

‘Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,’ said brother Charles, looking at
him without the faintest spark of anger, and with a countenance radiant
with attachment to the old clerk. ‘Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,
what do you mean, sir?’

‘It’s forty-four year,’ said Tim, making a calculation in the air with
his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up, ‘forty-four
year, next May, since I first kept the books of Cheeryble, Brothers.
I’ve opened the safe every morning all that time (Sundays excepted) as
the clock struck nine, and gone over the house every night at half-past
ten (except on Foreign Post nights, and then twenty minutes before
twelve) to see the doors fastened, and the fires out. I’ve never slept
out of the back-attic one single night. There’s the same mignonette box
in the middle of the window, and the same four flower-pots, two on each
side, that I brought with me when I first came. There an’t--I’ve said it
again and again, and I’ll maintain it--there an’t such a square as this
in the world. I KNOW there an’t,’ said Tim, with sudden energy, and
looking sternly about him. ‘Not one. For business or pleasure, in
summer-time or winter--I don’t care which--there’s nothing like it.
There’s not such a spring in England as the pump under the archway.
There’s not such a view in England as the view out of my window; I’ve
seen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought to know something
about it. I have slept in that room,’ added Tim, sinking his voice a
little, ‘for four-and-forty year; and if it wasn’t inconvenient, and
didn’t interfere with business, I should request leave to die there.’

‘Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?’ roared the
twins by one impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.

‘That’s what I’ve got to say, Mr. Edwin and Mr. Charles,’ said Tim,
squaring his shoulders again. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve talked
about superannuating me; but, if you please, we’ll make it the last, and
drop the subject for evermore.’

With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself up
in his glass case, with the air of a man who had had his say, and was
thoroughly resolved not to be put down.

The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozen times
without speaking.

‘He must be done something with, brother Ned,’ said the other, warmly;
‘we must disregard his old scruples; they can’t be tolerated, or borne.
He must be made a partner, brother Ned; and if he won’t submit to it
peaceably, we must have recourse to violence.’

‘Quite right,’ replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man thoroughly
determined; ‘quite right, my dear brother. If he won’t listen to reason,
we must do it against his will, and show him that we are determined to
exert our authority. We must quarrel with him, brother Charles.’

‘We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim Linkinwater,’ said
the other. ‘But in the meantime, my dear brother, we are keeping our
young friend; and the poor lady and her daughter will be anxious for his
return. So let us say goodbye for the present, and--there, there--take
care of that box, my dear sir--and--no, no, not a word now; but be
careful of the crossings and--’

And with any disjointed and unconnected words which would prevent
Nicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him
out: shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting very
unsuccessfully--they were poor hands at deception!--to be wholly
unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.

Nicholas’s heart was too full to allow of his turning into the street
until he had recovered some composure. When he at last glided out of the
dark doorway corner in which he had been compelled to halt, he caught
a glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at one corner of the glass
case, evidently undecided whether they should follow up their late
attack without delay, or for the present postpone laying further siege
to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.

To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances just
detailed awakened at Miss La Creevy’s, and all the things that were
done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied in consequence,
is beside the present course and purpose of these adventures. It is
sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr. Timothy Linkinwater arrived,
punctual to his appointment; that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as
he was bound to be, of the proper exercise of his employers’ most
comprehensive liberality, he reported strongly and warmly in favour of
Nicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in
the counting-house of Cheeryble, Brothers, with a present salary of one
hundred and twenty pounds a year.

‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said Nicholas’s first friend, ‘that
if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is empty, at
something under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?’

‘For nothing at all,’ said brother Ned. ‘We are rich, and should be
ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. Where is
Tim Linkinwater?--for nothing at all, my dear brother, for nothing at
all.’

‘Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,’ suggested
the other, mildly; ‘it would help to preserve habits of frugality, you
know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming obligations. We might
say fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it was punctually paid, make
it up to them in some other way. And I might secretly advance a small
loan towards a little furniture, and you might secretly advance another
small loan, brother Ned; and if we find them doing well--as we shall;
there’s no fear, no fear--we can change the loans into gifts. Carefully,
brother Ned, and by degrees, and without pressing upon them too much;
what do you say now, brother?’

Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be done,
but had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took possession of
the stool, and Mrs. Nickleby and Kate took possession of the house, and
all was hope, bustle, and light-heartedness.

There surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as
the first week of that cottage. Every night when Nicholas came home,
something new had been found out. One day it was a grapevine, and
another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of the
front-parlour closet at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on through
a hundred items. Then, this room was embellished with a muslin curtain,
and that room was rendered quite elegant by a window-blind, and such
improvements were made, as no one would have supposed possible. Then
there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out in the omnibus to stop a day
or two and help, and who was perpetually losing a very small brown-paper
parcel of tin tacks and a very large hammer, and running about with
her sleeves tucked up at the wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and
hurting herself very much--and Mrs. Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and
did something now and then, but not often--and Kate, who busied herself
noiselessly everywhere, and was pleased with everything--and Smike, who
made the garden a perfect wonder to look upon--and Nicholas, who helped
and encouraged them every one--all the peace and cheerfulness of home
restored, with such new zest imparted to every frugal pleasure, and such
delight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune and separation alone
could give!

In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich
Nickleby was alone and miserable.



CHAPTER 36

Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. Showing how Mr
Kenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as
could be expected


It might have been seven o’clock in the evening, and it was growing dark
in the narrow streets near Golden Square, when Mr. Kenwigs sent out for
a pair of the cheapest white kid gloves--those at fourteen-pence--and
selecting the strongest, which happened to be the right-hand one, walked
downstairs with an air of pomp and much excitement, and proceeded to
muffle the knob of the street-door knocker therein. Having executed this
task with great nicety, Mr. Kenwigs pulled the door to, after him, and
just stepped across the road to try the effect from the opposite side
of the street. Satisfied that nothing could possibly look better in its
way, Mr. Kenwigs then stepped back again, and calling through the keyhole
to Morleena to open the door, vanished into the house, and was seen no
longer.

Now, considered as an abstract circumstance, there was no more obvious
cause or reason why Mr. Kenwigs should take the trouble of muffling this
particular knocker, than there would have been for his muffling the
knocker of any nobleman or gentleman resident ten miles off; because,
for the greater convenience of the numerous lodgers, the street-door
always stood wide open, and the knocker was never used at all. The first
floor, the second floor, and the third floor, had each a bell of its
own. As to the attics, no one ever called on them; if anybody wanted
the parlours, they were close at hand, and all he had to do was to walk
straight into them; while the kitchen had a separate entrance down the
area steps. As a question of mere necessity and usefulness, therefore,
this muffling of the knocker was thoroughly incomprehensible.

But knockers may be muffled for other purposes than those of mere
utilitarianism, as, in the present instance, was clearly shown. There
are certain polite forms and ceremonies which must be observed in
civilised life, or mankind relapse into their original barbarism. No
genteel lady was ever yet confined--indeed, no genteel confinement
can possibly take place--without the accompanying symbol of a muffled
knocker. Mrs. Kenwigs was a lady of some pretensions to gentility; Mrs
Kenwigs was confined. And, therefore, Mr. Kenwigs tied up the silent
knocker on the premises in a white kid glove.

‘I’m not quite certain neither,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, arranging his
shirt-collar, and walking slowly upstairs, ‘whether, as it’s a boy, I
won’t have it in the papers.’

Pondering upon the advisability of this step, and the sensation it was
likely to create in the neighbourhood, Mr. Kenwigs betook himself to the
sitting-room, where various extremely diminutive articles of clothing
were airing on a horse before the fire, and Mr. Lumbey, the doctor, was
dandling the baby--that is, the old baby--not the new one.

‘It’s a fine boy, Mr. Kenwigs,’ said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.

‘You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?’ returned Mr. Kenwigs.

‘It’s the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,’ said the doctor. ‘I
never saw such a baby.’

It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer
to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species,
that every baby born into the world is a finer one than the last.

‘I ne--ver saw such a baby,’ said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.

‘Morleena was a fine baby,’ remarked Mr. Kenwigs; as if this were rather
an attack, by implication, upon the family.

‘They were all fine babies,’ said Mr. Lumbey. And Mr. Lumbey went on
nursing the baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he was considering
under what head he could best charge the nursing in the bill, was best
known to himself.

During this short conversation, Miss Morleena, as the eldest of
the family, and natural representative of her mother during her
indisposition, had been hustling and slapping the three younger Miss
Kenwigses, without intermission; which considerate and affectionate
conduct brought tears into the eyes of Mr. Kenwigs, and caused him to
declare that, in understanding and behaviour, that child was a woman.

‘She will be a treasure to the man she marries, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs,
half aside; ‘I think she’ll marry above her station, Mr. Lumbey.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder at all,’ replied the doctor.

‘You never see her dance, sir, did you?’ asked Mr. Kenwigs.

The doctor shook his head.

‘Ay!’ said Mr. Kenwigs, as though he pitied him from his heart, ‘then you
don’t know what she’s capable of.’

All this time there had been a great whisking in and out of the other
room; the door had been opened and shut very softly about twenty times
a minute (for it was necessary to keep Mrs. Kenwigs quiet); and the baby
had been exhibited to a score or two of deputations from a select body
of female friends, who had assembled in the passage, and about the
street-door, to discuss the event in all its bearings. Indeed, the
excitement extended itself over the whole street, and groups of ladies
might be seen standing at the doors, (some in the interesting condition
in which Mrs. Kenwigs had last appeared in public,) relating their
experiences of similar occurrences. Some few acquired great credit from
having prophesied, the day before yesterday, exactly when it would come
to pass; others, again, related, how that they guessed what it was,
directly they saw Mr. Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street as hard as
ever he could go. Some said one thing, and some another; but all talked
together, and all agreed upon two points: first, that it was very
meritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs. Kenwigs to do as she had
done: and secondly, that there never was such a skilful and scientific
doctor as that Dr Lumbey.

In the midst of this general hubbub, Dr Lumbey sat in the first-floor
front, as before related, nursing the deposed baby, and talking to Mr
Kenwigs. He was a stout bluff-looking gentleman, with no shirt-collar to
speak of, and a beard that had been growing since yesterday morning; for
Dr Lumbey was popular, and the neighbourhood was prolific; and there
had been no less than three other knockers muffled, one after the other
within the last forty-eight hours.

‘Well, Mr. Kenwigs,’ said Dr Lumbey, ‘this makes six. You’ll have a fine
family in time, sir.’

‘I think six is almost enough, sir,’ returned Mr. Kenwigs.

‘Pooh! pooh!’ said the doctor. ‘Nonsense! not half enough.’

With this, the doctor laughed; but he didn’t laugh half as much as a
married friend of Mrs. Kenwigs’s, who had just come in from the sick
chamber to report progress, and take a small sip of brandy-and-water:
and who seemed to consider it one of the best jokes ever launched upon
society.

‘They’re not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,’ said
Mr. Kenwigs, taking his second daughter on his knee; ‘they have
expectations.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mr. Lumbey, the doctor.

‘And very good ones too, I believe, haven’t they?’ asked the married
lady.

‘Why, ma’am,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘it’s not exactly for me to say what they
may be, or what they may not be. It’s not for me to boast of any family
with which I have the honour to be connected; at the same time, Mrs
Kenwigs’s is--I should say,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, abruptly, and raising
his voice as he spoke, ‘that my children might come into a matter of a
hundred pound apiece, perhaps. Perhaps more, but certainly that.’

‘And a very pretty little fortune,’ said the married lady.

‘There are some relations of Mrs. Kenwigs’s,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, taking a
pinch of snuff from the doctor’s box, and then sneezing very hard, for
he wasn’t used to it, ‘that might leave their hundred pound apiece to
ten people, and yet not go begging when they had done it.’

‘Ah! I know who you mean,’ observed the married lady, nodding her head.

‘I made mention of no names, and I wish to make mention of no names,’
said Mr. Kenwigs, with a portentous look. ‘Many of my friends have met a
relation of Mrs. Kenwigs’s in this very room, as would do honour to any
company; that’s all.’

‘I’ve met him,’ said the married lady, with a glance towards Dr Lumbey.

‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to see such
a man as that, a kissing and taking notice of my children,’ pursued Mr
Kenwigs. ‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a man, to
know that man. It will be naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a
husband, to make that man acquainted with this ewent.’

Having delivered his sentiments in this form of words, Mr. Kenwigs
arranged his second daughter’s flaxen tail, and bade her be a good girl
and mind what her sister, Morleena, said.

‘That girl grows more like her mother every day,’ said Mr. Lumbey,
suddenly stricken with an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.

‘There!’ rejoined the married lady. ‘What I always say; what I always
did say! She’s the very picter of her.’ Having thus directed the general
attention to the young lady in question, the married lady embraced the
opportunity of taking another sip of the brandy-and-water--and a pretty
long sip too.

‘Yes! there is a likeness,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, after some reflection. ‘But
such a woman as Mrs. Kenwigs was, afore she was married! Good gracious,
such a woman!’

Mr. Lumbey shook his head with great solemnity, as though to imply that
he supposed she must have been rather a dazzler.

‘Talk of fairies!’ cried Mr. Kenwigs ‘I never see anybody so light to be
alive, never. Such manners too; so playful, and yet so sewerely proper!
As for her figure! It isn’t generally known,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, dropping
his voice; ‘but her figure was such, at that time, that the sign of the
Britannia, over in the Holloway Road, was painted from it!’

‘But only see what it is now,’ urged the married lady. ‘Does SHE look
like the mother of six?’

‘Quite ridiculous,’ cried the doctor.

‘She looks a deal more like her own daughter,’ said the married lady.

‘So she does,’ assented Mr. Lumbey. ‘A great deal more.’

Mr. Kenwigs was about to make some further observations, most probably in
confirmation of this opinion, when another married lady, who had looked
in to keep up Mrs. Kenwigs’s spirits, and help to clear off anything in
the eating and drinking way that might be going about, put in her head
to announce that she had just been down to answer the bell, and that
there was a gentleman at the door who wanted to see Mr. Kenwigs ‘most
particular.’

Shadowy visions of his distinguished relation flitted through the brain
of Mr. Kenwigs, as this message was delivered; and under their influence,
he dispatched Morleena to show the gentleman up straightway.

‘Why, I do declare,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, standing opposite the door so as
to get the earliest glimpse of the visitor, as he came upstairs, ‘it’s
Mr. Johnson! How do you find yourself, sir?’

Nicholas shook hands, kissed his old pupils all round, intrusted a large
parcel of toys to the guardianship of Morleena, bowed to the doctor
and the married ladies, and inquired after Mrs. Kenwigs in a tone of
interest, which went to the very heart and soul of the nurse, who had
come in to warm some mysterious compound, in a little saucepan over the
fire.

‘I ought to make a hundred apologies to you for calling at such a
season,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I was not aware of it until I had rung the
bell, and my time is so fully occupied now, that I feared it might be
some days before I could possibly come again.’

‘No time like the present, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs. ‘The sitiwation of Mrs
Kenwigs, sir, is no obstacle to a little conversation between you and
me, I hope?’

‘You are very good,’ said Nicholas.

At this juncture, proclamation was made by another married lady, that
the baby had begun to eat like anything; whereupon the two married
ladies, already mentioned, rushed tumultuously into the bedroom to
behold him in the act.

‘The fact is,’ resumed Nicholas, ‘that before I left the country, where
I have been for some time past, I undertook to deliver a message to
you.’

‘Ay, ay?’ said Mr. Kenwigs.

‘And I have been,’ added Nicholas, ‘already in town for some days,
without having had an opportunity of doing so.’

‘It’s no matter, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs. ‘I dare say it’s none the
worse for keeping cold. Message from the country!’ said Mr. Kenwigs,
ruminating; ‘that’s curious. I don’t know anybody in the country.’

‘Miss Petowker,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘Oh! from her, is it?’ said Mr. Kenwigs. ‘Oh dear, yes. Ah! Mrs. Kenwigs
will be glad to hear from her. Henrietta Petowker, eh? How odd things
come about, now! That you should have met her in the country! Well!’

Hearing this mention of their old friend’s name, the four Miss Kenwigses
gathered round Nicholas, open eyed and mouthed, to hear more. Mr. Kenwigs
looked a little curious too, but quite comfortable and unsuspecting.

‘The message relates to family matters,’ said Nicholas, hesitating.

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Kenwigs, glancing at Mr. Lumbey, who, having
rashly taken charge of little Lillyvick, found nobody disposed to
relieve him of his precious burden. ‘All friends here.’

Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed to have some difficulty in
proceeding.

‘At Portsmouth, Henrietta Petowker is,’ observed Mr. Kenwigs.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘Mr. Lillyvick is there.’

Mr. Kenwigs turned pale, but he recovered, and said, THAT was an odd
coincidence also.

‘The message is from him,’ said Nicholas.

Mr. Kenwigs appeared to revive. He knew that his niece was in a delicate
state, and had, no doubt, sent word that they were to forward full
particulars. Yes. That was very kind of him; so like him too!

‘He desired me to give his kindest love,’ said Nicholas.

‘Very much obliged to him, I’m sure. Your great-uncle, Lillyvick, my
dears!’ interposed Mr. Kenwigs, condescendingly explaining it to the
children.

‘His kindest love,’ resumed Nicholas; ‘and to say that he had no time to
write, but that he was married to Miss Petowker.’

Mr. Kenwigs started from his seat with a petrified stare, caught his
second daughter by her flaxen tail, and covered his face with his
pocket-handkerchief. Morleena fell, all stiff and rigid, into the baby’s
chair, as she had seen her mother fall when she fainted away, and the
two remaining little Kenwigses shrieked in affright.

‘My children, my defrauded, swindled infants!’ cried Mr. Kenwigs, pulling
so hard, in his vehemence, at the flaxen tail of his second daughter,
that he lifted her up on tiptoe, and kept her, for some seconds, in that
attitude. ‘Villain, ass, traitor!’

‘Drat the man!’ cried the nurse, looking angrily around. ‘What does he
mean by making that noise here?’

‘Silence, woman!’ said Mr. Kenwigs, fiercely.

‘I won’t be silent,’ returned the nurse. ‘Be silent yourself, you
wretch. Have you no regard for your baby?’

‘No!’ returned Mr. Kenwigs.

‘More shame for you,’ retorted the nurse. ‘Ugh! you unnatural monster.’

‘Let him die,’ cried Mr. Kenwigs, in the torrent of his wrath. ‘Let him
die! He has no expectations, no property to come into. We want no babies
here,’ said Mr. Kenwigs recklessly. ‘Take ‘em away, take ‘em away to the
Fondling!’

With these awful remarks, Mr. Kenwigs sat himself down in a chair, and
defied the nurse, who made the best of her way into the adjoining room,
and returned with a stream of matrons: declaring that Mr. Kenwigs had
spoken blasphemy against his family, and must be raving mad.

Appearances were certainly not in Mr. Kenwigs’s favour, for the exertion
of speaking with so much vehemence, and yet in such a tone as should
prevent his lamentations reaching the ears of Mrs. Kenwigs, had made him
very black in the face; besides which, the excitement of the occasion,
and an unwonted indulgence in various strong cordials to celebrate it,
had swollen and dilated his features to a most unusual extent. But,
Nicholas and the doctor--who had been passive at first, doubting very
much whether Mr. Kenwigs could be in earnest--interfering to explain the
immediate cause of his condition, the indignation of the matrons was
changed to pity, and they implored him, with much feeling, to go quietly
to bed.

‘The attention,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, looking around with a plaintive air,
‘the attention that I’ve shown to that man! The hyseters he has eat, and
the pints of ale he has drank, in this house--!’

‘It’s very trying, and very hard to bear, we know,’ said one of the
married ladies; ‘but think of your dear darling wife.’

‘Oh yes, and what she’s been a undergoing of, only this day,’ cried a
great many voices. ‘There’s a good man, do.’

‘The presents that have been made to him,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, reverting
to his calamity, ‘the pipes, the snuff-boxes--a pair of india-rubber
goloshes, that cost six-and-six--’

‘Ah! it won’t bear thinking of, indeed,’ cried the matrons generally;
‘but it’ll all come home to him, never fear.’

Mr. Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies, as if he would prefer its all
coming home to HIM, as there was nothing to be got by it; but he said
nothing, and resting his head upon his hand, subsided into a kind of
doze.

Then, the matrons again expatiated on the expediency of taking the good
gentleman to bed; observing that he would be better tomorrow, and that
they knew what was the wear and tear of some men’s minds when their
wives were taken as Mrs. Kenwigs had been that day, and that it did him
great credit, and there was nothing to be ashamed of in it; far from it;
they liked to see it, they did, for it showed a good heart. And one lady
observed, as a case bearing upon the present, that her husband was often
quite light-headed from anxiety on similar occasions, and that once,
when her little Johnny was born, it was nearly a week before he came to
himself again, during the whole of which time he did nothing but cry ‘Is
it a boy, is it a boy?’ in a manner which went to the hearts of all his
hearers.

At length, Morleena (who quite forgot she had fainted, when she
found she was not noticed) announced that a chamber was ready for her
afflicted parent; and Mr. Kenwigs, having partially smothered his four
daughters in the closeness of his embrace, accepted the doctor’s arm on
one side, and the support of Nicholas on the other, and was conducted
upstairs to a bedroom which been secured for the occasion.

Having seen him sound asleep, and heard him snore most satisfactorily,
and having further presided over the distribution of the toys, to the
perfect contentment of all the little Kenwigses, Nicholas took his
leave. The matrons dropped off one by one, with the exception of six
or eight particular friends, who had determined to stop all night; the
lights in the houses gradually disappeared; the last bulletin was issued
that Mrs. Kenwigs was as well as could be expected; and the whole family
were left to their repose.



CHAPTER 37

Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and
Mr. Timothy Linkinwater. The brothers give a Banquet on a great Annual
Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it, receives a mysterious and
important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs. Nickleby


The square in which the counting-house of the brothers Cheeryble
was situated, although it might not wholly realise the very sanguine
expectations which a stranger would be disposed to form on hearing
the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim Linkinwater, was,
nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy town
like London, and one which occupied a high place in the affectionate
remembrances of several grave persons domiciled in the neighbourhood,
whose recollections, however, dated from a much more recent period,
and whose attachment to the spot was far less absorbing, than were the
recollections and attachment of the enthusiastic Tim.

And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the aristocratic
gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, the dowager barrenness
and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the gravel walks and garden seats
of the Squares of Russell and Euston, suppose that the affections of
Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers of this particular locality, had
been awakened and kept alive by any refreshing associations with leaves,
however dingy, or grass, however bare and thin. The city square has no
enclosure, save the lamp-post in the middle: and no grass, but the
weeds which spring up round its base. It is a quiet, little-frequented,
retired spot, favourable to melancholy and contemplation, and
appointments of long-waiting; and up and down its every side the
Appointed saunters idly by the hour together wakening the echoes with
the monotonous sound of his footsteps on the smooth worn stones, and
counting, first the windows, and then the very bricks of the tall silent
houses that hem him round about. In winter-time, the snow will linger
there, long after it has melted from the busy streets and highways. The
summer’s sun holds it in some respect, and while he darts his cheerful
rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery heat and glare for
noisier and less-imposing precincts. It is so quiet, that you can
almost hear the ticking of your own watch when you stop to cool in
its refreshing atmosphere. There is a distant hum--of coaches, not of
insects--but no other sound disturbs the stillness of the square. The
ticket porter leans idly against the post at the corner: comfortably
warm, but not hot, although the day is broiling. His white apron flaps
languidly in the air, his head gradually droops upon his breast, he
takes very long winks with both eyes at once; even he is unable to
withstand the soporific influence of the place, and is gradually falling
asleep. But now, he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two,
and gazes out before him with eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or
a boy at marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear an organ? No; sight
more unwonted still--there is a butterfly in the square--a real, live
butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the iron
heads of the dusty area railings.

But if there were not many matters immediately without the doors of
Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distract the thoughts of
the young clerk, there were not a few within, to interest and amuse him.
There was scarcely an object in the place, animate or inanimate, which
did not partake in some degree of the scrupulous method and punctuality
of Mr. Timothy Linkinwater. Punctual as the counting-house dial, which he
maintained to be the best time-keeper in London next after the clock
of some old, hidden, unknown church hard by, (for Tim held the fabled
goodness of that at the Horse Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented
by jealous West-enders,) the old clerk performed the minutest actions
of the day, and arranged the minutest articles in the little room, in a
precise and regular order, which could not have been exceeded if it had
actually been a real glass case, fitted with the choicest curiosities.
Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers, pounce-box, string-box,
fire-box, Tim’s hat, Tim’s scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim’s other
coat--looking precisely like a back view of himself as it hung against
the wall--all had their accustomed inches of space. Except the clock,
there was not such an accurate and unimpeachable instrument in existence
as the little thermometer which hung behind the door. There was not a
bird of such methodical and business-like habits in all the world, as
the blind blackbird, who dreamed and dozed away his days in a large
snug cage, and had lost his voice, from old age, years before Tim first
bought him. There was not such an eventful story in the whole range
of anecdote, as Tim could tell concerning the acquisition of that very
bird; how, compassionating his starved and suffering condition, he had
purchased him, with the view of humanely terminating his wretched life;
how he determined to wait three days and see whether the bird revived;
how, before half the time was out, the bird did revive; and how he
went on reviving and picking up his appetite and good looks until he
gradually became what--‘what you see him now, sir,’--Tim would say,
glancing proudly at the cage. And with that, Tim would utter a melodious
chirrup, and cry ‘Dick;’ and Dick, who, for any sign of life he had
previously given, might have been a wooden or stuffed representation of
a blackbird indifferently executed, would come to the side of the cage
in three small jumps, and, thrusting his bill between the bars, turn his
sightless head towards his old master--and at that moment it would be
very difficult to determine which of the two was the happier, the bird
or Tim Linkinwater.

Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflection of the
kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen and porters were such
sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a treat to see them. Among the
shipping announcements and steam-packet lists which decorated the
counting-house wall, were designs for almshouses, statements of
charities, and plans for new hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords
hung above the chimney-piece, for the terror of evil-doers, but the
blunderbuss was rusty and shattered, and the swords were broken and
edgeless. Elsewhere, their open display in such a condition would have
realised a smile; but, there, it seemed as though even violent and
offensive weapons partook of the reigning influence, and became emblems
of mercy and forbearance.

Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly, on the
morning when he first took possession of the vacant stool, and looked
about him, more freely and at ease, than he had before enjoyed an
opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encouraged and stimulated him to
exertion, for, during the next two weeks, all his spare hours, late at
night and early in the morning, were incessantly devoted to acquiring
the mysteries of book-keeping and some other forms of mercantile
account. To these, he applied himself with such steadiness and
perseverance that, although he brought no greater amount of previous
knowledge to the subject than certain dim recollections of two or three
very long sums entered into a ciphering-book at school, and relieved for
parental inspection by the effigy of a fat swan tastefully flourished
by the writing-master’s own hand, he found himself, at the end of a
fortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to Mr. Linkinwater,
and to claim his promise that he, Nicholas Nickleby, should now be
allowed to assist him in his graver labours.

It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater slowly bring out a massive
ledger and day-book, and, after turning them over and over, and
affectionately dusting their backs and sides, open the leaves here and
there, and cast his eyes, half mournfully, half proudly, upon the fair
and unblotted entries.

‘Four-and-forty year, next May!’ said Tim. ‘Many new ledgers since then.
Four-and-forty year!’

Tim closed the book again.

‘Come, come,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am all impatience to begin.’

Tim Linkinwater shook his head with an air of mild reproof. Mr. Nickleby
was not sufficiently impressed with the deep and awful nature of his
undertaking. Suppose there should be any mistake--any scratching out!

Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they will rush upon,
sometimes. Without even taking the precaution of sitting himself down
upon his stool, but standing leisurely at the desk, and with a smile
upon his face--actually a smile--there was no mistake about it; Mr
Linkinwater often mentioned it afterwards--Nicholas dipped his pen
into the inkstand before him, and plunged into the books of Cheeryble
Brothers!

Tim Linkinwater turned pale, and tilting up his stool on the two legs
nearest Nicholas, looked over his shoulder in breathless anxiety.
Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the counting-house together; but
Tim Linkinwater, without looking round, impatiently waved his hand as a
caution that profound silence must be observed, and followed the nib of
the inexperienced pen with strained and eager eyes.

The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but Tim Linkinwater smiled
not, nor moved for some minutes. At length, he drew a long slow breath,
and still maintaining his position on the tilted stool, glanced at
brother Charles, secretly pointed with the feather of his pen towards
Nicholas, and nodded his head in a grave and resolute manner, plainly
signifying ‘He’ll do.’

Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing look with brother
Ned; but, just then, Nicholas stopped to refer to some other page,
and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain his satisfaction any longer,
descended from his stool, and caught him rapturously by the hand.

‘He has done it!’ said Tim, looking round at his employers and shaking
his head triumphantly. ‘His capital B’s and D’s are exactly like mine;
he dots all his small i’s and crosses every t as he writes it. There
an’t such a young man as this in all London,’ said Tim, clapping
Nicholas on the back; ‘not one. Don’t tell me! The city can’t produce
his equal. I challenge the city to do it!’

With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim Linkinwater struck the desk
such a blow with his clenched fist, that the old blackbird tumbled off
his perch with the start it gave him, and actually uttered a feeble
croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.

‘Well said, Tim--well said, Tim Linkinwater!’ cried brother Charles,
scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his hands gently
as he spoke. ‘I knew our young friend would take great pains, and I was
quite certain he would succeed, in no time. Didn’t I say so, brother
Ned?’

‘You did, my dear brother; certainly, my dear brother, you said so, and
you were quite right,’ replied Ned. ‘Quite right. Tim Linkinwater is
excited, but he is justly excited, properly excited. Tim is a fine
fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir--you’re a fine fellow.’

‘Here’s a pleasant thing to think of!’ said Tim, wholly regardless of
this address to himself, and raising his spectacles from the ledger to
the brothers. ‘Here’s a pleasant thing. Do you suppose I haven’t often
thought of what would become of these books when I was gone? Do you
suppose I haven’t often thought that things might go on irregular and
untidy here, after I was taken away? But now,’ said Tim, extending his
forefinger towards Nicholas, ‘now, when I’ve shown him a little more,
I’m satisfied. The business will go on, when I’m dead, as well as it did
when I was alive--just the same--and I shall have the satisfaction of
knowing that there never were such books--never were such books! No, nor
never will be such books--as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.’

Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr. Linkinwater gave vent to
a short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of London and
Westminster, and, turning again to his desk, quietly carried seventy-six
from the last column he had added up, and went on with his work.

‘Tim Linkinwater, sir,’ said brother Charles; ‘give me your hand, sir.
This is your birthday. How dare you talk about anything else till you
have been wished many happy returns of the day, Tim Linkinwater? God
bless you, Tim! God bless you!’

‘My dear brother,’ said the other, seizing Tim’s disengaged fist, ‘Tim
Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on his last birthday.’

‘Brother Ned, my dear boy,’ returned the other old fellow, ‘I believe
that Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty years old, and
is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty; for he’s younger every
birthday than he was the year before.’

‘So he is, brother Charles, so he is,’ replied brother Ned. ‘There’s not
a doubt about it.’

‘Remember, Tim,’ said brother Charles, ‘that we dine at half-past five
today instead of two o’clock; we always depart from our usual custom on
this anniversary, as you very well know, Tim Linkinwater. Mr. Nickleby,
my dear sir, you will make one. Tim Linkinwater, give me your snuff-box
as a remembrance to brother Charles and myself of an attached and
faithful rascal, and take that, in exchange, as a feeble mark of our
respect and esteem, and don’t open it until you go to bed, and never
say another word upon the subject, or I’ll kill the blackbird. A dog! He
should have had a golden cage half-a-dozen years ago, if it would have
made him or his master a bit the happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear
fellow, I’m ready. At half-past five, remember, Mr. Nickleby! Tim
Linkinwater, sir, take care of Mr. Nickleby at half-past five. Now,
brother Ned.’

Chattering away thus, according to custom, to prevent the possibility
of any thanks or acknowledgment being expressed on the other side, the
twins trotted off, arm-in-arm; having endowed Tim Linkinwater with a
costly gold snuff-box, enclosing a bank note worth more than its value
ten times told.

At a quarter past five o’clock, punctual to the minute, arrived,
according to annual usage, Tim Linkinwater’s sister; and a great to-do
there was, between Tim Linkinwater’s sister and the old housekeeper,
respecting Tim Linkinwater’s sister’s cap, which had been dispatched,
per boy, from the house of the family where Tim Linkinwater’s sister
boarded, and had not yet come to hand: notwithstanding that it had
been packed up in a bandbox, and the bandbox in a handkerchief, and the
handkerchief tied on to the boy’s arm; and notwithstanding, too, that
the place of its consignment had been duly set forth, at full length,
on the back of an old letter, and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers
horrible penalties, the full extent of which the eye of man could not
foresee, to deliver the same with all possible speed, and not to loiter
by the way. Tim Linkinwater’s sister lamented; the housekeeper condoled;
and both kept thrusting their heads out of the second-floor window to
see if the boy was ‘coming’--which would have been highly satisfactory,
and, upon the whole, tantamount to his being come, as the distance to
the corner was not quite five yards--when, all of a sudden, and when he
was least expected, the messenger, carrying the bandbox with elaborate
caution, appeared in an exactly opposite direction, puffing and panting
for breath, and flushed with recent exercise; as well he might be; for
he had taken the air, in the first instance, behind a hackney coach that
went to Camberwell, and had followed two Punches afterwards and had seen
the Stilts home to their own door. The cap was all safe, however--that
was one comfort--and it was no use scolding him--that was another;
so the boy went upon his way rejoicing, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister
presented herself to the company below-stairs, just five minutes after
the half-hour had struck by Tim Linkinwater’s own infallible clock.

The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, Tim Linkinwater, a
ruddy-faced white-headed friend of Tim’s (who was a superannuated bank
clerk), and Nicholas, who was presented to Tim Linkinwater’s sister with
much gravity and solemnity. The party being now completed, brother Ned
rang for dinner, and, dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led
Tim Linkinwater’s sister into the next room, where it was set forth with
great preparation. Then, brother Ned took the head of the table, and
brother Charles the foot; and Tim Linkinwater’s sister sat on the left
hand of brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater himself on his right: and an
ancient butler of apoplectic appearance, and with very short legs, took
up his position at the back of brother Ned’s armchair, and, waving his
right arm preparatory to taking off the covers with a flourish, stood
bolt upright and motionless.

‘For these and all other blessings, brother Charles,’ said Ned.

‘Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,’ said Charles.

Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the soup tureen,
and shot, all at once, into a state of violent activity.

There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its ever
flagging, for the good-humour of the glorious old twins drew
everybody out, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister went off into a long and
circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater’s infancy, immediately after
the very first glass of champagne--taking care to premise that she was
very much Tim’s junior, and had only become acquainted with the facts
from their being preserved and handed down in the family. This history
concluded, brother Ned related how that, exactly thirty-five years ago,
Tim Linkinwater was suspected to have received a love-letter, and how
that vague information had been brought to the counting-house of his
having been seen walking down Cheapside with an uncommonly handsome
spinster; at which there was a roar of laughter, and Tim Linkinwater
being charged with blushing, and called upon to explain, denied that the
accusation was true; and further, that there would have been any harm in
it if it had been; which last position occasioned the superannuated bank
clerk to laugh tremendously, and to declare that it was the very best
thing he had ever heard in his life, and that Tim Linkinwater might say
a great many things before he said anything which would beat THAT.

There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both the matter and
manner of which made a very strong impression upon Nicholas. The cloth
having been removed and the decanters sent round for the first time, a
profound silence succeeded, and in the cheerful faces of the brothers
there appeared an expression, not of absolute melancholy, but of quiet
thoughtfulness very unusual at a festive table. As Nicholas, struck
by this sudden alteration, was wondering what it could portend, the
brothers rose together, and the one at the top of the table leaning
forward towards the other, and speaking in a low voice as if he were
addressing him individually, said:

‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another association connected
with this day which must never be forgotten, and never can be forgotten,
by you and me. This day, which brought into the world a most faithful
and excellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the kindest and very
best of parents, the very best of parents to us both. I wish that
she could have seen us in our prosperity, and shared it, and had the
happiness of knowing how dearly we loved her in it, as we did when we
were two poor boys; but that was not to be. My dear brother--The Memory
of our Mother.’

‘Good Lord!’ thought Nicholas, ‘and there are scores of people of their
own station, knowing all this, and twenty thousand times more, who
wouldn’t ask these men to dinner because they eat with their knives and
never went to school!’

But there was no time to moralise, for the joviality again became very
brisk, and the decanter of port being nearly out, brother Ned pulled the
bell, which was instantly answered by the apoplectic butler.

‘David,’ said brother Ned.

‘Sir,’ replied the butler.

‘A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the health of Mr
Linkinwater.’

Instantly, by a feat of dexterity, which was the admiration of all the
company, and had been, annually, for some years past, the apoplectic
butler, bringing his left hand from behind the small of his back,
produced the bottle with the corkscrew already inserted; uncorked it at
a jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork before his master with the
dignity of conscious cleverness.

‘Ha!’ said brother Ned, first examining the cork and afterwards filling
his glass, while the old butler looked complacently and amiably on, as
if it were all his own property, but the company were quite welcome to
make free with it, ‘this looks well, David.’

‘It ought to, sir,’ replied David. ‘You’d be troubled to find such a
glass of wine as is our double-diamond, and that Mr. Linkinwater knows
very well. That was laid down when Mr. Linkinwater first come: that wine
was, gentlemen.’

‘Nay, David, nay,’ interposed brother Charles.

‘I wrote the entry in the cellar-book myself, sir, if you please,’ said
David, in the tone of a man, quite confident in the strength of his
facts. ‘Mr. Linkinwater had only been here twenty year, sir, when that
pipe of double-diamond was laid down.’

‘David is quite right, quite right, brother Charles,’ said Ned: ‘are the
people here, David?’

‘Outside the door, sir,’ replied the butler.

‘Show ‘em in, David, show ‘em in.’

At this bidding, the older butler placed before his master a small tray
of clean glasses, and opening the door admitted the jolly porters and
warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below. They were four in all, and as
they came in, bowing, and grinning, and blushing, the housekeeper, and
cook, and housemaid, brought up the rear.

‘Seven,’ said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number of glasses
with the double-diamond, ‘and David, eight. There! Now, you’re all of
you to drink the health of your best friend Mr. Timothy Linkinwater, and
wish him health and long life and many happy returns of this day, both
for his own sake and that of your old masters, who consider him an
inestimable treasure. Tim Linkinwater, sir, your health. Devil take you,
Tim Linkinwater, sir, God bless you.’

With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave Tim
Linkinwater a slap on the back, which made him look, for the moment,
almost as apoplectic as the butler: and tossed off the contents of his
glass in a twinkling.

The toast was scarcely drunk with all honour to Tim Linkinwater, when
the sturdiest and jolliest subordinate elbowed himself a little
in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a very hot and flushed
countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hair in the middle of his
forehead as a respectful salute to the company, and delivered himself
as follows--rubbing the palms of his hands very hard on a blue cotton
handkerchief as he did so:

‘We’re allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen’lemen, and if you
please we’ll take it now; there being no time like the present, and no
two birds in the hand worth one in the bush, as is well known--leastways
in a contrairy sense, which the meaning is the same. (A pause--the
butler unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that there never
was (looking at the butler)--such--(looking at the cook)
noble--excellent--(looking everywhere and seeing nobody) free,
generous-spirited masters as them as has treated us so handsome
this day. And here’s thanking of ‘em for all their goodness as is so
constancy a diffusing of itself over everywhere, and wishing they may
live long and die happy!’

When the foregoing speech was over--and it might have been much more
elegant and much less to the purpose--the whole body of subordinates
under command of the apoplectic butler gave three soft cheers; which, to
that gentleman’s great indignation, were not very regular, inasmuch as
the women persisted in giving an immense number of little shrill hurrahs
among themselves, in utter disregard of the time. This done, they
withdrew; shortly afterwards, Tim Linkinwater’s sister withdrew; in
reasonable time after that, the sitting was broken up for tea and
coffee, and a round game of cards.

At half-past ten--late hours for the square--there appeared a little
tray of sandwiches and a bowl of bishop, which bishop coming on the top
of the double-diamond, and other excitements, had such an effect
upon Tim Linkinwater, that he drew Nicholas aside, and gave him to
understand, confidentially, that it was quite true about the uncommonly
handsome spinster, and that she was to the full as good-looking as she
had been described--more so, indeed--but that she was in too much of a
hurry to change her condition, and consequently, while Tim was courting
her and thinking of changing his, got married to somebody else. ‘After
all, I dare say it was my fault,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll show you a print
I have got upstairs, one of these days. It cost me five-and-twenty
shillings. I bought it soon after we were cool to each other. Don’t
mention it, but it’s the most extraordinary accidental likeness you ever
saw--her very portrait, sir!’

By this time it was past eleven o’clock; and Tim Linkinwater’s sister
declaring that she ought to have been at home a full hour ago, a coach
was procured, into which she was handed with great ceremony by brother
Ned, while brother Charles imparted the fullest directions to the
coachman, and besides paying the man a shilling over and above his fare,
in order that he might take the utmost care of the lady, all but choked
him with a glass of spirits of uncommon strength, and then nearly
knocked all the breath out of his body in his energetic endeavours to
knock it in again.

At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister being now
fairly on her way home, Nicholas and Tim Linkinwater’s friend took
their leaves together, and left old Tim and the worthy brothers to their
repose.

As Nicholas had some distance to walk, it was considerably past midnight
by the time he reached home, where he found his mother and Smike sitting
up to receive him. It was long after their usual hour of retiring, and
they had expected him, at the very latest, two hours ago; but the time
had not hung heavily on their hands, for Mrs. Nickleby had entertained
Smike with a genealogical account of her family by the mother’s side,
comprising biographical sketches of the principal members, and Smike had
sat wondering what it was all about, and whether it was learnt from
a book, or said out of Mrs. Nickleby’s own head; so that they got on
together very pleasantly.

Nicholas could not go to bed without expatiating on the excellences and
munificence of the brothers Cheeryble, and relating the great success
which had attended his efforts that day. But before he had said a dozen
words, Mrs. Nickleby, with many sly winks and nods, observed, that she
was sure Mr. Smike must be quite tired out, and that she positively must
insist on his not sitting up a minute longer.

‘A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, when
Smike had wished them good-night and left the room. ‘I know you’ll
excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don’t like to do this before a third
person; indeed, before a young man it would not be quite proper, though
really, after all, I don’t know what harm there is in it, except that
to be sure it’s not a very becoming thing, though some people say it is
very much so, and really I don’t know why it should not be, if it’s
well got up, and the borders are small-plaited; of course, a good deal
depends upon that.’

With which preface, Mrs. Nickleby took her nightcap from between the
leaves of a very large prayer-book where it had been folded up small,
and proceeded to tie it on: talking away in her usual discursive manner,
all the time.

‘People may say what they like,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby, ‘but there’s
a great deal of comfort in a nightcap, as I’m sure you would confess,
Nicholas my dear, if you would only have strings to yours, and wear it
like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very top of your head
like a blue-coat boy. You needn’t think it an unmanly or quizzical thing
to be particular about your nightcap, for I have often heard your poor
dear papa, and the Reverend Mr. What’s-his-name, who used to read prayers
in that old church with the curious little steeple that the weathercock
was blown off the night week before you were born,--I have often heard
them say, that the young men at college are uncommonly particular about
their nightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated
for their strength and goodness; so much so, indeed, that the young men
never dream of going to bed without ‘em, and I believe it’s admitted on
all hands that THEY know what’s good, and don’t coddle themselves.’

Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject of this
lengthened harangue, reverted to the pleasant tone of the little
birthday party. And as Mrs. Nickleby instantly became very curious
respecting it, and made a great number of inquiries touching what they
had had for dinner, and how it was put on table, and whether it was
overdone or underdone, and who was there, and what ‘the Mr. Cherrybles’
said, and what Nicholas said, and what the Mr. Cherrybles said when he
said that; Nicholas described the festivities at full length, and also
the occurrences of the morning.

‘Late as it is,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am almost selfish enough to wish
that Kate had been up to hear all this. I was all impatience, as I came
along, to tell her.’

‘Why, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, putting her feet upon the fender, and
drawing her chair close to it, as if settling herself for a long
talk. ‘Kate has been in bed--oh! a couple of hours--and I’m very glad,
Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to sit up, for I wished
very much to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you. I am
naturally anxious about it, and of course it’s a very delightful and
consoling thing to have a grown-up son that one can put confidence in,
and advise with; indeed I don’t know any use there would be in having
sons at all, unless people could put confidence in them.’

Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to
speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.

‘There was a lady in our neighbourhood,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘speaking
of sons puts me in mind of it--a lady in our neighbourhood when we lived
near Dawlish, I think her name was Rogers; indeed I am sure it was if it
wasn’t Murphy, which is the only doubt I have--’

‘Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?’ said Nicholas
quietly.

‘About HER!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how
CAN you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor
dear papa,--just his way--always wandering, never able to fix his
thoughts on any one subject for two minutes together. I think I see him
now!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes, ‘looking at me while I was
talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state
of perfect conglomeration! Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly,
would have supposed I was confusing and distracting him instead of
making things plainer; upon my word they would.’

‘I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate
slowness of apprehension,’ said Nicholas, kindly; ‘but I’ll do my best
to understand you, if you’ll only go straight on: indeed I will.’

‘Your poor pa!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, pondering. ‘He never knew, till it
was too late, what I would have had him do!’

This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr. Nickleby had
not arrived at the knowledge. Then he died. Neither had Mrs. Nickleby
herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation of the circumstance.

‘However,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, drying her tears, ‘this has nothing to
do--certainly nothing whatever to do--with the gentleman in the next
house.’

‘I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to
do with us,’ returned Nicholas.

‘There can be no doubt,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that he IS a gentleman,
and has the manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentleman,
although he does wear smalls and grey worsted stockings. That may
be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don’t see why he
shouldn’t be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel
Lambert, who was also a fat man; HE was proud of his legs. So was Miss
Biffin: she was--no,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, correcting, herself, ‘I think
she had only toes, but the principle is the same.’

Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme.
Which seemed just what Mrs. Nickleby had expected him to be.

‘You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am sure I
was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my blood.
The bottom of his garden joins the bottom of ours, and of course I had
several times seen him sitting among the scarlet-beans in his little
arbour, or working at his little hot-beds. I used to think he stared
rather, but I didn’t take any particular notice of that, as we were
newcomers, and he might be curious to see what we were like. But when he
began to throw his cucumbers over our wall--’

‘To throw his cucumbers over our wall!’ repeated Nicholas, in great
astonishment.

‘Yes, Nicholas, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby in a very serious tone;
‘his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.’

‘Confound his impudence!’ said Nicholas, firing immediately. ‘What does
he mean by that?’

‘I don’t think he means it impertinently at all,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.

‘What!’ said Nicholas, ‘cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at the
heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, and not meant
impertinently! Why, mother--’

Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of
placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between
the borders of Mrs. Nickleby’s nightcap, which arrested his attention
suddenly.

‘He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,’ said
Mrs. Nickleby; ‘blamable indeed--at least I suppose other people would
consider him so; of course I can’t be expected to express any opinion on
that point, especially after always defending your poor dear papa when
other people blamed him for making proposals to me; and to be sure there
can be no doubt that he has taken a very singular way of showing it.
Still at the same time, his attentions are--that is, as far as it goes,
and to a certain extent of course--a flattering sort of thing; and
although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl like
Kate still unsettled in life--’

‘Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?’
said Nicholas.

‘Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,’ returned his mother in a peevish
tone, ‘isn’t that precisely what I am saying, if you would only let me
speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, and I am surprised
and astonished that you should suppose me capable of such a thing. All
I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to reject these advances
civilly and delicately, and without hurting his feelings too much,
and driving him to despair, or anything of that kind? My goodness me!’
exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby, with a half-simper, ‘suppose he was to go doing
anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas?’

Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling,
as he rejoined, ‘Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be
likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?’

‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby; ‘really,
I don’t know. I am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday’s
paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers, about a journeyman
shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an adjoining
village, because she wouldn’t shut herself up in an air-tight
three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him; and who
went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed
out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first,
and then all the friends, and then her--no, killed all the friends
first, and then herself, and then HIMself--which it is quite frightful
to think of. Somehow or other,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a momentary
pause, ‘they always ARE journeyman shoemakers who do these things in
France, according to the papers. I don’t know how it is--something in
the leather, I suppose.’

‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker--what has he done, mother, what
has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but
looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs. Nickleby herself. ‘You
know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into
a formal declaration of attachment.’

‘My dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the
ashes in the grate, ‘he has done and said all sorts of things.’

‘Is there no mistake on your part?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Mistake!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I
don’t know when a man’s in earnest?’

‘Well, well!’ muttered Nicholas.

‘Every time I go to the window,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘he kisses one hand,
and lays the other upon his heart--of course it’s very foolish of him
to do so, and I dare say you’ll say it’s very wrong, but he does it very
respectfully--very respectfully indeed--and very tenderly, extremely
tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt
about that. Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the
wall every day, and very fine they certainly are, very fine; we had one
of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of pickling the rest
for next winter. And last evening,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, with increased
confusion, ‘he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the
garden, and proposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear
as a bell or a musical glass--very like a musical glass indeed--but of
course I didn’t listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear,
what am I to do?’

‘Does Kate know of this?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I have not said a word about it yet,’ answered his mother.

‘Then, for Heaven’s sake,’ rejoined Nicholas, rising, ‘do not, for it
would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what you should do, my
dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling, and respect for my
father’s memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways in which you
can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting attentions. If
you act as decidedly as you ought and they are still continued, and
to your annoyance, I can speedily put a stop to them. But I should not
interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance to it, until
you have vindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially
one of your age and condition, in circumstances like these, which are
unworthy of a serious thought. I would not shame you by seeming to
take them to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant. Absurd old
idiot!’

So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good-night, and they
retired to their respective chambers.

To do Mrs. Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would have
prevented her seriously contemplating a second marriage, even if she
could have so far conquered her recollections of her late husband as to
have any strong inclinations that way. But, although there was no evil
and little real selfishness in Mrs. Nickleby’s heart, she had a weak head
and a vain one; and there was something so flattering in being sought
(and vainly sought) in marriage at this time of day, that she could
not dismiss the passion of the unknown gentleman quite so summarily or
lightly as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.

‘As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,’ thought Mrs
Nickleby, communing with herself in her own room, ‘I don’t see that,
at all. It’s hopeless on his part, certainly; but why he should be an
absurd old idiot, I confess I don’t see. He is not to be supposed to
know it’s hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, I think!’

Having made these reflections, Mrs. Nickleby looked in her little
dressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried
to remember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas was
one-and-twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother than her
son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished
her candle, and drew up the window-blind to admit the light of morning,
which had, by this time, begun to dawn.

‘It’s a bad light to distinguish objects in,’ murmured Mrs. Nickleby,
peering into the garden, ‘and my eyes are not very good--I was
short-sighted from a child--but, upon my word, I think there’s another
large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the broken glass
bottles at the top of the wall!’



CHAPTER 38

Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence,
which may prove important hereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a
very old Friend, who invites him to his House, and will take no Denial


Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorous neighbour, or
their effects upon the susceptible bosom of her mama, Kate Nickleby
had, by this time, begun to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquillity and
happiness, to which, even in occasional and transitory glimpses, she
had long been a stranger. Living under the same roof with the beloved
brother from whom she had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with
a mind at ease, and free from any persecutions which could call a blush
into her cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passed into
a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her step
regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had forsaken
her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more beautiful
than ever.

Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy’s ruminations and
observations led her, when the cottage had been, as she emphatically
said, ‘thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-pots to the
street-door scraper,’ and the busy little woman had at length a moment’s
time to think about its inmates.

‘Which I declare I haven’t had since I first came down here,’ said
Miss La Creevy; ‘for I have thought of nothing but hammers, nails,
screwdrivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and night.’

‘You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,’ returned
Kate, smiling.

‘Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanter things
to think of, I should be a goose if I did,’ said Miss La Creevy.
‘By-the-bye, I HAVE thought of somebody too. Do you know, that I observe
a great change in one of this family--a very extraordinary change?’

‘In whom?’ asked Kate, anxiously. ‘Not in--’

‘Not in your brother, my dear,’ returned Miss La Creevy, anticipating
the close of the sentence, ‘for he is always the same affectionate
good-natured clever creature, with a spice of the--I won’t say who--in
him when there’s any occasion, that he was when I first knew you. No.
Smike, as he WILL be called, poor fellow! for he won’t hear of a MR
before his name, is greatly altered, even in this short time.’

‘How?’ asked Kate. ‘Not in health?’

‘N--n--o; perhaps not in health exactly,’ said Miss La Creevy, pausing
to consider, ‘although he is a worn and feeble creature, and has that
in his face which it would wring my heart to see in yours. No; not in
health.’

‘How then?’

‘I scarcely know,’ said the miniature painter. ‘But I have watched him,
and he has brought the tears into my eyes many times. It is not a very
difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I am easily melted; still I
think these came with good cause and reason. I am sure that since he has
been here, he has grown, from some strong cause, more conscious of his
weak intellect. He feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know that
he wanders sometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I have
watched him when you have not been by, my dear, sit brooding by himself,
with such a look of pain as I could scarcely bear to see, and then get
up and leave the room: so sorrowfully, and in such dejection, that
I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not three weeks ago, he was a
light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be in a bustle, and as
happy as the day was long. Now, he is another being--the same willing,
harmless, faithful, loving creature--but the same in nothing else.’

‘Surely this will all pass off,’ said Kate. ‘Poor fellow!’

‘I hope,’ returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusual in
her, ‘it may. I hope, for the sake of that poor lad, it may. However,’
said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful, chattering tone, which
was habitual to her, ‘I have said my say, and a very long say it is, and
a very wrong say too, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I shall cheer him up
tonight, at all events, for if he is to be my squire all the way to the
Strand, I shall talk on, and on, and on, and never leave off, till I
have roused him into a laugh at something. So the sooner he goes, the
better for him, and the sooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or
else I shall have my maid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the
house--though what there is to take away, besides tables and chairs,
I don’t know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever thief who can
dispose of them to any great advantage, for I can’t, I know, and that’s
the honest truth.’

So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flat bonnet, and
herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself tightly into the latter,
by means of a large pin, declared that the omnibus might come as soon as
it pleased, for she was quite ready.

But there was still Mrs. Nickleby to take leave of; and long before that
good lady had concluded some reminiscences bearing upon, and appropriate
to, the occasion, the omnibus arrived. This put Miss La Creevy in a
great bustle, in consequence whereof, as she secretly rewarded the
servant girl with eighteen-pence behind the street-door, she pulled
out of her reticule ten-pennyworth of halfpence, which rolled into all
possible corners of the passage, and occupied some considerable time
in the picking up. This ceremony had, of course, to be succeeded by a
second kissing of Kate and Mrs. Nickleby, and a gathering together of the
little basket and the brown-paper parcel, during which proceedings, ‘the
omnibus,’ as Miss La Creevy protested, ‘swore so dreadfully, that it was
quite awful to hear it.’ At length and at last, it made a feint of going
away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, and darted in, apologising
with great volubility to all the passengers, and declaring that she
wouldn’t purposely have kept them waiting on any account whatever. While
she was looking about for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike
in, and cried that it was all right--though it wasn’t--and away went the
huge vehicle, with the noise of half-a-dozen brewers’ drays at least.

Leaving it to pursue its journey at the pleasure of the conductor
aforementioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind,
smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, or
gallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient and advisable; this
narrative may embrace the opportunity of ascertaining the condition of
Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to what extent he had, by this time, recovered
from the injuries consequent on being flung violently from his
cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.

With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfigured by
half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent pain and
fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on the couch to
which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeks yet to come. Mr. Pyke
and Mr. Pluck sat drinking hard in the next room, now and then varying
the monotonous murmurs of their conversation with a half-smothered
laugh, while the young lord--the only member of the party who was not
thoroughly irredeemable, and who really had a kind heart--sat beside his
Mentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light of a
lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as were most
likely to yield him interest or amusement.

‘Curse those hounds!’ said the invalid, turning his head impatiently
towards the adjoining room; ‘will nothing stop their infernal throats?’

Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stopped immediately:
winking to each other as they did so, and filling their glasses to the
brim, as some recompense for the deprivation of speech.

‘Damn!’ muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing
impatiently in his bed. ‘Isn’t this mattress hard enough, and the room
dull enough, and pain bad enough, but THEY must torture me? What’s the
time?’

‘Half-past eight,’ replied his friend.

‘Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,’ said Sir
Mulberry. ‘More piquet. Come.’

It was curious to see how eagerly the sick man, debarred from any change
of position save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched
every motion of his friend in the progress of the game; and with what
eagerness and interest he played, and yet how warily and coolly. His
address and skill were more than twenty times a match for his adversary,
who could make little head against them, even when fortune favoured him
with good cards, which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won every
game; and when his companion threw down the cards, and refused to play
any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and caught up the stakes with a
boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh, though considerably lowered in
tone, that had resounded in Ralph Nickleby’s dining-room, months before.

While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr. Ralph
Nickleby was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.

‘Better,’ said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.

‘Mr. Nickleby wishes to know, sir--’

‘I tell you, better,’ replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon the
table.

The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that Mr. Nickleby
had requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it was not
inconvenient.

‘It IS inconvenient. I can’t see him. I can’t see anybody,’ said his
master, more violently than before. ‘You know that, you blockhead.’

‘I am very sorry, sir,’ returned the man. ‘But Mr. Nickleby pressed so
much, sir--’

The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who, being anxious
to earn his money with a view to future favours, held the door in his
hand, and ventured to linger still.

‘Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?’ inquired Sir
Mulberry, after a little impatient consideration.

‘No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr. Nickleby
said, sir.’

‘Tell him to come up. Here,’ cried Sir Mulberry, calling the man back,
as he passed his hand over his disfigured face, ‘move that lamp, and
put it on the stand behind me. Wheel that table away, and place a chair
there--further off. Leave it so.’

The man obeyed these directions as if he quite comprehended the motive
with which they were dictated, and left the room. Lord Frederick
Verisopht, remarking that he would look in presently, strolled into the
adjoining apartment, and closed the folding door behind him.

Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat
in hand, crept softly into the room, with his body bent forward as if in
profound respect, and his eyes fixed upon the face of his worthy client.

‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chair by the
couch side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, ‘I have had a
bad accident, you see.’

‘I see,’ rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. ‘Bad, indeed! I
should not have known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This IS bad.’

Ralph’s manner was one of profound humility and respect; and the low
tone of voice was that, which the gentlest consideration for a sick man
would have taught a visitor to assume. But the expression of his face,
Sir Mulberry’s being averted, was in extraordinary contrast; and as
he stood, in his usual attitude, calmly looking on the prostrate form
before him, all that part of his features which was not cast into shadow
by his protruding and contracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic
smile.

‘Sit down,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a
violent effort. ‘Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?’

As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and making as
though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but was
determined not to do so, sat down with well-acted confusion.

‘I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,’ said Ralph,
‘twice a day, indeed, at first--and tonight, presuming upon old
acquaintance, and past transactions by which we have mutually benefited
in some degree, I could not resist soliciting admission to your chamber.
Have you--have you suffered much?’ said Ralph, bending forward, and
allowing the same harsh smile to gather upon his face, as the other
closed his eyes.

‘More than enough to please me, and less than enough to please some
broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who lay their ruin between
us, I dare say,’ returned Sir Mulberry, tossing his arm restlessly upon
the coverlet.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intense irritation
with which this had been said; for there was an aggravating, cold
distinctness in his speech and manner which so grated on the sick man
that he could scarcely endure it.

‘And what is it in these “past transactions,” that brought you here
tonight?’ asked Sir Mulberry.

‘Nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘There are some bills of my lord’s which need
renewal; but let them be till you are well. I--I--came,’ said Ralph,
speaking more slowly, and with harsher emphasis, ‘I came to say how
grieved I am that any relative of mine, although disowned by me, should
have inflicted such punishment on you as--’

‘Punishment!’ interposed Sir Mulberry.

‘I know it has been a severe one,’ said Ralph, wilfully mistaking the
meaning of the interruption, ‘and that has made me the more anxious to
tell you that I disown this vagabond--that I acknowledge him as no kin
of mine--and that I leave him to take his deserts from you, and
every man besides. You may wring his neck if you please. I shall not
interfere.’

‘This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?’ asked
Sir Mulberry, clenching his hands and teeth.

‘Noised in all directions,’ replied Ralph. ‘Every club and gaming-room
has rung with it. There has been a good song made about it, as I am
told,’ said Ralph, looking eagerly at his questioner. ‘I have not heard
it myself, not being in the way of such things, but I have been told
it’s even printed--for private circulation--but that’s all over town, of
course.’

‘It’s a lie!’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘I tell you it’s all a lie. The mare
took fright.’

‘They SAY he frightened her,’ observed Ralph, in the same unmoved and
quiet manner. ‘Some say he frightened you, but THAT’S a lie, I know. I
have said that boldly--oh, a score of times! I am a peaceable man, but I
can’t hear folks tell that of you. No, no.’

When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bent forward
with his hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its every line of
sternness had been cast in iron.

‘When I am off this cursed bed,’ said the invalid, actually striking at
his broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, ‘I’ll have such revenge as
never man had yet. By God, I will. Accident favouring him, he has marked
me for a week or two, but I’ll put a mark on him that he shall carry
to his grave. I’ll slit his nose and ears, flog him, maim him for life.
I’ll do more than that; I’ll drag that pattern of chastity, that pink of
prudery, the delicate sister, through--’

It might have been that even Ralph’s cold blood tingled in his cheeks
at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered, that,
knave and usurer as he was, he must, in some early time of infancy, have
twined his arm about her father’s neck. He stopped, and menacing with
his hand, confirmed the unuttered threat with a tremendous oath.

‘It is a galling thing,’ said Ralph, after a short term of silence,
during which he had eyed the sufferer keenly, ‘to think that the man
about town, the rake, the ROUE, the rook of twenty seasons should be
brought to this pass by a mere boy!’

Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph’s eyes were bent
upon the ground, and his face wore no other expression than one of
thoughtfulness.

‘A raw, slight stripling,’ continued Ralph, ‘against a man whose very
weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in--I am right, I
think,’ said Ralph, raising his eyes, ‘you WERE a patron of the ring
once, were you not?’

The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as
one of acquiescence.

‘Ha!’ he said, ‘I thought so. That was before I knew you, but I was
pretty sure I couldn’t be mistaken. He is light and active, I suppose.
But those were slight advantages compared with yours. Luck, luck! These
hang-dog outcasts have it.’

‘He’ll need the most he has, when I am well again,’ said Sir Mulberry
Hawk, ‘let him fly where he will.’

‘Oh!’ returned Ralph quickly, ‘he doesn’t dream of that. He is here,
good sir, waiting your pleasure, here in London, walking the streets
at noonday; carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, I swear,’ said
Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred getting the upper hand
of him, for the first time, as this gay picture of Nicholas presented
itself; ‘if we were only citizens of a country where it could be safely
done, I’d give good money to have him stabbed to the heart and rolled
into the kennel for the dogs to tear.’

As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented this
little piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat preparatory to
departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.

‘Why what in the deyvle’s name, Hawk, have you and Nickleby been talking
about?’ said the young man. ‘I neyver heard such an insufferable riot.
Croak, croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has it all been about?’

‘Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,’ said Ralph, looking towards the
couch.

‘Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has it,
Nickleby?’

‘No, my Lord, no,’ returned Ralph. ‘On that point we always agree. Sir
Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of--’

There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph to proceed; for
Sir Mulberry took up the theme, and vented his threats and oaths against
Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.

Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as this
tirade proceeded, the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht, who at the
commencement had been twirling his whiskers with a most dandified
and listless air, underwent a complete alteration. He was still more
surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to speak, the young lord angrily,
and almost unaffectedly, requested never to have the subject renewed in
his presence.

‘Mind that, Hawk!’ he added, with unusual energy. ‘I never will be a
party to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon this young
fellow.’

‘Cowardly!’ interrupted his friend.

‘Ye-es,’ said the other, turning full upon him. ‘If you had told him
who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out, afterwards,
that his station or character prevented your fighting him, it would have
been bad enough then; upon my soul it would have been bad enough then.
As it is, you did wrong. I did wrong too, not to interfere, and I
am sorry for it. What happened to you afterwards, was as much the
consequence of accident as design, and more your fault than his; and it
shall not, with my knowledge, be cruelly visited upon him, it shall not
indeed.’

With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, the young lord
turned upon his heel; but before he had reached the adjoining room he
turned back again, and said, with even greater vehemence than he had
displayed before,

‘I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister is as
virtuous and modest a young lady as she is a handsome one; and of the
brother, I say this, that he acted as her brother should, and in a manly
and spirited manner. And I only wish, with all my heart and soul, that
any one of us came out of this matter half as well as he does.’

So saying, Lord Frederick Verisopht walked out of the room, leaving
Ralph Nickleby and Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant astonishment.

‘Is this your pupil?’ asked Ralph, softly, ‘or has he come fresh from
some country parson?’

‘Green fools take these fits sometimes,’ replied Sir Mulberry Hawk,
biting his lip, and pointing to the door. ‘Leave him to me.’

Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; for they had
suddenly grown confidential again in this alarming surprise; and took
his way home, thoughtfully and slowly.

While these things were being said and done, and long before they were
concluded, the omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevy and her escort, and
they had arrived at her own door. Now, the good-nature of the little
miniature painter would by no means allow of Smike’s walking back again,
until he had been previously refreshed with just a sip of something
comfortable and a mixed biscuit or so; and Smike, entertaining no
objection either to the sip of something comfortable, or the mixed
biscuit, but, considering on the contrary that they would be a very
pleasant preparation for a walk to Bow, it fell out that he delayed much
longer than he originally intended, and that it was some half-hour after
dusk when he set forth on his journey home.

There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quite straight
before him, and he had walked into town with Nicholas, and back alone,
almost every day. So, Miss La Creevy and he shook hands with mutual
confidence, and, being charged with more kind remembrances to Mrs. and
Miss Nickleby, Smike started off.

At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road to
satisfy his curiosity by having a look at Newgate. After staring up at
the sombre walls, from the opposite side of the way, with great care
and dread for some minutes, he turned back again into the old track, and
walked briskly through the city; stopping now and then to gaze in at the
window of some particularly attractive shop, then running for a little
way, then stopping again, and so on, as any other country lad might do.

He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller’s window, wishing
he could take some of the beautiful trinkets home as a present, and
imagining what delight they would afford if he could, when the clocks
struck three-quarters past eight; roused by the sound, he hurried on at
a very quick pace, and was crossing the corner of a by-street when he
felt himself violently brought to, with a jerk so sudden that he was
obliged to cling to a lamp-post to save himself from falling. At the
same moment, a small boy clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of
‘Here he is, father! Hooray!’ vibrated in his ears.

Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyes downward
towards the form from which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from head
to foot, looked round. Mr. Squeers had hooked him in the coat collar with
the handle of his umbrella, and was hanging on at the other end with all
his might and main. The cry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford,
who, regardless of all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the
tenacity of a bull-dog!

One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified
creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.

‘Here’s a go!’ cried Mr. Squeers, gradually coming hand-over-hand down
the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had got tight hold of the
victim’s collar. ‘Here’s a delicious go! Wackford, my boy, call up one
of them coaches.’

‘A coach, father!’ cried little Wackford.

‘Yes, a coach, sir,’ replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the
countenance of Smike. ‘Damn the expense. Let’s have him in a coach.’

‘What’s he been a doing of?’ asked a labourer with a hod of bricks,
against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr. Squeers had backed, on the first
jerk of the umbrella.

‘Everything!’ replied Mr. Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in
a sort of rapturous trance. ‘Everything--running away, sir--joining in
bloodthirsty attacks upon his master--there’s nothing that’s bad that he
hasn’t done. Oh, what a delicious go is this here, good Lord!’

The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as the
poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him. The coach came up;
Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed in his prize, and following
close at his heels, pulled up the glasses. The coachman mounted his
box and drove slowly off, leaving the two bricklayers, and an old
apple-woman, and a town-made little boy returning from an evening
school, who had been the only witnesses of the scene, to meditate upon
it at their leisure.

Mr. Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to the unfortunate
Smike, and, planting his hands firmly on his knees, looked at him for
some five minutes, when, seeming to recover from his trance, he uttered
a loud laugh, and slapped his old pupil’s face several times--taking the
right and left sides alternately.

‘It isn’t a dream!’ said Squeers. ‘That’s real flesh and blood! I know
the feel of it!’ and being quite assured of his good fortune by these
experiments, Mr. Squeers administered a few boxes on the ear, lest the
entertainments should seem to partake of sameness, and laughed louder
and longer at every one.

‘Your mother will be fit to jump out of her skin, my boy, when she hears
of this,’ said Squeers to his son.

‘Oh, won’t she though, father?’ replied Master Wackford.

‘To think,’ said Squeers, ‘that you and me should be turning out of a
street, and come upon him at the very nick; and that I should have him
tight, at only one cast of the umbrella, as if I had hooked him with a
grappling-iron! Ha, ha!’

‘Didn’t I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?’ said little Wackford.

‘You did; like a good ‘un, my boy,’ said Mr. Squeers, patting his son’s
head, ‘and you shall have the best button-over jacket and waistcoat
that the next new boy brings down, as a reward of merit. Mind that. You
always keep on in the same path, and do them things that you see your
father do, and when you die you’ll go right slap to Heaven and no
questions asked.’

Improving the occasion in these words, Mr. Squeers patted his son’s head
again, and then patted Smike’s--but harder; and inquired in a bantering
tone how he found himself by this time.

‘I must go home,’ replied Smike, looking wildly round.

‘To be sure you must. You’re about right there,’ replied Mr. Squeers.
‘You’ll go home very soon, you will. You’ll find yourself at the
peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in something under a week’s
time, my young friend; and the next time you get away from there, I
give you leave to keep away. Where’s the clothes you run off in, you
ungrateful robber?’ said Mr. Squeers, in a severe voice.

Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas had provided
for him; and wrung his hands.

‘Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the Old Bailey, for
making away with them articles of property?’ said Squeers. ‘Do you know
that it’s a hanging matter--and I an’t quite certain whether it an’t
an anatomy one besides--to walk off with up’ards of the valley of five
pound from a dwelling-house? Eh? Do you know that? What do you suppose
was the worth of them clothes you had? Do you know that that Wellington
boot you wore, cost eight-and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and
the shoe seven-and-six? But you came to the right shop for mercy when
you came to me, and thank your stars that it IS me as has got to serve
you with the article.’

Anybody not in Mr. Squeers’s confidence would have supposed that he was
quite out of the article in question, instead of having a large stock
on hand ready for all comers; nor would the opinion of sceptical persons
have undergone much alteration when he followed up the remark by poking
Smike in the chest with the ferrule of his umbrella, and dealing a smart
shower of blows, with the ribs of the same instrument, upon his head and
shoulders.

‘I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,’ said Mr. Squeers,
when he stopped to rest. ‘There’s inconveniency in it, but the novelty
gives it a sort of relish, too!’

Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, and now shrunk
into a corner of the coach, with his head resting on his hands, and his
elbows on his knees; he was stunned and stupefied, and had no more idea
that any act of his, would enable him to escape from the all-powerful
Squeers, now that he had no friend to speak to or to advise with, than
he had had in all the weary years of his Yorkshire life which preceded
the arrival of Nicholas.

The journey seemed endless; street after street was entered and left
behind; and still they went jolting on. At last Mr. Squeers began to
thrust his head out of the widow every half-minute, and to bawl a
variety of directions to the coachman; and after passing, with some
difficulty, through several mean streets which the appearance of the
houses and the bad state of the road denoted to have been recently
built, Mr. Squeers suddenly tugged at the check string with all his
might, and cried, ‘Stop!’

‘What are you pulling a man’s arm off for?’ said the coachman looking
angrily down.

‘That’s the house,’ replied Squeers. ‘The second of them four little
houses, one story high, with the green shutters. There’s brass plate on
the door, with the name of Snawley.’

‘Couldn’t you say that without wrenching a man’s limbs off his body?’
inquired the coachman.

‘No!’ bawled Mr. Squeers. ‘Say another word, and I’ll summons you for
having a broken winder. Stop!’

Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr. Snawley’s door.
Mr. Snawley may be remembered as the sleek and sanctified gentleman
who confided two sons (in law) to the parental care of Mr. Squeers, as
narrated in the fourth chapter of this history. Mr. Snawley’s house was
on the extreme borders of some new settlements adjoining Somers Town,
and Mr. Squeers had taken lodgings therein for a short time, as his stay
was longer than usual, and the Saracen, having experience of Master
Wackford’s appetite, had declined to receive him on any other terms than
as a full-grown customer.

‘Here we are!’ said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour,
where Mr. Snawley and his wife were taking a lobster supper. ‘Here’s the
vagrant--the felon--the rebel--the monster of unthankfulness.’

‘What! The boy that run away!’ cried Snawley, resting his knife and fork
upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their full width.

‘The very boy’, said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike’s nose,
and drawing it away again, and repeating the process several times, with
a vicious aspect. ‘If there wasn’t a lady present, I’d fetch him such
a--: never mind, I’ll owe it him.’

And here Mr. Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and where,
he had picked up the runaway.

‘It’s clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,’ said Mr
Snawley, casting down his eyes with an air of humility, and elevating
his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards the ceiling.

‘Providence is against him, no doubt,’ replied Mr. Squeers, scratching
his nose. ‘Of course; that was to be expected. Anybody might have known
that.’

‘Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,’ said Mr
Snawley.

‘Never was such a thing known,’ rejoined Squeers, taking a little roll
of notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were all safe.

‘I have been, Mr. Snawley,’ said Mr. Squeers, when he had satisfied
himself upon this point, ‘I have been that chap’s benefactor, feeder,
teacher, and clother. I have been that chap’s classical, commercial,
mathematical, philosophical, and trigonomical friend. My son--my only
son, Wackford--has been his brother; Mrs. Squeers has been his mother,
grandmother, aunt,--ah! and I may say uncle too, all in one. She never
cottoned to anybody, except them two engaging and delightful boys of
yours, as she cottoned to this chap. What’s my return? What’s come of
my milk of human kindness? It turns into curds and whey when I look at
him.’

‘Well it may, sir,’ said Mrs. Snawley. ‘Oh! Well it may, sir.’

‘Where has he been all this time?’ inquired Snawley. ‘Has he been living
with--?’

‘Ah, sir!’ interposed Squeers, confronting him again. ‘Have you been a
living with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?’

But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word of reply to
this question; for he had internally resolved that he would rather
perish in the wretched prison to which he was again about to be
consigned, than utter one syllable which could involve his first and
true friend. He had already called to mind the strict injunctions of
secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had laid upon him when they
travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused and perplexed idea that his
benefactor might have committed some terrible crime in bringing him
away, which would render him liable to heavy punishment if detected,
had contributed, in some degree, to reduce him to his present state of
apathy and terror.

Such were the thoughts--if to visions so imperfect and undefined as
those which wandered through his enfeebled brain, the term can be
applied--which were present to the mind of Smike, and rendered him deaf
alike to intimidation and persuasion. Finding every effort useless, Mr
Squeers conducted him to a little back room up-stairs, where he was to
pass the night; and, taking the precaution of removing his shoes, and
coat and waistcoat, and also of locking the door on the outside, lest
he should muster up sufficient energy to make an attempt at escape, that
worthy gentleman left him to his meditations.

What those meditations were, and how the poor creature’s heart sunk
within him when he thought--when did he, for a moment, cease to
think?--of his late home, and the dear friends and familiar faces with
which it was associated, cannot be told. To prepare the mind for such
a heavy sleep, its growth must be stopped by rigour and cruelty in
childhood; there must be years of misery and suffering, lightened by no
ray of hope; the chords of the heart, which beat a quick response to the
voice of gentleness and affection, must have rusted and broken in their
secret places, and bear the lingering echo of no old word of love or
kindness. Gloomy, indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the
long, long twilight, preceding such a night of intellect as his.

There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but their
welcome tones could not penetrate there; and he crept to bed the same
listless, hopeless, blighted creature, that Nicholas had first found him
at the Yorkshire school.



CHAPTER 39

In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to
some Purpose


The night, fraught with so much bitterness to one poor soul, had given
place to a bright and cloudless summer morning, when a north-country
mail-coach traversed, with cheerful noise, the yet silent streets
of Islington, and, giving brisk note of its approach with the lively
winding of the guard’s horn, clattered onward to its halting-place hard
by the Post Office.

The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-looking countryman on
the box, who, with his eyes fixed upon the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral,
appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as to be quite insensible to all
the bustle of getting out the bags and parcels, until one of the coach
windows being let sharply down, he looked round, and encountered a
pretty female face which was just then thrust out.

‘See there, lass!’ bawled the countryman, pointing towards the object of
his admiration. ‘There be Paul’s Church. ‘Ecod, he be a soizable ‘un, he
be.’

‘Goodness, John! I shouldn’t have thought it could have been half the
size. What a monster!’

‘Monsther!--Ye’re aboot right theer, I reckon, Mrs. Browdie,’ said the
countryman good-humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge top-coat;
‘and wa’at dost thee tak yon place to be noo--thot’un owor the wa’? Ye’d
never coom near it ‘gin you thried for twolve moonths. It’s na’ but a
Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge for dooble-latthers. A Poast
Office! Wa’at dost thee think o’ thot? ‘Ecod, if thot’s on’y a Poast
Office, I’d loike to see where the Lord Mayor o’ Lunnun lives.’

So saying, John Browdie--for he it was--opened the coach-door, and
tapping Mrs. Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he looked in,
burst into a boisterous fit of laughter.

‘Weel!’ said John. ‘Dang my bootuns if she bean’t asleep agean!’

‘She’s been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for a
minute or two now and then,’ replied John Browdie’s choice, ‘and I was
very sorry when she woke, for she has been SO cross!’

The subject of these remarks was a slumbering figure, so muffled in
shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter of impossibility to
guess at its sex but for a brown beaver bonnet and green veil which
ornamented the head, and which, having been crushed and flattened, for
two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular angle of the vehicle
from which the lady’s snores now proceeded, presented an appearance
sufficiently ludicrous to have moved less risible muscles than those of
John Browdie’s ruddy face.

‘Hollo!’ cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil. ‘Coom,
wakken oop, will ‘ee?’

After several burrowings into the old corner, and many exclamations of
impatience and fatigue, the figure struggled into a sitting posture; and
there, under a mass of crumpled beaver, and surrounded by a semicircle
of blue curl-papers, were the delicate features of Miss Fanny Squeers.

‘Oh, ‘Tilda!’ cried Miss Squeers, ‘how you have been kicking of me
through this blessed night!’

‘Well, I do like that,’ replied her friend, laughing, ‘when you have had
nearly the whole coach to yourself.’

‘Don’t deny it, ‘Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, impressively, ‘because you
have, and it’s no use to go attempting to say you haven’t. You mightn’t
have known it in your sleep, ‘Tilda, but I haven’t closed my eyes for a
single wink, and so I THINK I am to be believed.’

With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil, which
nothing but supernatural interference and an utter suspension of
nature’s laws could have reduced to any shape or form; and evidently
flattering herself that it looked uncommonly neat, brushed off the
sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumulated in her lap,
and availing herself of John Browdie’s proffered arm, descended from the
coach.

‘Noo,’ said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the ladies
and the luggage hurried in, ‘gang to the Sarah’s Head, mun.’

‘To the VERE?’ cried the coachman.

‘Lawk, Mr. Browdie!’ interrupted Miss Squeers. ‘The idea! Saracen’s
Head.’

‘Sure-ly,’ said John, ‘I know’d it was something aboot Sarah’s Son’s
Head. Dost thou know thot?’

‘Oh, ah! I know that,’ replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the
door.

‘’Tilda, dear, really,’ remonstrated Miss Squeers, ‘we shall be taken
for I don’t know what.’

‘Let them tak’ us as they foind us,’ said John Browdie; ‘we dean’t come
to Lunnun to do nought but ‘joy oursel, do we?’

‘I hope not, Mr. Browdie,’ replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly
dismal.

‘Well, then,’ said John, ‘it’s no matther. I’ve only been a married man
fower days, ‘account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin’ it off. Here
be a weddin’ party--broide and broide’s-maid, and the groom--if a mun
dean’t ‘joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it all, thot’s what I
want to know.’

So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose no
time, Mr. Browdie gave his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in wresting
another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly resistance of scratching and
struggling on the part of that young lady, which was not quite over when
they reached the Saracen’s Head.

Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment of sleep
being necessary after so long a journey; and here they met again
about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction of Mr. John
Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an uninterrupted
view of the stables.

To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested of the brown beaver, the green
veil, and the blue curl-papers, and arrayed in all the virgin splendour
of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslin bonnet, and an
imitative damask rose in full bloom on the inside thereof--her luxuriant
crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it was impossible they
could come out by any accident, and her bonnet-cap trimmed with little
damask roses, which might be supposed to be so many promising scions of
the big rose--to have seen all this, and to have seen the broad
damask belt, matching both the family rose and the little roses, which
encircled her slender waist, and by a happy ingenuity took off from the
shortness of the spencer behind,--to have beheld all this, and to have
taken further into account the coral bracelets (rather short of beads,
and with a very visible black string) which clasped her wrists, and the
coral necklace which rested on her neck, supporting, outside her frock,
a lonely cornelian heart, typical of her own disengaged affections--to
have contemplated all these mute but expressive appeals to the purest
feelings of our nature, might have thawed the frost of age, and added
new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.

The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had human passions and
feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed the
muffins.

‘Is my pa in, do you know?’ asked Miss Squeers with dignity.

‘Beg your pardon, miss?’

‘My pa,’ repeated Miss Squeers; ‘is he in?’

‘In where, miss?’

‘In here--in the house!’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘My pa--Mr. Wackford
Squeers--he’s stopping here. Is he at home?’

‘I didn’t know there was any gen’l’man of that name in the house, miss’
replied the waiter. ‘There may be, in the coffee-room.’

MAY BE. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, who had been
depending, all the way to London, upon showing her friends how much
at home she would be, and how much respectful notice her name and
connections would excite, told that her father MIGHT be there! ‘As if he
was a feller!’ observed Miss Squeers, with emphatic indignation.

‘Ye’d betther inquire, mun,’ said John Browdie. ‘An’ hond up another
pigeon-pie, will ‘ee? Dang the chap,’ muttered John, looking into the
empty dish as the waiter retired; ‘does he ca’ this a pie--three yoong
pigeons and a troifling matther o’ steak, and a crust so loight that you
doant know when it’s in your mooth and when it’s gane? I wonder hoo many
pies goes to a breakfast!’

After a short interval, which John Browdie employed upon the ham and
a cold round of beef, the waiter returned with another pie, and the
information that Mr. Squeers was not stopping in the house, but that he
came there every day and that directly he arrived, he should be shown
upstairs. With this, he retired; and he had not retired two minutes,
when he returned with Mr. Squeers and his hopeful son.

‘Why, who’d have thought of this?’ said Mr. Squeers, when he had saluted
the party and received some private family intelligence from his
daughter.

‘Who, indeed, pa!’ replied that young lady, spitefully. ‘But you see
‘Tilda IS married at last.’

‘And I stond threat for a soight o’ Lunnun, schoolmeasther,’ said John,
vigorously attacking the pie.

‘One of them things that young men do when they get married,’ returned
Squeers; ‘and as runs through with their money like nothing at all! How
much better wouldn’t it be now, to save it up for the eddication of
any little boys, for instance! They come on you,’ said Mr. Squeers in a
moralising way, ‘before you’re aware of it; mine did upon me.’

‘Will ‘ee pick a bit?’ said John.

‘I won’t myself,’ returned Squeers; ‘but if you’ll just let little
Wackford tuck into something fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give it him in
his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there’s lot of profit on
this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waiter coming, sir,
shove it in your pocket and look out of the window, d’ye hear?’

‘I’m awake, father,’ replied the dutiful Wackford.

‘Well,’ said Squeers, turning to his daughter, ‘it’s your turn to be
married next. You must make haste.’

‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ said Miss Squeers, very sharply.

‘No, Fanny?’ cried her old friend with some archness.

‘No, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently. ‘I can
wait.’

‘So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,’ observed Mrs. Browdie.

‘They an’t draw’d into it by ME, ‘Tilda,’ retorted Miss Squeers.

‘No,’ returned her friend; ‘that’s exceedingly true.’

The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather
acrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a
constitutionally vicious temper--aggravated, just now, by travel and
recent jolting--was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the
failure of her own designs upon Mr. Browdie; and the acrimonious retort
might have led to a great many other retorts, which might have led to
Heaven knows what, if the subject of conversation had not been, at that
precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr. Squeers himself

‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you suppose we have
laid hands on, Wackford and me?’

‘Pa! not Mr--?’ Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs
Browdie did it for her, and added, ‘Nickleby?’

‘No,’ said Squeers. ‘But next door to him though.’

‘You can’t mean Smike?’ cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.

‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard and fast.’

‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Got that
poor--dom’d scoondrel? Where?’

‘Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,’ replied Squeers, ‘with him
on one side, and the key on the other.’

‘At thy loodgin’! Thee’st gotten him at thy loodgin’? Ho! ho! The
schoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I’m darned but
I must shak thee by the hond for thot.--Gotten him at thy loodgin’?’

‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under the congratulatory
blow on the chest which the stout Yorkshireman dealt him; ‘thankee.
Don’t do it again. You mean it kindly, I know, but it hurts rather. Yes,
there he is. That’s not so bad, is it?’

‘Ba’ad!’ repeated John Browdie. ‘It’s eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell
on.’

‘I thought it would surprise you a bit,’ said Squeers, rubbing his
hands. ‘It was pretty neatly done, and pretty quick too.’

‘Hoo wor it?’ inquired John, sitting down close to him. ‘Tell us all
aboot it, mun; coom, quick!’

Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie’s impatience, Mr
Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his
hands, as quickly as he could, and, except when he was interrupted by
the admiring remarks of his auditors, paused not in the recital until he
had brought it to an end.

‘For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,’ observed Squeers,
when he had finished, looking very cunning, ‘I’ve taken three outsides
for tomorrow morning--for Wackford and him and me--and have arranged to
leave the accounts and the new boys to the agent, don’t you see? So it’s
very lucky you come today, or you’d have missed us; and as it is, unless
you could come and tea with me tonight, we shan’t see anything more of
you before we go away.’

‘Dean’t say anoother wurd,’ returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him by
the hand. ‘We’d coom, if it was twonty mile.’

‘No, would you though?’ returned Mr. Squeers, who had not expected quite
such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or he would have considered
twice before he gave it.

John Browdie’s only reply was another squeeze of the hand, and an
assurance that they would not begin to see London till tomorrow, so that
they might be at Mr. Snawley’s at six o’clock without fail; and after
some further conversation, Mr. Squeers and his son departed.

During the remainder of the day, Mr. Browdie was in a very odd and
excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion of laughter,
and then taking up his hat and running into the coach-yard to have it
out by himself. He was very restless too, constantly walking in and out,
and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps of uncouth country dances,
and, in short, conducting himself in such a very extraordinary manner,
that Miss Squeers opined he was going mad, and, begging her dear ‘Tilda
not to distress herself, communicated her suspicions in so many words.
Mrs. Browdie, however, without discovering any great alarm, observed that
she had seen him so once before, and that although he was almost sure to
be ill after it, it would not be anything very serious, and therefore he
was better left alone.

The result proved her to be perfectly correct for, while they were all
sitting in Mr. Snawley’s parlour that night, and just as it was beginning
to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, and seized with such an
alarming dizziness in the head, that the whole company were thrown into
the utmost consternation. His good lady, indeed, was the only person
present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he
were allowed to lie down on Mr. Squeers’s bed for an hour or so, and left
entirely to himself, he would be sure to recover again almost as quickly
as he had been taken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the effect of so
reasonable a proposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John
was supported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrous weight,
and regularly tumbling down two steps every time they hoisted him up
three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in charge of his wife, who,
after a short interval, reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying
intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.

Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, John Browdie was
sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen, cramming the corner
of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent his roaring out loud with
laughter. He had no sooner succeeded in suppressing this emotion, than
he slipped off his shoes, and creeping to the adjoining room where the
prisoner was confined, turned the key, which was on the outside, and
darting in, covered Smike’s mouth with his huge hand before he could
utter a sound.

‘Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?’ whispered the Yorkshireman to
the bewildered lad. ‘Browdie. Chap as met thee efther schoolmeasther was
banged?’

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Smike. ‘Oh! help me.’

‘Help thee!’ replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instant he
had said this much. ‘Thee didn’t need help, if thee warn’t as silly
yoongster as ever draw’d breath. Wa’at did ‘ee come here for, then?’

‘He brought me; oh! he brought me,’ cried Smike.

‘Brout thee!’ replied John. ‘Why didn’t ‘ee punch his head, or lay
theeself doon and kick, and squeal out for the pollis? I’d ha’ licked
a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee. But thee be’est a poor
broken-doon chap,’ said John, sadly, ‘and God forgi’ me for bragging
ower yan o’ his weakest creeturs!’

Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.

‘Stan’ still,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘and doant’ee speak a morsel o’
talk till I tell’ee.’

With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly, and
drawing a screwdriver from his pocket, took off the box of the lock in
a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and laid it, together with the
implement, on the floor.

‘See thot?’ said John ‘Thot be thy doin’. Noo, coot awa’!’

Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning.

‘I say, coot awa’,’ repeated John, hastily. ‘Dost thee know where thee
livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or schoolmeasther’s?’

‘Mine,’ replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to the adjoining
room, and pointed out a pair of shoes and a coat which were lying on a
chair.

‘On wi’ ‘em,’ said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrong sleeve,
and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive’s neck. ‘Noo,
foller me, and when thee get’st ootside door, turn to the right, and
they wean’t see thee pass.’

‘But--but--he’ll hear me shut the door,’ replied Smike, trembling from
head to foot.

‘Then dean’t shut it at all,’ retorted John Browdie. ‘Dang it, thee
bean’t afeard o’ schoolmeasther’s takkin cold, I hope?’

‘N-no,’ said Smike, his teeth chattering in his head. ‘But he brought me
back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.’

‘He wull, he wull!’ replied John impatiently. ‘He wean’t, he wean’t.
Look’ee! I wont to do this neighbourly loike, and let them think thee’s
gotten awa’ o’ theeself, but if he cooms oot o’ thot parlour awhiles
theer’t clearing off, he mun’ have mercy on his oun boans, for I wean’t.
If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I’ll put ‘un on a wrong scent, I
warrant ‘ee. But if thee keep’st a good hart, thee’lt be at whoam afore
they know thee’st gotten off. Coom!’

Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it was intended
as encouragement, prepared to follow with tottering steps, when John
whispered in his ear.

‘Thee’lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m sploiced to ‘Tilly Price, and
to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that I bean’t jealous of
‘un--dang it, I’m loike to boost when I think o’ that neight! ‘Cod, I
think I see ‘un now, a powderin’ awa’ at the thin bread an’ butther!’

It was rather a ticklish recollection for John just then, for he was
within an ace of breaking out into a loud guffaw. Restraining himself,
however, just in time, by a great effort, he glided downstairs, hauling
Smike behind him; and placing himself close to the parlour door, to
confront the first person that might come out, signed to him to make
off.

Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Opening the
house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled gratitude and terror
at his deliverer, he took the direction which had been indicated to him,
and sped away like the wind.

The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but, finding
that there was no pause in the conversation inside, crept back again
unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a full hour.
Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into Mr. Squeers’s bed, once
more, and drawing the clothes over his head, laughed till he was nearly
smothered.

If there could only have been somebody by, to see how the bedclothes
shook, and to see the Yorkshireman’s great red face and round head
appear above the sheets, every now and then, like some jovial monster
coming to the surface to breathe, and once more dive down convulsed with
the laughter which came bursting forth afresh--that somebody would have
been scarcely less amused than John Browdie himself.



CHAPTER 40

In which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs a Mediator, whose
Proceedings are crowned with unexpected Success, excepting in one
solitary Particular


Once more out of the clutches of his old persecutor, it needed no fresh
stimulation to call forth the utmost energy and exertion that Smike was
capable of summoning to his aid. Without pausing for a moment to reflect
upon the course he was taking, or the probability of its leading him
homewards or the reverse, he fled away with surprising swiftness and
constancy of purpose, borne upon such wings as only Fear can wear, and
impelled by imaginary shouts in the well remembered voice of Squeers,
who, with a host of pursuers, seemed to the poor fellow’s disordered
senses to press hard upon his track; now left at a greater distance
in the rear, and now gaining faster and faster upon him, as the
alternations of hope and terror agitated him by turns. Long after he had
become assured that these sounds were but the creation of his excited
brain, he still held on, at a pace which even weakness and exhaustion
could scarcely retard. It was not until the darkness and quiet of a
country road, recalled him to a sense of external objects, and the
starry sky, above, warned him of the rapid flight of time, that, covered
with dust and panting for breath, he stopped to listen and look about
him.

All was still and silent. A glare of light in the distance, casting a
warm glow upon the sky, marked where the huge city lay. Solitary fields,
divided by hedges and ditches, through many of which he had crashed and
scrambled in his flight, skirted the road, both by the way he had come
and upon the opposite side. It was late now. They could scarcely trace
him by such paths as he had taken, and if he could hope to regain his
own dwelling, it must surely be at such a time as that, and under cover
of the darkness. This, by degrees, became pretty plain, even to the mind
of Smike. He had, at first, entertained some vague and childish idea of
travelling into the country for ten or a dozen miles, and then returning
homewards by a wide circuit, which should keep him clear of London--so
great was his apprehension of traversing the streets alone, lest
he should again encounter his dreaded enemy--but, yielding to the
conviction which these thoughts inspired, he turned back, and taking the
open road, though not without many fears and misgivings, made for London
again, with scarcely less speed of foot than that with which he had left
the temporary abode of Mr. Squeers.

By the time he re-entered it, at the western extremity, the greater part
of the shops were closed. Of the throngs of people who had been tempted
abroad after the heat of the day, but few remained in the streets, and
they were lounging home. But of these he asked his way from time to
time, and by dint of repeated inquiries, he at length reached the
dwelling of Newman Noggs.

All that evening, Newman had been hunting and searching in byways and
corners for the very person who now knocked at his door, while Nicholas
had been pursuing the same inquiry in other directions. He was sitting,
with a melancholy air, at his poor supper, when Smike’s timorous and
uncertain knock reached his ears. Alive to every sound, in his anxious
and expectant state, Newman hurried downstairs, and, uttering a cry of
joyful surprise, dragged the welcome visitor into the passage and up the
stairs, and said not a word until he had him safe in his own garret
and the door was shut behind them, when he mixed a great mug-full of
gin-and-water, and holding it to Smike’s mouth, as one might hold a bowl
of medicine to the lips of a refractory child, commanded him to drain it
to the last drop.

Newman looked uncommonly blank when he found that Smike did little more
than put his lips to the precious mixture; he was in the act of raising
the mug to his own mouth with a deep sigh of compassion for his poor
friend’s weakness, when Smike, beginning to relate the adventures which
had befallen him, arrested him half-way, and he stood listening, with
the mug in his hand.

It was odd enough to see the change that came over Newman as Smike
proceeded. At first he stood, rubbing his lips with the back of his
hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards composing himself for a draught;
then, at the mention of Squeers, he took the mug under his arm, and
opening his eyes very wide, looked on, in the utmost astonishment. When
Smike came to the assault upon himself in the hackney coach, he hastily
deposited the mug upon the table, and limped up and down the room in a
state of the greatest excitement, stopping himself with a jerk, every
now and then, as if to listen more attentively. When John Browdie came
to be spoken of, he dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into a chair,
and rubbing his hands upon his knees--quicker and quicker as the story
reached its climax--burst, at last, into a laugh composed of one
loud sonorous ‘Ha! ha!’ having given vent to which, his countenance
immediately fell again as he inquired, with the utmost anxiety, whether
it was probable that John Browdie and Squeers had come to blows.

‘No! I think not,’ replied Smike. ‘I don’t think he could have missed me
till I had got quite away.’

Newman scratched his head with a shout of great disappointment, and
once more lifting up the mug, applied himself to the contents; smiling
meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim and ghastly smile at Smike.

‘You shall stay here,’ said Newman; ‘you’re tired--fagged. I’ll tell
them you’re come back. They have been half mad about you. Mr. Nicholas--’

‘God bless him!’ cried Smike.

‘Amen!’ returned Newman. ‘He hasn’t had a minute’s rest or peace; no
more has the old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.’

‘No, no. Has SHE thought about me?’ said Smike. ‘Has she though? oh, has
she, has she? Don’t tell me so if she has not.’

‘She has,’ cried Newman. ‘She is as noble-hearted as she is beautiful.’

‘Yes, yes!’ cried Smike. ‘Well said!’

‘So mild and gentle,’ said Newman.

‘Yes, yes!’ cried Smike, with increasing eagerness.

‘And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,’ pursued Newman.

He was going on, in his enthusiasm, when, chancing to look at his
companion, he saw that he had covered his face with his hands, and that
tears were stealing out between his fingers.

A moment before, the boy’s eyes were sparkling with unwonted fire, and
every feature had been lighted up with an excitement which made him
appear, for the moment, quite a different being.

‘Well, well,’ muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. ‘It has
touched ME, more than once, to think such a nature should have been
exposed to such trials; this poor fellow--yes, yes,--he feels that
too--it softens him--makes him think of his former misery. Hah! That’s
it? Yes, that’s--hum!’

It was by no means clear, from the tone of these broken reflections,
that Newman Noggs considered them as explaining, at all satisfactorily,
the emotion which had suggested them. He sat, in a musing attitude, for
some time, regarding Smike occasionally with an anxious and doubtful
glance, which sufficiently showed that he was not very remotely
connected with his thoughts.

At length he repeated his proposition that Smike should remain where he
was for that night, and that he (Noggs) should straightway repair to the
cottage to relieve the suspense of the family. But, as Smike would
not hear of this--pleading his anxiety to see his friends again--they
eventually sallied forth together; and the night being, by this time,
far advanced, and Smike being, besides, so footsore that he could hardly
crawl along, it was within an hour of sunrise when they reached their
destination.

At the first sound of their voices outside the house, Nicholas, who had
passed a sleepless night, devising schemes for the recovery of his lost
charge, started from his bed, and joyfully admitted them. There was so
much noisy conversation, and congratulation, and indignation, that the
remainder of the family were soon awakened, and Smike received a warm
and cordial welcome, not only from Kate, but from Mrs. Nickleby also, who
assured him of her future favour and regard, and was so obliging as to
relate, for his entertainment and that of the assembled circle, a most
remarkable account extracted from some work the name of which she had
never known, of a miraculous escape from some prison, but what one she
couldn’t remember, effected by an officer whose name she had forgotten,
confined for some crime which she didn’t clearly recollect.

At first Nicholas was disposed to give his uncle credit for some portion
of this bold attempt (which had so nearly proved successful) to carry
off Smike; but on more mature consideration, he was inclined to
think that the full merit of it rested with Mr. Squeers. Determined to
ascertain, if he could, through John Browdie, how the case really stood,
he betook himself to his daily occupation: meditating, as he went, on
a great variety of schemes for the punishment of the Yorkshire
schoolmaster, all of which had their foundation in the strictest
principles of retributive justice, and had but the one drawback of being
wholly impracticable.

‘A fine morning, Mr. Linkinwater!’ said Nicholas, entering the office.

‘Ah!’ replied Tim, ‘talk of the country, indeed! What do you think of
this, now, for a day--a London day--eh?’

‘It’s a little clearer out of town,’ said Nicholas.

‘Clearer!’ echoed Tim Linkinwater. ‘You should see it from my bedroom
window.’

‘You should see it from MINE,’ replied Nicholas, with a smile.

‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Tim Linkinwater, ‘don’t tell me. Country!’ (Bow was
quite a rustic place to Tim.) ‘Nonsense! What can you get in the country
but new-laid eggs and flowers? I can buy new-laid eggs in Leadenhall
Market, any morning before breakfast; and as to flowers, it’s worth a
run upstairs to smell my mignonette, or to see the double wallflower in
the back-attic window, at No. 6, in the court.’

‘There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the court, is there?’ said
Nicholas.

‘Yes, is there!’ replied Tim, ‘and planted in a cracked jug, without a
spout. There were hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming, in--but
you’ll laugh at that, of course.’

‘At what?’

‘At their blossoming in old blacking-bottles,’ said Tim.

‘Not I, indeed,’ returned Nicholas.

Tim looked wistfully at him, for a moment, as if he were encouraged
by the tone of this reply to be more communicative on the subject; and
sticking behind his ear, a pen that he had been making, and shutting up
his knife with a smart click, said,

‘They belong to a sickly bedridden hump-backed boy, and seem to be the
only pleasure, Mr. Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many years is it,’
said Tim, pondering, ‘since I first noticed him, quite a little child,
dragging himself about on a pair of tiny crutches? Well! Well! Not many;
but though they would appear nothing, if I thought of other things, they
seem a long, long time, when I think of him. It is a sad thing,’ said
Tim, breaking off, ‘to see a little deformed child sitting apart from
other children, who are active and merry, watching the games he is
denied the power to share in. He made my heart ache very often.’

‘It is a good heart,’ said Nicholas, ‘that disentangles itself from the
close avocations of every day, to heed such things. You were saying--’

‘That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,’ said Tim; ‘that’s all.
When it is fine weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he draws a chair
close to the window, and sits there, looking at them and arranging
them, all day long. He used to nod, at first, and then we came to speak.
Formerly, when I called to him of a morning, and asked him how he was,
he would smile, and say, “Better!” but now he shakes his head, and only
bends more closely over his old plants. It must be dull to watch the
dark housetops and the flying clouds, for so many months; but he is very
patient.’

‘Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?’ asked Nicholas.

‘His father lives there, I believe,’ replied Tim, ‘and other people too;
but no one seems to care much for the poor sickly cripple. I have asked
him, very often, if I can do nothing for him; his answer is always the
same. “Nothing.” His voice is growing weak of late, but I can SEE that
he makes the old reply. He can’t leave his bed now, so they have moved
it close beside the window, and there he lies, all day: now looking at
the sky, and now at his flowers, which he still makes shift to trim and
water, with his own thin hands. At night, when he sees my candle, he
draws back his curtain, and leaves it so, till I am in bed. It seems
such company to him to know that I am there, that I often sit at my
window for an hour or more, that he may see I am still awake; and
sometimes I get up in the night to look at the dull melancholy light in
his little room, and wonder whether he is awake or sleeping.

‘The night will not be long coming,’ said Tim, ‘when he will sleep, and
never wake again on earth. We have never so much as shaken hands in all
our lives; and yet I shall miss him like an old friend. Are there any
country flowers that could interest me like these, do you think? Or
do you suppose that the withering of a hundred kinds of the choicest
flowers that blow, called by the hardest Latin names that were ever
invented, would give me one fraction of the pain that I shall feel when
these old jugs and bottles are swept away as lumber? Country!’ cried
Tim, with a contemptuous emphasis; ‘don’t you know that I couldn’t have
such a court under my bedroom window, anywhere, but in London?’

With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and pretending to be absorbed
in his accounts, took an opportunity of hastily wiping his eyes when he
supposed Nicholas was looking another way.

Whether it was that Tim’s accounts were more than usually intricate that
morning, or whether it was that his habitual serenity had been a little
disturbed by these recollections, it so happened that when Nicholas
returned from executing some commission, and inquired whether Mr. Charles
Cheeryble was alone in his room, Tim promptly, and without the smallest
hesitation, replied in the affirmative, although somebody had passed
into the room not ten minutes before, and Tim took especial and
particular pride in preventing any intrusion on either of the brothers
when they were engaged with any visitor whatever.

‘I’ll take this letter to him at once,’ said Nicholas, ‘if that’s the
case.’ And with that, he walked to the room and knocked at the door.

No answer.

Another knock, and still no answer.

‘He can’t be here,’ thought Nicholas. ‘I’ll lay it on his table.’

So, Nicholas opened the door and walked in; and very quickly he
turned to walk out again, when he saw, to his great astonishment and
discomfiture, a young lady upon her knees at Mr. Cheeryble’s feet, and Mr
Cheeryble beseeching her to rise, and entreating a third person, who
had the appearance of the young lady’s female attendant, to add her
persuasions to his to induce her to do so.

Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology, and was precipitately
retiring, when the young lady, turning her head a little, presented
to his view the features of the lovely girl whom he had seen at the
register-office on his first visit long before. Glancing from her to the
attendant, he recognised the same clumsy servant who had accompanied
her then; and between his admiration of the young lady’s beauty, and
the confusion and surprise of this unexpected recognition, he stood
stock-still, in such a bewildered state of surprise and embarrassment
that, for the moment, he was quite bereft of the power either to speak
or move.

‘My dear ma’am--my dear young lady,’ cried brother Charles in violent
agitation, ‘pray don’t--not another word, I beseech and entreat you! I
implore you--I beg of you--to rise. We--we--are not alone.’

As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chair and
swooned away.

‘She has fainted, sir,’ said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.

‘Poor dear, poor dear!’ cried brother Charles ‘Where is my brother Ned?
Ned, my dear brother, come here pray.’

‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied his brother, hurrying into
the room, ‘what is the--ah! what--’

‘Hush! hush!--not a word for your life, brother Ned,’ returned the
other. ‘Ring for the housekeeper, my dear brother--call Tim Linkinwater!
Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir--Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir, leave the room, I
beg and beseech of you.’

‘I think she is better now,’ said Nicholas, who had been watching the
patient so eagerly, that he had not heard the request.

‘Poor bird!’ cried brother Charles, gently taking her hand in his, and
laying her head upon his arm. ‘Brother Ned, my dear fellow, you will be
surprised, I know, to witness this, in business hours; but--’ here he
was again reminded of the presence of Nicholas, and shaking him by
the hand, earnestly requested him to leave the room, and to send Tim
Linkinwater without an instant’s delay.

Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on his way to the counting-house, met
both the old housekeeper and Tim Linkinwater, jostling each other in the
passage, and hurrying to the scene of action with extraordinary speed.
Without waiting to hear his message, Tim Linkinwater darted into the
room, and presently afterwards Nicholas heard the door shut and locked
on the inside.

He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, for Tim
Linkinwater was absent during the greater part of an hour, during the
whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing but the young lady, and
her exceeding beauty, and what could possibly have brought her there,
and why they made such a mystery of it. The more he thought of all this,
the more it perplexed him, and the more anxious he became to know who
and what she was. ‘I should have known her among ten thousand,’ thought
Nicholas. And with that he walked up and down the room, and recalling
her face and figure (of which he had a peculiarly vivid remembrance),
discarded all other subjects of reflection and dwelt upon that alone.

At length Tim Linkinwater came back--provokingly cool, and with papers
in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.

‘Is she quite recovered?’ said Nicholas, impetuously.

‘Who?’ returned Tim Linkinwater.

‘Who!’ repeated Nicholas. ‘The young lady.’

‘What do you make, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Tim, taking his pen out of his
mouth, ‘what do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven times three
thousand two hundred and thirty-eight?’

‘Nay,’ returned Nicholas, ‘what do you make of my question first? I
asked you--’

‘About the young lady,’ said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles.
‘To be sure. Yes. Oh! she’s very well.’

‘Very well, is she?’ returned Nicholas.

‘Very well,’ replied Mr. Linkinwater, gravely.

‘Will she be able to go home today?’ asked Nicholas.

‘She’s gone,’ said Tim.

‘Gone!’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope she has not far to go?’ said Nicholas, looking earnestly at the
other.

‘Ay,’ replied the immovable Tim, ‘I hope she hasn’t.’

Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it was evident that
Tim Linkinwater had his own reasons for evading the subject, and that
he was determined to afford no further information respecting the fair
unknown, who had awakened so much curiosity in the breast of his young
friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse, Nicholas returned to the charge
next day, emboldened by the circumstance of Mr. Linkinwater being in
a very talkative and communicative mood; but, directly he resumed the
theme, Tim relapsed into a state of most provoking taciturnity, and from
answering in monosyllables, came to returning no answers at all, save
such as were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which
only served to whet that appetite for intelligence in Nicholas, which
had already attained a most unreasonable height.

Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself with watching
for the young lady’s next visit, but here again he was disappointed.
Day after day passed, and she did not return. He looked eagerly at the
superscription of all the notes and letters, but there was not one among
them which he could fancy to be in her handwriting. On two or three
occasions he was employed on business which took him to a distance, and
had formerly been transacted by Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help
suspecting that, for some reason or other, he was sent out of the way
on purpose, and that the young lady was there in his absence. Nothing
transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion, and Tim could not be
entrapped into any confession or admission tending to support it in the
smallest degree.

Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the
growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. ‘Out
of sight, out of mind,’ is well enough as a proverb applicable to cases
of friendship, though absence is not always necessary to hollowness
of heart, even between friends, and truth and honesty, like precious
stones, are perhaps most easily imitated at a distance, when the
counterfeits often pass for real. Love, however, is very materially
assisted by a warm and active imagination: which has a long memory, and
will thrive, for a considerable time, on very slight and sparing
food. Thus it is, that it often attains its most luxuriant growth in
separation and under circumstances of the utmost difficulty; and thus it
was, that Nicholas, thinking of nothing but the unknown young lady, from
day to day and from hour to hour, began, at last, to think that he was
very desperately in love with her, and that never was such an ill-used
and persecuted lover as he.

Still, though he loved and languished after the most orthodox models,
and was only deterred from making a confidante of Kate by the slight
considerations of having never, in all his life, spoken to the object
of his passion, and having never set eyes upon her, except on two
occasions, on both of which she had come and gone like a flash of
lightning--or, as Nicholas himself said, in the numerous conversations
he held with himself, like a vision of youth and beauty much too bright
to last--his ardour and devotion remained without its reward. The young
lady appeared no more; so there was a great deal of love wasted (enough
indeed to have set up half-a-dozen young gentlemen, as times go, with
the utmost decency), and nobody was a bit the wiser for it; not even
Nicholas himself, who, on the contrary, became more dull, sentimental,
and lackadaisical, every day.

While matters were in this state, the failure of a correspondent of
the brothers Cheeryble, in Germany, imposed upon Tim Linkinwater and
Nicholas the necessity of going through some very long and complicated
accounts, extending over a considerable space of time. To get through
them with the greater dispatch, Tim Linkinwater proposed that they
should remain at the counting-house, for a week or so, until ten o’clock
at night; to this, as nothing damped the zeal of Nicholas in the
service of his kind patrons--not even romance, which has seldom business
habits--he cheerfully assented. On the very first night of these later
hours, at nine exactly, there came: not the young lady herself, but her
servant, who, being closeted with brother Charles for some time, went
away, and returned next night at the same hour, and on the next, and on
the next again.

These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of Nicholas to the very
highest pitch. Tantalised and excited, beyond all bearing, and unable
to fathom the mystery without neglecting his duty, he confided the whole
secret to Newman Noggs, imploring him to be on the watch next night;
to follow the girl home; to set on foot such inquiries relative to
the name, condition, and history of her mistress, as he could, without
exciting suspicion; and to report the result to him with the least
possible delay.

Beyond all measure proud of this commission, Newman Noggs took up his
post, in the square, on the following evening, a full hour before the
needful time, and planting himself behind the pump and pulling his hat
over his eyes, began his watch with an elaborate appearance of mystery,
admirably calculated to excite the suspicion of all beholders. Indeed,
divers servant girls who came to draw water, and sundry little boys who
stopped to drink at the ladle, were almost scared out of their senses,
by the apparition of Newman Noggs looking stealthily round the
pump, with nothing of him visible but his face, and that wearing the
expression of a meditative Ogre.

Punctual to her time, the messenger came again, and, after an interview
of rather longer duration than usual, departed. Newman had made two
appointments with Nicholas: one for the next evening, conditional on his
success: and one the next night following, which was to be kept under
all circumstances. The first night he was not at the place of meeting (a
certain tavern about half-way between the city and Golden Square), but
on the second night he was there before Nicholas, and received him with
open arms.

‘It’s all right,’ whispered Newman. ‘Sit down. Sit down, there’s a dear
young man, and let me tell you all about it.’

Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquired what was the
news.

‘There’s a great deal of news,’ said Newman, in a flutter of exultation.
‘It’s all right. Don’t be anxious. I don’t know where to begin. Never
mind that. Keep up your spirits. It’s all right.’

‘Well?’ said Nicholas eagerly. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ replied Newman. ‘That’s it.’

‘What’s it?’ said Nicholas. ‘The name--the name, my dear fellow!’

‘The name’s Bobster,’ replied Newman.

‘Bobster!’ repeated Nicholas, indignantly.

‘That’s the name,’ said Newman. ‘I remember it by lobster.’

‘Bobster!’ repeated Nicholas, more emphatically than before. ‘That must
be the servant’s name.’

‘No, it an’t,’ said Newman, shaking his head with great positiveness.
‘Miss Cecilia Bobster.’

‘Cecilia, eh?’ returned Nicholas, muttering the two names together
over and over again in every variety of tone, to try the effect. ‘Well,
Cecilia is a pretty name.’

‘Very. And a pretty creature too,’ said Newman.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Miss Bobster.’

‘Why, where have you seen her?’ demanded Nicholas.

‘Never mind, my dear boy,’ retorted Noggs, clapping him on the shoulder.
‘I HAVE seen her. You shall see her. I’ve managed it all.’

‘My dear Newman,’ cried Nicholas, grasping his hand, ‘are you serious?’

‘I am,’ replied Newman. ‘I mean it all. Every word. You shall see her
tomorrow night. She consents to hear you speak for yourself. I persuaded
her. She is all affability, goodness, sweetness, and beauty.’

‘I know she is; I know she must be, Newman!’ said Nicholas, wringing his
hand.

‘You are right,’ returned Newman.

‘Where does she live?’ cried Nicholas. ‘What have you learnt of her
history? Has she a father--mother--any brothers--sisters? What did she
say? How came you to see her? Was she not very much surprised? Did you
say how passionately I have longed to speak to her? Did you tell her
where I had seen her? Did you tell her how, and when, and where, and how
long, and how often, I have thought of that sweet face which came upon
me in my bitterest distress like a glimpse of some better world--did
you, Newman--did you?’

Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this flood of questions rushed
upon him, and moved spasmodically in his chair at every fresh inquiry,
staring at Nicholas meanwhile with a most ludicrous expression of
perplexity.

‘No,’ said Newman, ‘I didn’t tell her that.’

‘Didn’t tell her which?’ asked Nicholas.

‘About the glimpse of the better world,’ said Newman. ‘I didn’t tell her
who you were, either, or where you’d seen her. I said you loved her to
distraction.’

‘That’s true, Newman,’ replied Nicholas, with his characteristic
vehemence. ‘Heaven knows I do!’

‘I said too, that you had admired her for a long time in secret,’ said
Newman.

‘Yes, yes. What did she say to that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Blushed,’ said Newman.

‘To be sure. Of course she would,’ said Nicholas approvingly. Newman
then went on to say, that the young lady was an only child, that her
mother was dead, that she resided with her father, and that she had been
induced to allow her lover a secret interview, at the intercession of
her servant, who had great influence with her. He further related how it
required much moving and great eloquence to bring the young lady to this
pass; how it was expressly understood that she merely afforded Nicholas
an opportunity of declaring his passion; and how she by no means pledged
herself to be favourably impressed with his attentions. The mystery of
her visits to the brothers Cheeryble remained wholly unexplained, for
Newman had not alluded to them, either in his preliminary conversations
with the servant or his subsequent interview with the mistress, merely
remarking that he had been instructed to watch the girl home and plead
his young friend’s cause, and not saying how far he had followed her,
or from what point. But Newman hinted that from what had fallen from the
confidante, he had been led to suspect that the young lady led a very
miserable and unhappy life, under the strict control of her only parent,
who was of a violent and brutal temper; a circumstance which he thought
might in some degree account, both for her having sought the protection
and friendship of the brothers, and her suffering herself to be
prevailed upon to grant the promised interview. The last he held to be a
very logical deduction from the premises, inasmuch as it was but natural
to suppose that a young lady, whose present condition was so unenviable,
would be more than commonly desirous to change it.

It appeared, on further questioning--for it was only by a very long and
arduous process that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs--that
Newman, in explanation of his shabby appearance, had represented himself
as being, for certain wise and indispensable purposes connected with
that intrigue, in disguise; and, being questioned how he had come to
exceed his commission so far as to procure an interview, he responded,
that the lady appearing willing to grant it, he considered himself
bound, both in duty and gallantry, to avail himself of such a golden
means of enabling Nicholas to prosecute his addresses. After these and
all possible questions had been asked and answered twenty times over,
they parted, undertaking to meet on the following night at half-past
ten, for the purpose of fulfilling the appointment; which was for eleven
o’clock.

‘Things come about very strangely!’ thought Nicholas, as he walked
home. ‘I never contemplated anything of this kind; never dreamt of the
possibility of it. To know something of the life of one in whom I felt
such interest; to see her in the street, to pass the house in which she
lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks, to hope that a day might
come when I might be in a condition to tell her of my love, this was
the utmost extent of my thoughts. Now, however--but I should be a fool,
indeed, to repine at my own good fortune!’

Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was more in the
dissatisfaction than mere revulsion of feeling. He was angry with the
young lady for being so easily won, ‘because,’ reasoned Nicholas, ‘it is
not as if she knew it was I, but it might have been anybody,’--which was
certainly not pleasant. The next moment, he was angry with himself for
entertaining such thoughts, arguing that nothing but goodness could
dwell in such a temple, and that the behaviour of the brothers
sufficiently showed the estimation in which they held her. ‘The fact
is, she’s a mystery altogether,’ said Nicholas. This was not more
satisfactory than his previous course of reflection, and only drove him
out upon a new sea of speculation and conjecture, where he tossed and
tumbled, in great discomfort of mind, until the clock struck ten, and
the hour of meeting drew nigh.

Nicholas had dressed himself with great care, and even Newman Noggs had
trimmed himself up a little; his coat presenting the phenomenon of
two consecutive buttons, and the supplementary pins being inserted at
tolerably regular intervals. He wore his hat, too, in the newest
taste, with a pocket-handkerchief in the crown, and a twisted end of it
straggling out behind after the fashion of a pigtail, though he could
scarcely lay claim to the ingenuity of inventing this latter decoration,
inasmuch as he was utterly unconscious of it: being in a nervous and
excited condition which rendered him quite insensible to everything but
the great object of the expedition.

They traversed the streets in profound silence; and after walking at a
round pace for some distance, arrived in one, of a gloomy appearance and
very little frequented, near the Edgeware Road.

‘Number twelve,’ said Newman.

‘Oh!’ replied Nicholas, looking about him.

‘Good street?’ said Newman.

‘Yes,’ returned Nicholas. ‘Rather dull.’

Newman made no answer to this remark, but, halting abruptly, planted
Nicholas with his back to some area railings, and gave him to understand
that he was to wait there, without moving hand or foot, until it was
satisfactorily ascertained that the coast was clear. This done, Noggs
limped away with great alacrity; looking over his shoulder every
instant, to make quite certain that Nicholas was obeying his directions;
and, ascending the steps of a house some half-dozen doors off, was lost
to view.

After a short delay, he reappeared, and limping back again, halted
midway, and beckoned Nicholas to follow him.

‘Well?’ said Nicholas, advancing towards him on tiptoe.

‘All right,’ replied Newman, in high glee. ‘All ready; nobody at home.
Couldn’t be better. Ha! ha!’

With this fortifying assurance, he stole past a street-door, on which
Nicholas caught a glimpse of a brass plate, with ‘BOBSTER,’ in very
large letters; and, stopping at the area-gate, which was open, signed to
his young friend to descend.

‘What the devil!’ cried Nicholas, drawing back. ‘Are we to sneak into
the kitchen, as if we came after the forks?’

‘Hush!’ replied Newman. ‘Old Bobster--ferocious Turk. He’d kill ‘em
all--box the young lady’s ears--he does--often.’

‘What!’ cried Nicholas, in high wrath, ‘do you mean to tell me that any
man would dare to box the ears of such a--’

He had no time to sing the praises of his mistress, just then, for
Newman gave him a gentle push which had nearly precipitated him to the
bottom of the area steps. Thinking it best to take the hint in good
part, Nicholas descended, without further remonstrance, but with a
countenance bespeaking anything rather than the hope and rapture of a
passionate lover. Newman followed--he would have followed head first,
but for the timely assistance of Nicholas--and, taking his hand, led him
through a stone passage, profoundly dark, into a back-kitchen or cellar,
of the blackest and most pitchy obscurity, where they stopped.

‘Well!’ said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, ‘this is not all, I
suppose, is it?’

‘No, no,’ rejoined Noggs; ‘they’ll be here directly. It’s all right.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Nicholas. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it, I
confess.’

They exchanged no further words, and there Nicholas stood, listening to
the loud breathing of Newman Noggs, and imagining that his nose seemed
to glow like a red-hot coal, even in the midst of the darkness which
enshrouded them. Suddenly the sound of cautious footsteps attracted his
ear, and directly afterwards a female voice inquired if the gentleman
was there.

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from which the voice
proceeded. ‘Who is that?’

‘Only me, sir,’ replied the voice. ‘Now if you please, ma’am.’

A gleam of light shone into the place, and presently the servant girl
appeared, bearing a light, and followed by her young mistress, who
seemed to be overwhelmed by modesty and confusion.

At sight of the young lady, Nicholas started and changed colour; his
heart beat violently, and he stood rooted to the spot. At that instant,
and almost simultaneously with her arrival and that of the candle, there
was heard a loud and furious knocking at the street-door, which caused
Newman Noggs to jump up, with great agility, from a beer-barrel on which
he had been seated astride, and to exclaim abruptly, and with a face of
ashy paleness, ‘Bobster, by the Lord!’

The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung her hands, Nicholas gazed
from one to the other in apparent stupefaction, and Newman hurried to
and fro, thrusting his hands into all his pockets successively, and
drawing out the linings of every one in the excess of his irresolution.
It was but a moment, but the confusion crowded into that one moment no
imagination can exaggerate.

‘Leave the house, for Heaven’s sake! We have done wrong, we deserve it
all,’ cried the young lady. ‘Leave the house, or I am ruined and undone
for ever.’

‘Will you hear me say but one word?’ cried Nicholas. ‘Only one. I will
not detain you. Will you hear me say one word, in explanation of this
mischance?’

But Nicholas might as well have spoken to the wind, for the young lady,
with distracted looks, hurried up the stairs. He would have followed
her, but Newman, twisting his hand in his coat collar, dragged him
towards the passage by which they had entered.

‘Let me go, Newman, in the Devil’s name!’ cried Nicholas. ‘I must speak
to her. I will! I will not leave this house without.’

‘Reputation--character--violence--consider,’ said Newman, clinging round
him with both arms, and hurrying him away. ‘Let them open the door.
We’ll go, as we came, directly it’s shut. Come. This way. Here.’

Overpowered by the remonstrances of Newman, and the tears and prayers
of the girl, and the tremendous knocking above, which had never ceased,
Nicholas allowed himself to be hurried off; and, precisely as Mr. Bobster
made his entrance by the street-door, he and Noggs made their exit by
the area-gate.

They hurried away, through several streets, without stopping or
speaking. At last, they halted and confronted each other with blank and
rueful faces.

‘Never mind,’ said Newman, gasping for breath. ‘Don’t be cast down. It’s
all right. More fortunate next time. It couldn’t be helped. I did MY
part.’

‘Excellently,’ replied Nicholas, taking his hand. ‘Excellently, and like
the true and zealous friend you are. Only--mind, I am not disappointed,
Newman, and feel just as much indebted to you--only IT WAS THE WRONG
LADY.’

‘Eh?’ cried Newman Noggs. ‘Taken in by the servant?’

‘Newman, Newman,’ said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder: ‘it
was the wrong servant too.’

Newman’s under-jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, with his sound eye
fixed fast and motionless in his head.

‘Don’t take it to heart,’ said Nicholas; ‘it’s of no consequence; you
see I don’t care about it; you followed the wrong person, that’s all.’

That WAS all. Whether Newman Noggs had looked round the pump, in a
slanting direction, so long, that his sight became impaired; or whether,
finding that there was time to spare, he had recruited himself with a
few drops of something stronger than the pump could yield--by whatsoever
means it had come to pass, this was his mistake. And Nicholas went home
to brood upon it, and to meditate upon the charms of the unknown young
lady, now as far beyond his reach as ever.



CHAPTER 41

Containing some Romantic Passages between Mrs. Nickleby and the Gentleman
in the Small-clothes next Door


Ever since her last momentous conversation with her son, Mrs. Nickleby
had begun to display unusual care in the adornment of her person,
gradually superadding to those staid and matronly habiliments,
which had, up to that time, formed her ordinary attire, a variety of
embellishments and decorations, slight perhaps in themselves, but,
taken together, and considered with reference to the subject of
her disclosure, of no mean importance. Even her black dress assumed
something of a deadly-lively air from the jaunty style in which it was
worn; and, eked out as its lingering attractions were; by a prudent
disposal, here and there, of certain juvenile ornaments of little or no
value, which had, for that reason alone, escaped the general wreck and
been permitted to slumber peacefully in odd corners of old drawers and
boxes where daylight seldom shone, her mourning garments assumed quite
a new character. From being the outward tokens of respect and sorrow for
the dead, they became converted into signals of very slaughterous and
killing designs upon the living.

Mrs. Nickleby might have been stimulated to this proceeding by a lofty
sense of duty, and impulses of unquestionable excellence. She might, by
this time, have become impressed with the sinfulness of long indulgence
in unavailing woe, or the necessity of setting a proper example of
neatness and decorum to her blooming daughter. Considerations of duty
and responsibility apart, the change might have taken its rise in
feelings of the purest and most disinterested charity. The gentleman
next door had been vilified by Nicholas; rudely stigmatised as a dotard
and an idiot; and for these attacks upon his understanding, Mrs. Nickleby
was, in some sort, accountable. She might have felt that it was the act
of a good Christian to show by all means in her power, that the abused
gentleman was neither the one nor the other. And what better means could
she adopt, towards so virtuous and laudable an end, than proving to
all men, in her own person, that his passion was the most rational and
reasonable in the world, and just the very result, of all others, which
discreet and thinking persons might have foreseen, from her incautiously
displaying her matured charms, without reserve, under the very eye, as
it were, of an ardent and too-susceptible man?

‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, gravely shaking her head; ‘if Nicholas knew
what his poor dear papa suffered before we were engaged, when I used to
hate him, he would have a little more feeling. Shall I ever forget the
morning I looked scornfully at him when he offered to carry my parasol?
Or that night, when I frowned at him? It was a mercy he didn’t emigrate.
It very nearly drove him to it.’

Whether the deceased might not have been better off if he had emigrated
in his bachelor days, was a question which his relict did not stop to
consider; for Kate entered the room, with her workbox, in this stage of
her reflections; and a much slighter interruption, or no interruption at
all, would have diverted Mrs. Nickleby’s thoughts into a new channel at
any time.

‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘I don’t know how it is, but a fine
warm summer day like this, with the birds singing in every direction,
always puts me in mind of roast pig, with sage and onion sauce, and made
gravy.’

‘That’s a curious association of ideas, is it not, mama?’

‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Roast pig;
let me see. On the day five weeks after you were christened, we had a
roast--no, that couldn’t have been a pig, either, because I recollect
there were a pair of them to carve, and your poor papa and I could
never have thought of sitting down to two pigs--they must have been
partridges. Roast pig! I hardly think we ever could have had one, now
I come to remember, for your papa could never bear the sight of them
in the shops, and used to say that they always put him in mind of very
little babies, only the pigs had much fairer complexions; and he had a
horror of little babies, too, because he couldn’t very well afford any
increase to his family, and had a natural dislike to the subject. It’s
very odd now, what can have put that in my head! I recollect dining
once at Mrs. Bevan’s, in that broad street round the corner by the
coachmaker’s, where the tipsy man fell through the cellar-flap of an
empty house nearly a week before the quarter-day, and wasn’t found till
the new tenant went in--and we had roast pig there. It must be that, I
think, that reminds me of it, especially as there was a little bird in
the room that would keep on singing all the time of dinner--at least,
not a little bird, for it was a parrot, and he didn’t sing exactly, for
he talked and swore dreadfully: but I think it must be that. Indeed I am
sure it must. Shouldn’t you say so, my dear?’

‘I should say there was not a doubt about it, mama,’ returned Kate, with
a cheerful smile.

‘No; but DO you think so, Kate?’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with as much gravity
as if it were a question of the most imminent and thrilling interest.
‘If you don’t, say so at once, you know; because it’s just as well to be
correct, particularly on a point of this kind, which is very curious and
worth settling while one thinks about it.’

Kate laughingly replied that she was quite convinced; and as her mama
still appeared undetermined whether it was not absolutely essential that
the subject should be renewed, proposed that they should take their
work into the summer-house, and enjoy the beauty of the afternoon.
Mrs. Nickleby readily assented, and to the summer-house they repaired,
without further discussion.

‘Well, I will say,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby, as she took her seat, ‘that
there never was such a good creature as Smike. Upon my word, the pains
he has taken in putting this little arbour to rights, and training the
sweetest flowers about it, are beyond anything I could have--I wish he
wouldn’t put ALL the gravel on your side, Kate, my dear, though, and
leave nothing but mould for me.’

‘Dear mama,’ returned Kate, hastily, ‘take this seat--do--to oblige me,
mama.’

‘No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own side,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.
‘Well! I declare!’

Kate looked up inquiringly.

‘If he hasn’t been,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘and got, from somewhere or
other, a couple of roots of those flowers that I said I was so fond of,
the other night, and asked you if you were not--no, that YOU said YOU
were so fond of, the other night, and asked me if I wasn’t--it’s the
same thing. Now, upon my word, I take that as very kind and attentive
indeed! I don’t see,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, looking narrowly about her,
‘any of them on my side, but I suppose they grow best near the gravel.
You may depend upon it they do, Kate, and that’s the reason they are all
near you, and he has put the gravel there, because it’s the sunny side.
Upon my word, that’s very clever now! I shouldn’t have had half as much
thought myself!’

‘Mama,’ said Kate, bending over her work so that her face was almost
hidden, ‘before you were married--’

‘Dear me, Kate,’ interrupted Mrs. Nickleby, ‘what in the name of goodness
graciousness makes you fly off to the time before I was married, when
I’m talking to you about his thoughtfulness and attention to me? You
don’t seem to take the smallest interest in the garden.’

‘Oh! mama,’ said Kate, raising her face again, ‘you know I do.’

‘Well then, my dear, why don’t you praise the neatness and prettiness
with which it’s kept?’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘How very odd you are, Kate!’

‘I do praise it, mama,’ answered Kate, gently. ‘Poor fellow!’

‘I scarcely ever hear you, my dear,’ retorted Mrs. Nickleby; ‘that’s all
I’ve got to say.’ By this time the good lady had been a long while upon
one topic, so she fell at once into her daughter’s little trap, if trap
it were, and inquired what she had been going to say.

‘About what, mama?’ said Kate, who had apparently quite forgotten her
diversion.

‘Lor, Kate, my dear,’ returned her mother, ‘why, you’re asleep or
stupid! About the time before I was married.’

‘Oh yes!’ said Kate, ‘I remember. I was going to ask, mama, before you
were married, had you many suitors?’

‘Suitors, my dear!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, with a smile of wonderful
complacency. ‘First and last, Kate, I must have had a dozen at least.’

‘Mama!’ returned Kate, in a tone of remonstrance.

‘I had indeed, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘not including your poor
papa, or a young gentleman who used to go, at that time, to the same
dancing school, and who WOULD send gold watches and bracelets to
our house in gilt-edged paper, (which were always returned,) and who
afterwards unfortunately went out to Botany Bay in a cadet ship--a
convict ship I mean--and escaped into a bush and killed sheep, (I don’t
know how they got there,) and was going to be hung, only he accidentally
choked himself, and the government pardoned him. Then there was young
Lukin,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, beginning with her left thumb and checking
off the names on her fingers--‘Mogley--Tipslark--Cabbery--Smifser--’

Having now reached her little finger, Mrs. Nickleby was carrying the
account over to the other hand, when a loud ‘Hem!’ which appeared to
come from the very foundation of the garden-wall, gave both herself and
her daughter a violent start.

‘Mama! what was that?’ said Kate, in a low tone of voice.

‘Upon my word, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, considerably startled,
‘unless it was the gentleman belonging to the next house, I don’t know
what it could possibly--’

‘A--hem!’ cried the same voice; and that, not in the tone of an ordinary
clearing of the throat, but in a kind of bellow, which woke up all the
echoes in the neighbourhood, and was prolonged to an extent which must
have made the unseen bellower quite black in the face.

‘I understand it now, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, laying her hand on
Kate’s; ‘don’t be alarmed, my love, it’s not directed to you, and is not
intended to frighten anybody. Let us give everybody their due, Kate; I
am bound to say that.’

So saying, Mrs. Nickleby nodded her head, and patted the back of her
daughter’s hand, a great many times, and looked as if she could tell
something vastly important if she chose, but had self-denial, thank
Heaven; and wouldn’t do it.

‘What do you mean, mama?’ demanded Kate, in evident surprise.

‘Don’t be flurried, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, looking towards
the garden-wall, ‘for you see I’m not, and if it would be excusable
in anybody to be flurried, it certainly would--under all the
circumstances--be excusable in me, but I am not, Kate--not at all.’

‘It seems designed to attract our attention, mama,’ said Kate.

‘It is designed to attract our attention, my dear; at least,’ rejoined
Mrs. Nickleby, drawing herself up, and patting her daughter’s hand more
blandly than before, ‘to attract the attention of one of us. Hem! you
needn’t be at all uneasy, my dear.’

Kate looked very much perplexed, and was apparently about to ask for
further explanation, when a shouting and scuffling noise, as of an
elderly gentleman whooping, and kicking up his legs on loose gravel,
with great violence, was heard to proceed from the same direction as the
former sounds; and before they had subsided, a large cucumber was seen
to shoot up in the air with the velocity of a sky-rocket, whence it
descended, tumbling over and over, until it fell at Mrs. Nickleby’s feet.

This remarkable appearance was succeeded by another of a precisely
similar description; then a fine vegetable marrow, of unusually large
dimensions, was seen to whirl aloft, and come toppling down; then,
several cucumbers shot up together; and, finally, the air was darkened
by a shower of onions, turnip-radishes, and other small vegetables,
which fell rolling and scattering, and bumping about, in all directions.

As Kate rose from her seat, in some alarm, and caught her mother’s hand
to run with her into the house, she felt herself rather retarded than
assisted in her intention; and following the direction of Mrs. Nickleby’s
eyes, was quite terrified by the apparition of an old black velvet cap,
which, by slow degrees, as if its wearer were ascending a ladder or pair
of steps, rose above the wall dividing their garden from that of the
next cottage, (which, like their own, was a detached building,) and was
gradually followed by a very large head, and an old face, in which were
a pair of most extraordinary grey eyes: very wild, very wide open, and
rolling in their sockets, with a dull, languishing, leering look, most
ugly to behold.

‘Mama!’ cried Kate, really terrified for the moment, ‘why do you stop,
why do you lose an instant? Mama, pray come in!’

‘Kate, my dear,’ returned her mother, still holding back, ‘how can you
be so foolish? I’m ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are ever to
get through life, if you’re such a coward as this? What do you want,
sir?’ said Mrs. Nickleby, addressing the intruder with a sort of
simpering displeasure. ‘How dare you look into this garden?’

‘Queen of my soul,’ replied the stranger, folding his hands together,
‘this goblet sip!’

‘Nonsense, sir,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Kate, my love, pray be quiet.’

‘Won’t you sip the goblet?’ urged the stranger, with his head
imploringly on one side, and his right hand on his breast. ‘Oh, do sip
the goblet!’

‘I shall not consent to do anything of the kind, sir,’ said Mrs
Nickleby. ‘Pray, begone.’

‘Why is it,’ said the old gentleman, coming up a step higher, and
leaning his elbows on the wall, with as much complacency as if he were
looking out of window, ‘why is it that beauty is always obdurate,
even when admiration is as honourable and respectful as mine?’ Here he
smiled, kissed his hand, and made several low bows. ‘Is it owing to the
bees, who, when the honey season is over, and they are supposed to
have been killed with brimstone, in reality fly to Barbary and lull the
captive Moors to sleep with their drowsy songs? Or is it,’ he added,
dropping his voice almost to a whisper, ‘in consequence of the statue
at Charing Cross having been lately seen, on the Stock Exchange
at midnight, walking arm-in-arm with the Pump from Aldgate, in a
riding-habit?’

‘Mama,’ murmured Kate, ‘do you hear him?’

‘Hush, my dear!’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, in the same tone of voice, ‘he
is very polite, and I think that was a quotation from the poets. Pray,
don’t worry me so--you’ll pinch my arm black and blue. Go away, sir!’

‘Quite away?’ said the gentleman, with a languishing look. ‘Oh! quite
away?’

‘Yes,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘certainly. You have no business here.
This is private property, sir; you ought to know that.’

‘I do know,’ said the old gentleman, laying his finger on his nose, with
an air of familiarity, most reprehensible, ‘that this is a sacred and
enchanted spot, where the most divine charms’--here he kissed his hand
and bowed again--‘waft mellifluousness over the neighbours’ gardens, and
force the fruit and vegetables into premature existence. That fact I am
acquainted with. But will you permit me, fairest creature, to ask
you one question, in the absence of the planet Venus, who has gone
on business to the Horse Guards, and would otherwise--jealous of your
superior charms--interpose between us?’

‘Kate,’ observed Mrs. Nickleby, turning to her daughter, ‘it’s very
awkward, positively. I really don’t know what to say to this gentleman.
One ought to be civil, you know.’

‘Dear mama,’ rejoined Kate, ‘don’t say a word to him, but let us run
away as fast as we can, and shut ourselves up till Nicholas comes home.’

Mrs. Nickleby looked very grand, not to say contemptuous, at this
humiliating proposal; and, turning to the old gentleman, who had watched
them during these whispers with absorbing eagerness, said:

‘If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gentleman I should
imagine you to be, from your language and--and--appearance, (quite the
counterpart of your grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in his best days,) and
will put your question to me in plain words, I will answer it.’

If Mrs. Nickleby’s excellent papa had borne, in his best days, a
resemblance to the neighbour now looking over the wall, he must have
been, to say the least, a very queer-looking old gentleman in his
prime. Perhaps Kate thought so, for she ventured to glance at his living
portrait with some attention, as he took off his black velvet cap,
and, exhibiting a perfectly bald head, made a long series of bows, each
accompanied with a fresh kiss of the hand. After exhausting himself,
to all appearance, with this fatiguing performance, he covered his head
once more, pulled the cap very carefully over the tips of his ears, and
resuming his former attitude, said,

‘The question is--’

Here he broke off to look round in every direction, and satisfy himself
beyond all doubt that there were no listeners near. Assured that there
were not, he tapped his nose several times, accompanying the action with
a cunning look, as though congratulating himself on his caution; and
stretching out his neck, said in a loud whisper,

‘Are you a princess?’

‘You are mocking me, sir,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, making a feint of
retreating towards the house.

‘No, but are you?’ said the old gentleman.

‘You know I am not, sir,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Then are you any relation to the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ inquired
the old gentleman with great anxiety, ‘or to the Pope of Rome? Or the
Speaker of the House of Commons? Forgive me, if I am wrong, but I was
told you were niece to the Commissioners of Paving, and daughter-in-law
to the Lord Mayor and Court of Common Council, which would account for
your relationship to all three.’

‘Whoever has spread such reports, sir,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, with some
warmth, ‘has taken great liberties with my name, and one which I am sure
my son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, would not allow for an instant.
The idea!’ said Mrs. Nickleby, drawing herself up, ‘niece to the
Commissioners of Paving!’

‘Pray, mama, come away!’ whispered Kate.

‘“Pray mama!” Nonsense, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, angrily, ‘but that’s
just the way. If they had said I was niece to a piping bullfinch, what
would you care? But I have no sympathy,’ whimpered Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I
don’t expect it, that’s one thing.’

‘Tears!’ cried the old gentleman, with such an energetic jump, that
he fell down two or three steps and grated his chin against the
wall. ‘Catch the crystal globules--catch ‘em--bottle ‘em up--cork ‘em
tight--put sealing wax on the top--seal ‘em with a cupid--label ‘em
“Best quality”--and stow ‘em away in the fourteen binn, with a bar of
iron on the top to keep the thunder off!’

Issuing these commands, as if there were a dozen attendants all actively
engaged in their execution, he turned his velvet cap inside out, put it
on with great dignity so as to obscure his right eye and three-fourths
of his nose, and sticking his arms a-kimbo, looked very fiercely at a
sparrow hard by, till the bird flew away, when he put his cap in his
pocket with an air of great satisfaction, and addressed himself with
respectful demeanour to Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Beautiful madam,’ such were his words, ‘if I have made any mistake with
regard to your family or connections, I humbly beseech you to pardon me.
If I supposed you to be related to Foreign Powers or Native Boards,
it is because you have a manner, a carriage, a dignity, which you will
excuse my saying that none but yourself (with the single exception
perhaps of the tragic muse, when playing extemporaneously on the barrel
organ before the East India Company) can parallel. I am not a youth,
ma’am, as you see; and although beings like you can never grow old, I
venture to presume that we are fitted for each other.’

‘Really, Kate, my love!’ said Mrs. Nickleby faintly, and looking another
way.

‘I have estates, ma’am,’ said the old gentleman, flourishing his right
hand negligently, as if he made very light of such matters, and speaking
very fast; ‘jewels, lighthouses, fish-ponds, a whalery of my own in the
North Sea, and several oyster-beds of great profit in the Pacific Ocean.
If you will have the kindness to step down to the Royal Exchange and
to take the cocked-hat off the stoutest beadle’s head, you will find my
card in the lining of the crown, wrapped up in a piece of blue paper. My
walking-stick is also to be seen on application to the chaplain of
the House of Commons, who is strictly forbidden to take any money for
showing it. I have enemies about me, ma’am,’ he looked towards his house
and spoke very low, ‘who attack me on all occasions, and wish to secure
my property. If you bless me with your hand and heart, you can apply to
the Lord Chancellor or call out the military if necessary--sending my
toothpick to the commander-in-chief will be sufficient--and so clear the
house of them before the ceremony is performed. After that, love, bliss
and rapture; rapture, love and bliss. Be mine, be mine!’

Repeating these last words with great rapture and enthusiasm, the old
gentleman put on his black velvet cap again, and looking up into the
sky in a hasty manner, said something that was not quite intelligible
concerning a balloon he expected, and which was rather after its time.

‘Be mine, be mine!’ repeated the old gentleman.

‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I have hardly the power to speak;
but it is necessary for the happiness of all parties that this matter
should be set at rest for ever.’

‘Surely there is no necessity for you to say one word, mama?’ reasoned
Kate.

‘You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to judge for myself,’ said
Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Be mine, be mine!’ cried the old gentleman.

‘It can scarcely be expected, sir,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, fixing her eyes
modestly on the ground, ‘that I should tell a stranger whether I feel
flattered and obliged by such proposals, or not. They certainly are made
under very singular circumstances; still at the same time, as far as
it goes, and to a certain extent of course’ (Mrs. Nickleby’s customary
qualification), ‘they must be gratifying and agreeable to one’s
feelings.’

‘Be mine, be mine,’ cried the old gentleman. ‘Gog and Magog, Gog and
Magog. Be mine, be mine!’

‘It will be sufficient for me to say, sir,’ resumed Mrs. Nickleby, with
perfect seriousness--‘and I’m sure you’ll see the propriety of taking
an answer and going away--that I have made up my mind to remain a widow,
and to devote myself to my children. You may not suppose I am the mother
of two children--indeed many people have doubted it, and said that
nothing on earth could ever make ‘em believe it possible--but it is the
case, and they are both grown up. We shall be very glad to have you for
a neighbour--very glad; delighted, I’m sure--but in any other character
it’s quite impossible, quite. As to my being young enough to marry
again, that perhaps may be so, or it may not be; but I couldn’t think
of it for an instant, not on any account whatever. I said I never would,
and I never will. It’s a very painful thing to have to reject proposals,
and I would much rather that none were made; at the same time this is
the answer that I determined long ago to make, and this is the answer I
shall always give.’

These observations were partly addressed to the old gentleman, partly to
Kate, and partly delivered in soliloquy. Towards their conclusion, the
suitor evinced a very irreverent degree of inattention, and Mrs. Nickleby
had scarcely finished speaking, when, to the great terror both of that
lady and her daughter, he suddenly flung off his coat, and springing on
the top of the wall, threw himself into an attitude which displayed his
small-clothes and grey worsteds to the fullest advantage, and concluded
by standing on one leg, and repeating his favourite bellow with
increased vehemence.

While he was still dwelling on the last note, and embellishing it with
a prolonged flourish, a dirty hand was observed to glide stealthily and
swiftly along the top of the wall, as if in pursuit of a fly, and then
to clasp with the utmost dexterity one of the old gentleman’s ankles.
This done, the companion hand appeared, and clasped the other ankle.

Thus encumbered the old gentleman lifted his legs awkwardly once or
twice, as if they were very clumsy and imperfect pieces of machinery,
and then looking down on his own side of the wall, burst into a loud
laugh.

‘It’s you, is it?’ said the old gentleman.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ replied a gruff voice.

‘How’s the Emperor of Tartary?’ said the old gentleman.

‘Oh! he’s much the same as usual,’ was the reply. ‘No better and no
worse.’

‘The young Prince of China,’ said the old gentleman, with much interest.
‘Is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman?’

‘No,’ answered the gruff voice; ‘and he says he never will be, that’s
more.’

‘If that’s the case,’ observed the old gentleman, ‘perhaps I’d better
come down.’

‘Well,’ said the man on the other side, ‘I think you had, perhaps.’

One of the hands being then cautiously unclasped, the old gentleman
dropped into a sitting posture, and was looking round to smile and bow
to Mrs. Nickleby, when he disappeared with some precipitation, as if his
legs had been pulled from below.

Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning to speak
to her mama, when the dirty hands again became visible, and were
immediately followed by the figure of a coarse squat man, who ascended
by the steps which had been recently occupied by their singular
neighbour.

‘Beg your pardon, ladies,’ said this new comer, grinning and touching
his hat. ‘Has he been making love to either of you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kate.

‘Ah!’ rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hat and
wiping his face, ‘he always will, you know. Nothing will prevent his
making love.’

‘I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,’ said Kate.

‘Why no,’ replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his
handkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. ‘That’s pretty
plain, that is.’

‘Has he been long so?’ asked Kate.

‘A long while.’

‘And is there no hope for him?’ said Kate, compassionately

‘Not a bit, and don’t deserve to be,’ replied the keeper. ‘He’s a deal
pleasanter without his senses than with ‘em. He was the cruellest,
wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath.’

‘Indeed!’ said Kate.

‘By George!’ replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically that
he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on. ‘I never come across such a
vagabond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife’s heart, turned
his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into the streets; it was a
blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness,
and selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he’d have drove many
others so. Hope for HIM, an old rip! There isn’t too much hope going,
but I’ll bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more deserving
chaps than him, anyhow.’

With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again, as
much as to say that nothing short of this would do, if things were to
go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily--not that he was in an ill
humour, but that his subject ruffled him--descended the ladder, and took
it away.

During this conversation, Mrs. Nickleby had regarded the man with a
severe and steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and pursing
up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtful manner.

‘Poor creature!’ said Kate.

‘Ah! poor indeed!’ rejoined Mrs. Nickleby. ‘It’s shameful that such
things should be allowed. Shameful!’

‘How can they be helped, mama?’ said Kate, mournfully. ‘The infirmities
of nature--’

‘Nature!’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘What! Do YOU suppose this poor gentleman
is out of his mind?’

‘Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?’

‘Why then, I just tell you this, Kate,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that, he
is nothing of the kind, and I am surprised you can be so imposed
upon. It’s some plot of these people to possess themselves of his
property--didn’t he say so himself? He may be a little odd and flighty,
perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and express himself as
he does, respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and making offers
with so much thought, and care, and prudence--not as if he ran into the
streets, and went down upon his knees to the first chit of a girl he
met, as a madman would! No, no, Kate, there’s a great deal too much
method in HIS madness; depend upon that, my dear.’



CHAPTER 42

Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends must
sometimes part


The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all day in the
heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guarding the entrance to the
hostelry of whose name and sign they are the duplicate presentments,
looked--or seemed, in the eyes of jaded and footsore passers-by, to
look--more vicious than usual, after blistering and scorching in the
sun, when, in one of the inn’s smallest sitting-rooms, through whose
open window there rose, in a palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from
reeking coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed
in neat and inviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and boiled,
a tongue, a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little
matters of the like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, are
generally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,
stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.

Mr. John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered restlessly about
these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies out of the
sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in
the milk-pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut off a little knob of
crust, and a little corner of meat, and swallow them at two gulps like a
couple of pills. After every one of these flirtations with the eatables,
he pulled out his watch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic
that he couldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.

‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and half
asleep upon a sofa.

‘Well, John!’

‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feel
hoongry, lass?’

‘Not very,’ said Mrs. Browdie.

‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hear her
say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthry thot
aggravates a mon ‘stead of pacifying him! Not vary!’

‘Here’s a gen’l’man for you, sir,’ said the waiter, looking in.

‘A wa’at for me?’ cried John, as though he thought it must be a letter,
or a parcel.

‘A gen’l’man, sir.’

‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom and say
thot for? In wi’ ‘un.’

‘Are you at home, sir?’

‘At whoam!’ cried John, ‘I wish I wur; I’d ha tea’d two hour ago. Why, I
told t’oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell ‘un d’rectly he
coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ‘un. Aha! Thee hond, Misther
Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest day o’ my life, sir. Hoo be
all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’

Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of his salutation,
John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping
his palm with great violence between each shake, to add warmth to the
reception.

‘Ah! there she be,’ said John, observing the look which Nicholas
directed towards his wife. ‘There she be--we shan’t quarrel about her
noo--eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot--but thou want’st soom’at to eat.
Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive--’

No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing more was heard,
for John had already begun to play such a knife and fork, that his
speech was, for the time, gone.

‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr. Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as he
placed a chair for the bride.

‘Tak’ whatever thou like’st,’ said John, ‘and when a’s gane, ca’ for
more.’

Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs. Browdie,
and handed her to her seat.

‘I say,’ said John, rather astounded for the moment, ‘mak’ theeself
quite at whoam, will ‘ee?’

‘You may depend upon that,’ replied Nicholas; ‘on one condition.’

‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.

‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for
one.’

‘Eh! d’ye hear thot?’ cried John, laying down his knife and fork. ‘A
godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly--hear till ‘un--a godfeyther! Divn’t say
a word more, ye’ll never beat thot. Occasion for ‘un--a godfeyther! Ha!
ha! ha!’

Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as John Browdie
was with this. He chuckled, roared, half suffocated himself by laughing
large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roared again, persisted in
eating at the same time, got red in the face and black in the forehead,
coughed, cried, got better, went off again laughing inwardly, got worse,
choked, had his back thumped, stamped about, frightened his wife, and
at last recovered in a state of the last exhaustion and with the water
streaming from his eyes, but still faintly ejaculating, ‘A godfeyther--a
godfeyther, Tilly!’ in a tone bespeaking an exquisite relish of the
sally, which no suffering could diminish.

‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ said Nicholas.

‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.

‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs. Browdie?’
said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’

‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, Mr. Nickleby, you’d
have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I never was so frightened in
all my life.’

‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’st betther than
thot, Tilly.’

‘So I was,’ replied Mrs. Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mind never to
speak to you again.’

‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’most made up
her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, and wheedlin’, and wheedlin’
a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou let yon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?”
 says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, a squeedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?”
 says I. “Noa,” says she, a squeedgin of me agean.’

‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much. ‘How can
you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt of such a thing!’

‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I think that’s
loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re a feeckle,
changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,” says she.
“Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thou bean’t,
efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” says she, quite
screeching. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she--and she coom a
deal closer and squeedged a deal harder than she’d deane afore--“dost
thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that having such a proper mun as thou
to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ opp wi’ such a leetle scanty
whipper-snapper as yon?” she says. Ha! ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper!
“Ecod!” I says, “efther thot, neame the day, and let’s have it ower!”
 Ha! ha! ha!’

Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story, both on account of its
telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare the blushes of
Mrs. Browdie, whose protestations were drowned in peals of laughter from
her husband. His good-nature soon put her at her ease; and although she
still denied the charge, she laughed so heartily at it, that Nicholas
had the satisfaction of feeling assured that in all essential respects
it was strictly true.

‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have ever taken a
meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yet it really
seems to me as if I were among old friends.’

‘Weel!’ observed the Yorkshireman, ‘so I say.’

‘And I am sure I do,’ added his young wife.

‘I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,’ said
Nicholas; ‘for if it had not been for your kindness of heart, my good
friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know not what
might have become of me or what plight I should have been in by this
time.’

‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnot bother.’

‘It must be a new song to the same tune then,’ said Nicholas, smiling.
‘I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired your sympathy
with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk of involving yourself
in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how grateful he and
I, and others whom you don’t know, are to you for taking pity on him.’

‘Ecod!’ rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; ‘and I can never
tell YOU hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would be loikewise, if
THEY know’d I had takken pity on him.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs. Browdie, ‘what a state I was in that night!’

‘Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in the
escape?’ inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.

‘Not a bit,’ replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth from ear
to ear. ‘There I lay, snoog in schoolmeasther’s bed long efther it was
dark, and nobody coom nigh the pleace. “Weel!” thinks I, “he’s got a
pretty good start, and if he bean’t whoam by noo, he never will be; so
you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind us reddy”--that is, you
know, schoolmeasther might coom.’

‘I understand,’ said Nicholas.

‘Presently,’ resumed John, ‘he DID coom. I heerd door shut doonstairs,
and him a warking, oop in the daark. “Slow and steddy,” I says to
myself, “tak’ your time, sir--no hurry.” He cooms to the door, turns the
key--turns the key when there warn’t nothing to hoold the lock--and ca’s
oot “Hallo, there!”--“Yes,” thinks I, “you may do thot agean, and
not wakken anybody, sir.” “Hallo, there,” he says, and then he stops.
“Thou’d betther not aggravate me,” says schoolmeasther, efther a little
time. “I’ll brak’ every boan in your boddy, Smike,” he says, efther
another little time. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight,
and when it cooms--ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! “Wa’at’s the matter?”
 says I. “He’s gane,” says he,--stark mad wi’ vengeance. “Have you heerd
nought?” “Ees,” says I, “I heerd street-door shut, no time at a’ ago.
I heerd a person run doon there” (pointing t’other wa’--eh?) “Help!” he
cries. “I’ll help you,” says I; and off we set--the wrong wa’! Ho! ho!
ho!’

‘Did you go far?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Far!’ replied John; ‘I run him clean off his legs in quarther of an
hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi’out his hat, skimming along oop to
his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, and rowling into
ditches, and bawling oot like mad, wi’ his one eye looking sharp out for
the lad, and his coat-tails flying out behind, and him spattered wi’ mud
all ower, face and all! I tho’t I should ha’ dropped doon, and killed
myself wi’ laughing.’

John laughed so heartily at the mere recollection, that he communicated
the contagion to both his hearers, and all three burst into peals of
laughter, which were renewed again and again, until they could laugh no
longer.

‘He’s a bad ‘un,’ said John, wiping his eyes; ‘a very bad ‘un, is
schoolmeasther.’

‘I can’t bear the sight of him, John,’ said his wife.

‘Coom,’ retorted John, ‘thot’s tidy in you, thot is. If it wa’nt along
o’ you, we shouldn’t know nought aboot ‘un. Thou know’d ‘un first,
Tilly, didn’t thou?’

‘I couldn’t help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,’ returned his wife; ‘she
was an old playmate of mine, you know.’

‘Weel,’ replied John, ‘dean’t I say so, lass? It’s best to be
neighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I say is,
dean’t quarrel if ‘ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr. Nickleby?’

‘Certainly,’ returned Nicholas; ‘and you acted upon that principle when
I meet you on horseback on the road, after our memorable evening.’

‘Sure-ly,’ said John. ‘Wa’at I say, I stick by.’

‘And that’s a fine thing to do, and manly too,’ said Nicholas, ‘though
it’s not exactly what we understand by “coming Yorkshire over us” in
London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said in your note.’

‘Yes,’ replied John, ‘Tilly’s bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaid she be,
too. She wean’t be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.’

‘For shame, John,’ said Mrs. Browdie; with an acute perception of the
joke though, being a bride herself.

‘The groom will be a blessed mun,’ said John, his eyes twinkling at the
idea. ‘He’ll be in luck, he will.’

‘You see, Mr. Nickleby,’ said his wife, ‘that it was in consequence of
her being here, that John wrote to you and fixed tonight, because we
thought that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you to meet, after what has
passed.’

‘Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,’ said Nicholas,
interrupting.

‘Especially,’ observed Mrs. Browdie, looking very sly, ‘after what we
know about past and gone love matters.’

‘We know, indeed!’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘You behaved rather
wickedly there, I suspect.’

‘O’ course she did,’ said John Browdie, passing his huge forefinger
through one of his wife’s pretty ringlets, and looking very proud of
her. ‘She wur always as skittish and full o’ tricks as a--’

‘Well, as a what?’ said his wife.

‘As a woman,’ returned John. ‘Ding! But I dinnot know ought else that
cooms near it.’

‘You were speaking about Miss Squeers,’ said Nicholas, with the view of
stopping some slight connubialities which had begun to pass between Mr
and Mrs. Browdie, and which rendered the position of a third party in
some degree embarrassing, as occasioning him to feel rather in the way
than otherwise.

‘Oh yes,’ rejoined Mrs. Browdie. ‘John ha’ done. John fixed tonight,
because she had settled that she would go and drink tea with her father.
And to make quite sure of there being nothing amiss, and of your being
quite alone with us, he settled to go out there and fetch her home.’

‘That was a very good arrangement,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I am sorry to
be the occasion of so much trouble.’

‘Not the least in the world,’ returned Mrs. Browdie; ‘for we have
looked forward to see you--John and I have--with the greatest possible
pleasure. Do you know, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Mrs. Browdie, with her archest
smile, ‘that I really think Fanny Squeers was very fond of you?’

‘I am very much obliged to her,’ said Nicholas; ‘but upon my word, I
never aspired to making any impression upon her virgin heart.’

‘How you talk!’ tittered Mrs. Browdie. ‘No, but do you know that
really--seriously now and without any joking--I was given to understand
by Fanny herself, that you had made an offer to her, and that you two
were going to be engaged quite solemn and regular.’

‘Was you, ma’am--was you?’ cried a shrill female voice, ‘was you given
to understand that I--I--was going to be engaged to an assassinating
thief that shed the gore of my pa? Do you--do you think, ma’am--that I
was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet, as I couldn’t condescend to
touch with kitchen tongs, without blacking and crocking myself by the
contract? Do you, ma’am--do you? Oh! base and degrading ‘Tilda!’

With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the door wide open, and
disclosed to the eyes of the astonished Browdies and Nicholas, not only
her own symmetrical form, arrayed in the chaste white garments before
described (a little dirtier), but the form of her brother and father,
the pair of Wackfords.

‘This is the hend, is it?’ continued Miss Squeers, who, being excited,
aspirated her h’s strongly; ‘this is the hend, is it, of all my
forbearance and friendship for that double-faced thing--that viper,
that--that--mermaid?’ (Miss Squeers hesitated a long time for this
last epithet, and brought it out triumphantly at last, as if it quite
clinched the business.) ‘This is the hend, is it, of all my bearing with
her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, her laying herself out to
catch the admiration of vulgar minds, in a way which made me blush for
my--for my--’

‘Gender,’ suggested Mr. Squeers, regarding the spectators with a
malevolent eye--literally A malevolent eye.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘but I thank my stars that my ma is of the
same--’

‘Hear, hear!’ remarked Mr. Squeers; ‘and I wish she was here to have a
scratch at this company.’

‘This is the hend, is it,’ said Miss Squeers, tossing her head, and
looking contemptuously at the floor, ‘of my taking notice of that
rubbishing creature, and demeaning myself to patronise her?’

‘Oh, come,’ rejoined Mrs. Browdie, disregarding all the endeavours of
her spouse to restrain her, and forcing herself into a front row, ‘don’t
talk such nonsense as that.’

‘Have I not patronised you, ma’am?’ demanded Miss Squeers.

‘No,’ returned Mrs. Browdie.

‘I will not look for blushes in such a quarter,’ said Miss Squeers,
haughtily, ‘for that countenance is a stranger to everything but
hignominiousness and red-faced boldness.’

‘I say,’ interposed John Browdie, nettled by these accumulated attacks
on his wife, ‘dra’ it mild, dra’ it mild.’

‘You, Mr. Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers, taking him up very quickly, ‘I
pity. I have no feeling for you, sir, but one of unliquidated pity.’

‘Oh!’ said John.

‘No,’ said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent, ‘although I AM
a queer bridesmaid, and SHAN’T be a bride in a hurry, and although my
husband WILL be in luck, I entertain no sentiments towards you, sir, but
sentiments of pity.’

Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, who looked
sideways at her, as much as to say, ‘There you had him.’

‘I know what you’ve got to go through,’ said Miss Squeers, shaking her
curls violently. ‘I know what life is before you, and if you was my
bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish you nothing worse.’

‘Couldn’t you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was the case?’
inquired Mrs. Browdie, with great suavity of manner.

‘Oh, ma’am, how witty you are,’ retorted Miss Squeers with a low curtsy,
‘almost as witty, ma’am, as you are clever. How very clever it was in
you, ma’am, to choose a time when I had gone to tea with my pa, and
was sure not to come back without being fetched! What a pity you never
thought that other people might be as clever as yourself and spoil your
plans!’

‘You won’t vex me, child, with such airs as these,’ said the late Miss
Price, assuming the matron.

‘Don’t MISSIS me, ma’am, if you please,’ returned Miss Squeers, sharply.
‘I’ll not bear it. Is THIS the hend--’

‘Dang it a’,’ cried John Browdie, impatiently. ‘Say thee say out, Fanny,
and mak’ sure it’s the end, and dinnot ask nobody whether it is or not.’

‘Thanking you for your advice which was not required, Mr. Browdie,’
returned Miss Squeers, with laborious politeness, ‘have the goodness not
to presume to meddle with my Christian name. Even my pity shall never
make me forget what’s due to myself, Mr. Browdie. ‘Tilda,’ said Miss
Squeers, with such a sudden accession of violence that John started in
his boots, ‘I throw you off for ever, miss. I abandon you. I renounce
you. I wouldn’t,’ cried Miss Squeers in a solemn voice, ‘have a child
named ‘Tilda, not to save it from its grave.’

‘As for the matther o’ that,’ observed John, ‘it’ll be time eneaf to
think aboot neaming of it when it cooms.’

‘John!’ interposed his wife, ‘don’t tease her.’

‘Oh! Tease, indeed!’ cried Miss Squeers, bridling up. ‘Tease, indeed!
He, he! Tease, too! No, don’t tease her. Consider her feelings, pray!’

‘If it’s fated that listeners are never to hear any good of themselves,’
said Mrs. Browdie, ‘I can’t help it, and I am very sorry for it. But I
will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have spoken so kindly of you
behind your back, that even you could have found no fault with what I
said.’

‘Oh, I dare say not, ma’am!’ cried Miss Squeers, with another curtsy.
‘Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging and praying you not
to be hard upon me another time!’

‘I don’t know,’ resumed Mrs. Browdie, ‘that I have said anything very bad
of you, even now. At all events, what I did say was quite true; but if I
have, I am very sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. You have said much
worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have never borne any malice
to you, and I hope you’ll not bear any to me.’

Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying her former friend
from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the air with ineffable
disdain. But some indistinct allusions to a ‘puss,’ and a ‘minx,’ and a
‘contemptible creature,’ escaped her; and this, together with a severe
biting of the lips, great difficulty in swallowing, and very frequent
comings and goings of breath, seemed to imply that feelings were
swelling in Miss Squeers’s bosom too great for utterance.

While the foregoing conversation was proceeding, Master Wackford,
finding himself unnoticed, and feeling his preponderating inclinations
strong upon him, had by little and little sidled up to the table and
attacked the food with such slight skirmishing as drawing his fingers
round and round the inside of the plates, and afterwards sucking them
with infinite relish; picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over
the surface of the butter; pocketing lumps of sugar, pretending all
the time to be absorbed in thought; and so forth. Finding that no
interference was attempted with these small liberties, he gradually
mounted to greater, and, after helping himself to a moderately good cold
collation, was, by this time, deep in the pie.

Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr. Squeers, who, so long as the
attention of the company was fixed upon other objects, hugged himself to
think that his son and heir should be fattening at the enemy’s expense.
But there being now an appearance of a temporary calm, in which the
proceedings of little Wackford could scarcely fail to be observed,
he feigned to be aware of the circumstance for the first time, and
inflicted upon the face of that young gentleman a slap that made the
very tea-cups ring.

‘Eating!’ cried Mr. Squeers, ‘of what his father’s enemies has left! It’s
fit to go and poison you, you unnat’ral boy.’

‘It wean’t hurt him,’ said John, apparently very much relieved by the
prospect of having a man in the quarrel; ‘let’ un eat. I wish the whole
school was here. I’d give’em soom’at to stay their unfort’nate stomachs
wi’, if I spent the last penny I had!’

Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most malicious expression of
which his face was capable--it was a face of remarkable capability, too,
in that way--and shook his fist stealthily.

‘Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,’ said John, ‘dinnot make a fool o’ thyself;
for if I was to sheake mine--only once--thou’d fa’ doon wi’ the wind o’
it.’

‘It was you, was it,’ returned Squeers, ‘that helped off my runaway boy?
It was you, was it?’

‘Me!’ returned John, in a loud tone. ‘Yes, it wa’ me, coom; wa’at o’
that? It wa’ me. Noo then!’

‘You hear him say he did it, my child!’ said Squeers, appealing to his
daughter. ‘You hear him say he did it!’

‘Did it!’ cried John. ‘I’ll tell ‘ee more; hear this, too. If thou’d
got another roonaway boy, I’d do it agean. If thou’d got twonty roonaway
boys, I’d do it twonty times ower, and twonty more to thot; and I
tell thee more,’ said John, ‘noo my blood is oop, that thou’rt an old
ra’ascal; and that it’s weel for thou, thou be’est an old ‘un, or I’d
ha’ poonded thee to flour when thou told an honest mun hoo thou’d licked
that poor chap in t’ coorch.’

‘An honest man!’ cried Squeers, with a sneer.

‘Ah! an honest man,’ replied John; ‘honest in ought but ever putting
legs under seame table wi’ such as thou.’

‘Scandal!’ said Squeers, exultingly. ‘Two witnesses to it; Wackford
knows the nature of an oath, he does; we shall have you there, sir.
Rascal, eh?’ Mr. Squeers took out his pocketbook and made a note of it.
‘Very good. I should say that was worth full twenty pound at the next
assizes, without the honesty, sir.’

‘’Soizes,’ cried John, ‘thou’d betther not talk to me o’ ‘Soizes.
Yorkshire schools have been shown up at ‘Soizes afore noo, mun, and it’s
a ticklish soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.’

Mr. Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, looking very white
with passion; and taking his daughter’s arm, and dragging little
Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the door.

‘As for you,’ said Squeers, turning round and addressing Nicholas,
who, as he had caused him to smart pretty soundly on a former occasion,
purposely abstained from taking any part in the discussion, ‘see if I
ain’t down upon you before long. You’ll go a kidnapping of boys, will
you? Take care their fathers don’t turn up--mark that--take care their
fathers don’t turn up, and send ‘em back to me to do as I like with, in
spite of you.’

‘I am not afraid of that,’ replied Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders
contemptuously, and turning away.

‘Ain’t you!’ retorted Squeers, with a diabolical look. ‘Now then, come
along.’

‘I leave such society, with my pa, for Hever,’ said Miss Squeers,
looking contemptuously and loftily round. ‘I am defiled by breathing
the air with such creatures. Poor Mr. Browdie! He! he! he! I do pity him,
that I do; he’s so deluded. He! he! he!--Artful and designing ‘Tilda!’

With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majestic wrath, Miss
Squeers swept from the room; and having sustained her dignity until the
last possible moment, was heard to sob and scream and struggle in the
passage.

John Browdie remained standing behind the table, looking from his wife
to Nicholas, and back again, with his mouth wide open, until his hand
accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale, when he took it up, and
having obscured his features therewith for some time, drew a long
breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang the bell.

‘Here, waither,’ said John, briskly. ‘Look alive here. Tak’ these things
awa’, and let’s have soomat broiled for sooper--vary comfortable and
plenty o’ it--at ten o’clock. Bring soom brandy and soom wather, and a
pair o’ slippers--the largest pair in the house--and be quick aboot it.
Dash ma wig!’ said John, rubbing his hands, ‘there’s no ganging oot to
neeght, noo, to fetch anybody whoam, and ecod, we’ll begin to spend the
evening in airnest.’



CHAPTER 43

Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People
together


The storm had long given place to a calm the most profound, and the
evening was pretty far advanced--indeed supper was over, and the
process of digestion proceeding as favourably as, under the influence of
complete tranquillity, cheerful conversation, and a moderate allowance
of brandy-and-water, most wise men conversant with the anatomy and
functions of the human frame will consider that it ought to have
proceeded, when the three friends, or as one might say, both in a civil
and religious sense, and with proper deference and regard to the holy
state of matrimony, the two friends, (Mr. and Mrs. Browdie counting as
no more than one,) were startled by the noise of loud and angry
threatenings below stairs, which presently attained so high a pitch,
and were conveyed besides in language so towering, sanguinary, and
ferocious, that it could hardly have been surpassed, if there had
actually been a Saracen’s head then present in the establishment,
supported on the shoulders and surmounting the trunk of a real, live,
furious, and most unappeasable Saracen.

This turmoil, instead of quickly subsiding after the first outburst,
(as turmoils not unfrequently do, whether in taverns, legislative
assemblies, or elsewhere,) into a mere grumbling and growling squabble,
increased every moment; and although the whole din appeared to be
raised by but one pair of lungs, yet that one pair was of so powerful
a quality, and repeated such words as ‘scoundrel,’ ‘rascal,’ ‘insolent
puppy,’ and a variety of expletives no less flattering to the party
addressed, with such great relish and strength of tone, that a dozen
voices raised in concert under any ordinary circumstances would have
made far less uproar and created much smaller consternation.

‘Why, what’s the matter?’ said Nicholas, moving hastily towards the
door.

John Browdie was striding in the same direction when Mrs. Browdie turned
pale, and, leaning back in her chair, requested him with a faint voice
to take notice, that if he ran into any danger it was her intention to
fall into hysterics immediately, and that the consequences might be more
serious than he thought for. John looked rather disconcerted by this
intelligence, though there was a lurking grin on his face at the same
time; but, being quite unable to keep out of the fray, he compromised
the matter by tucking his wife’s arm under his own, and, thus
accompanied, following Nicholas downstairs with all speed.

The passage outside the coffee-room door was the scene of disturbance,
and here were congregated the coffee-room customers and waiters,
together with two or three coachmen and helpers from the yard. These had
hastily assembled round a young man who from his appearance might have
been a year or two older than Nicholas, and who, besides having given
utterance to the defiances just now described, seemed to have proceeded
to even greater lengths in his indignation, inasmuch as his feet had no
other covering than a pair of stockings, while a couple of slippers lay
at no great distance from the head of a prostrate figure in an opposite
corner, who bore the appearance of having been shot into his present
retreat by means of a kick, and complimented by having the slippers
flung about his ears afterwards.

The coffee-room customers, and the waiters, and the coachmen, and the
helpers--not to mention a barmaid who was looking on from behind an
open sash window--seemed at that moment, if a spectator might judge from
their winks, nods, and muttered exclamations, strongly disposed to take
part against the young gentleman in the stockings. Observing this, and
that the young gentleman was nearly of his own age and had in nothing
the appearance of an habitual brawler, Nicholas, impelled by such
feelings as will influence young men sometimes, felt a very strong
disposition to side with the weaker party, and so thrust himself at once
into the centre of the group, and in a more emphatic tone, perhaps, than
circumstances might seem to warrant, demanded what all that noise was
about.

‘Hallo!’ said one of the men from the yard, ‘this is somebody in
disguise, this is.’

‘Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of Roosher, gen’l’men!’ cried
another fellow.

Disregarding these sallies, which were uncommonly well received, as
sallies at the expense of the best-dressed persons in a crowd usually
are, Nicholas glanced carelessly round, and addressing the young
gentleman, who had by this time picked up his slippers and thrust his
feet into them, repeated his inquiries with a courteous air.

‘A mere nothing!’ he replied.

At this a murmur was raised by the lookers-on, and some of the boldest
cried, ‘Oh, indeed!--Wasn’t it though?--Nothing, eh?--He called that
nothing, did he? Lucky for him if he found it nothing.’ These and many
other expressions of ironical disapprobation having been exhausted, two
or three of the out-of-door fellows began to hustle Nicholas and the
young gentleman who had made the noise: stumbling against them by
accident, and treading on their toes, and so forth. But this being a
round game, and one not necessarily limited to three or four players,
was open to John Browdie too, who, bursting into the little crowd--to
the great terror of his wife--and falling about in all directions,
now to the right, now to the left, now forwards, now backwards, and
accidentally driving his elbow through the hat of the tallest helper,
who had been particularly active, speedily caused the odds to wear a
very different appearance; while more than one stout fellow limped away
to a respectful distance, anathematising with tears in his eyes the
heavy tread and ponderous feet of the burly Yorkshireman.

‘Let me see him do it again,’ said he who had been kicked into the
corner, rising as he spoke, apparently more from the fear of John
Browdie’s inadvertently treading upon him, than from any desire to place
himself on equal terms with his late adversary. ‘Let me see him do it
again. That’s all.’

‘Let me hear you make those remarks again,’ said the young man, ‘and
I’ll knock that head of yours in among the wine-glasses behind you
there.’

Here a waiter who had been rubbing his hands in excessive enjoyment
of the scene, so long as only the breaking of heads was in question,
adjured the spectators with great earnestness to fetch the police,
declaring that otherwise murder would be surely done, and that he was
responsible for all the glass and china on the premises.

‘No one need trouble himself to stir,’ said the young gentleman, ‘I am
going to remain in the house all night, and shall be found here in the
morning if there is any assault to answer for.’

‘What did you strike him for?’ asked one of the bystanders.

‘Ah! what did you strike him for?’ demanded the others.

The unpopular gentleman looked coolly round, and addressing himself to
Nicholas, said:

‘You inquired just now what was the matter here. The matter is simply
this. Yonder person, who was drinking with a friend in the coffee-room
when I took my seat there for half an hour before going to bed, (for I
have just come off a journey, and preferred stopping here tonight, to
going home at this hour, where I was not expected until tomorrow,) chose
to express himself in very disrespectful, and insolently familiar
terms, of a young lady, whom I recognised from his description and other
circumstances, and whom I have the honour to know. As he spoke loud
enough to be overheard by the other guests who were present, I informed
him most civilly that he was mistaken in his conjectures, which were
of an offensive nature, and requested him to forbear. He did so for a
little time, but as he chose to renew his conversation when leaving the
room, in a more offensive strain than before, I could not refrain
from making after him, and facilitating his departure by a kick, which
reduced him to the posture in which you saw him just now. I am the
best judge of my own affairs, I take it,’ said the young man, who had
certainly not quite recovered from his recent heat; ‘if anybody here
thinks proper to make this quarrel his own, I have not the smallest
earthly objection, I do assure him.’

Of all possible courses of proceeding under the circumstances detailed,
there was certainly not one which, in his then state of mind, could
have appeared more laudable to Nicholas than this. There were not many
subjects of dispute which at that moment could have come home to his
own breast more powerfully, for having the unknown uppermost in his
thoughts, it naturally occurred to him that he would have done just the
same if any audacious gossiper durst have presumed in his hearing to
speak lightly of her. Influenced by these considerations, he espoused
the young gentleman’s quarrel with great warmth, protesting that he had
done quite right, and that he respected him for it; which John Browdie
(albeit not quite clear as to the merits) immediately protested too,
with not inferior vehemence.

‘Let him take care, that’s all,’ said the defeated party, who was being
rubbed down by a waiter, after his recent fall on the dusty boards. ‘He
don’t knock me about for nothing, I can tell him that. A pretty state of
things, if a man isn’t to admire a handsome girl without being beat to
pieces for it!’

This reflection appeared to have great weight with the young lady in
the bar, who (adjusting her cap as she spoke, and glancing at a mirror)
declared that it would be a very pretty state of things indeed; and that
if people were to be punished for actions so innocent and natural as
that, there would be more people to be knocked down than there would
be people to knock them down, and that she wondered what the gentleman
meant by it, that she did.

‘My dear girl,’ said the young gentleman in a low voice, advancing
towards the sash window.

‘Nonsense, sir!’ replied the young lady sharply, smiling though as she
turned aside, and biting her lip, (whereat Mrs. Browdie, who was still
standing on the stairs, glanced at her with disdain, and called to her
husband to come away).

‘No, but listen to me,’ said the young man. ‘If admiration of a pretty
face were criminal, I should be the most hopeless person alive, for I
cannot resist one. It has the most extraordinary effect upon me, checks
and controls me in the most furious and obstinate mood. You see what an
effect yours has had upon me already.’

‘Oh, that’s very pretty,’ replied the young lady, tossing her head,
‘but--’

‘Yes, I know it’s very pretty,’ said the young man, looking with an air
of admiration in the barmaid’s face; ‘I said so, you know, just this
moment. But beauty should be spoken of respectfully--respectfully, and
in proper terms, and with a becoming sense of its worth and excellence,
whereas this fellow has no more notion--’

The young lady interrupted the conversation at this point, by thrusting
her head out of the bar-window, and inquiring of the waiter in a shrill
voice whether that young man who had been knocked down was going to
stand in the passage all night, or whether the entrance was to be left
clear for other people. The waiters taking the hint, and communicating
it to the hostlers, were not slow to change their tone too, and the
result was, that the unfortunate victim was bundled out in a twinkling.

‘I am sure I have seen that fellow before,’ said Nicholas.

‘Indeed!’ replied his new acquaintance.

‘I am certain of it,’ said Nicholas, pausing to reflect. ‘Where can I
have--stop!--yes, to be sure--he belongs to a register-office up at the
west end of the town. I knew I recollected the face.’

It was, indeed, Tom, the ugly clerk.

‘That’s odd enough!’ said Nicholas, ruminating upon the strange manner
in which the register-office seemed to start up and stare him in the
face every now and then, and when he least expected it.

‘I am much obliged to you for your kind advocacy of my cause when it
most needed an advocate,’ said the young man, laughing, and drawing a
card from his pocket. ‘Perhaps you’ll do me the favour to let me know
where I can thank you.’

Nicholas took the card, and glancing at it involuntarily as he returned
the compliment, evinced very great surprise.

‘Mr. Frank Cheeryble!’ said Nicholas. ‘Surely not the nephew of Cheeryble
Brothers, who is expected tomorrow!’

‘I don’t usually call myself the nephew of the firm,’ returned Mr. Frank,
good-humouredly; ‘but of the two excellent individuals who compose it,
I am proud to say I AM the nephew. And you, I see, are Mr. Nickleby, of
whom I have heard so much! This is a most unexpected meeting, but not
the less welcome, I assure you.’

Nicholas responded to these compliments with others of the same kind,
and they shook hands warmly. Then he introduced John Browdie, who had
remained in a state of great admiration ever since the young lady in
the bar had been so skilfully won over to the right side. Then Mrs. John
Browdie was introduced, and finally they all went upstairs together
and spent the next half-hour with great satisfaction and mutual
entertainment; Mrs. John Browdie beginning the conversation by
declaring that of all the made-up things she ever saw, that young woman
below-stairs was the vainest and the plainest.

This Mr. Frank Cheeryble, although, to judge from what had recently taken
place, a hot-headed young man (which is not an absolute miracle and
phenomenon in nature), was a sprightly, good-humoured, pleasant fellow,
with much both in his countenance and disposition that reminded Nicholas
very strongly of the kind-hearted brothers. His manner was as unaffected
as theirs, and his demeanour full of that heartiness which, to most
people who have anything generous in their composition, is peculiarly
prepossessing. Add to this, that he was good-looking and intelligent,
had a plentiful share of vivacity, was extremely cheerful, and
accommodated himself in five minutes’ time to all John Browdie’s
oddities with as much ease as if he had known him from a boy; and it
will be a source of no great wonder that, when they parted for the
night, he had produced a most favourable impression, not only upon the
worthy Yorkshireman and his wife, but upon Nicholas also, who, revolving
all these things in his mind as he made the best of his way home,
arrived at the conclusion that he had laid the foundation of a most
agreeable and desirable acquaintance.

‘But it’s a most extraordinary thing about that register-office fellow!’
thought Nicholas. ‘Is it likely that this nephew can know anything about
that beautiful girl? When Tim Linkinwater gave me to understand the
other day that he was coming to take a share in the business here, he
said he had been superintending it in Germany for four years, and that
during the last six months he had been engaged in establishing an agency
in the north of England. That’s four years and a half--four years and a
half. She can’t be more than seventeen--say eighteen at the outside. She
was quite a child when he went away, then. I should say he knew nothing
about her and had never seen her, so HE can give me no information. At
all events,’ thought Nicholas, coming to the real point in his mind,
‘there can be no danger of any prior occupation of her affections in
that quarter; that’s quite clear.’

Is selfishness a necessary ingredient in the composition of that passion
called love, or does it deserve all the fine things which poets, in the
exercise of their undoubted vocation, have said of it? There are, no
doubt, authenticated instances of gentlemen having given up ladies
and ladies having given up gentlemen to meritorious rivals, under
circumstances of great high-mindedness; but is it quite established
that the majority of such ladies and gentlemen have not made a virtue of
necessity, and nobly resigned what was beyond their reach; as a private
soldier might register a vow never to accept the order of the Garter, or
a poor curate of great piety and learning, but of no family--save a very
large family of children--might renounce a bishopric?

Here was Nicholas Nickleby, who would have scorned the thought of
counting how the chances stood of his rising in favour or fortune with
the brothers Cheeryble, now that their nephew had returned, already deep
in calculations whether that same nephew was likely to rival him in the
affections of the fair unknown--discussing the matter with himself too,
as gravely as if, with that one exception, it were all settled; and
recurring to the subject again and again, and feeling quite indignant
and ill-used at the notion of anybody else making love to one with
whom he had never exchanged a word in all his life. To be sure, he
exaggerated rather than depreciated the merits of his new acquaintance;
but still he took it as a kind of personal offence that he should have
any merits at all--in the eyes of this particular young lady, that is;
for elsewhere he was quite welcome to have as many as he pleased. There
was undoubted selfishness in all this, and yet Nicholas was of a most
free and generous nature, with as few mean or sordid thoughts, perhaps,
as ever fell to the lot of any man; and there is no reason to suppose
that, being in love, he felt and thought differently from other people
in the like sublime condition.

He did not stop to set on foot an inquiry into his train of thought or
state of feeling, however; but went thinking on all the way home,
and continued to dream on in the same strain all night. For, having
satisfied himself that Frank Cheeryble could have no knowledge of, or
acquaintance with, the mysterious young lady, it began to occur to him
that even he himself might never see her again; upon which hypothesis he
built up a very ingenious succession of tormenting ideas which answered
his purpose even better than the vision of Mr. Frank Cheeryble, and
tantalised and worried him, waking and sleeping.

Notwithstanding all that has been said and sung to the contrary,
there is no well-established case of morning having either deferred
or hastened its approach by the term of an hour or so for the mere
gratification of a splenetic feeling against some unoffending lover:
the sun having, in the discharge of his public duty, as the books
of precedent report, invariably risen according to the almanacs, and
without suffering himself to be swayed by any private considerations.
So, morning came as usual, and with it business-hours, and with them Mr
Frank Cheeryble, and with him a long train of smiles and welcomes from
the worthy brothers, and a more grave and clerk-like, but scarcely less
hearty reception from Mr. Timothy Linkinwater.

‘That Mr. Frank and Mr. Nickleby should have met last night,’ said
Tim Linkinwater, getting slowly off his stool, and looking round the
counting-house with his back planted against the desk, as was his custom
when he had anything very particular to say: ‘that those two young men
should have met last night in that manner is, I say, a coincidence, a
remarkable coincidence. Why, I don’t believe now,’ added Tim, taking off
his spectacles, and smiling as with gentle pride, ‘that there’s such a
place in all the world for coincidences as London is!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mr. Frank; ‘but--’

‘Don’t know about it, Mr. Francis!’ interrupted Tim, with an obstinate
air. ‘Well, but let us know. If there is any better place for such
things, where is it? Is it in Europe? No, that it isn’t. Is it in Asia?
Why, of course it’s not. Is it in Africa? Not a bit of it. Is it in
America? YOU know better than that, at all events. Well, then,’ said
Tim, folding his arms resolutely, ‘where is it?’

‘I was not about to dispute the point, Tim,’ said young Cheeryble,
laughing. ‘I am not such a heretic as that. All I was going to say was,
that I hold myself under an obligation to the coincidence, that’s all.’

‘Oh! if you don’t dispute it,’ said Tim, quite satisfied, ‘that’s
another thing. I’ll tell you what though. I wish you had. I wish you
or anybody would. I would so put that man down,’ said Tim, tapping the
forefinger of his left hand emphatically with his spectacles, ‘so put
that man down by argument--’

It was quite impossible to find language to express the degree of mental
prostration to which such an adventurous wight would be reduced in the
keen encounter with Tim Linkinwater, so Tim gave up the rest of his
declaration in pure lack of words, and mounted his stool again.

‘We may consider ourselves, brother Ned,’ said Charles, after he had
patted Tim Linkinwater approvingly on the back, ‘very fortunate in
having two such young men about us as our nephew Frank and Mr. Nickleby.
It should be a source of great satisfaction and pleasure to us.’

‘Certainly, Charles, certainly,’ returned the other.

‘Of Tim,’ added brother Ned, ‘I say nothing whatever, because Tim is
a mere child--an infant--a nobody that we never think of or take into
account at all. Tim, you villain, what do you say to that, sir?’

‘I am jealous of both of ‘em,’ said Tim, ‘and mean to look out for
another situation; so provide yourselves, gentlemen, if you please.’

Tim thought this such an exquisite, unparalleled, and most extraordinary
joke, that he laid his pen upon the inkstand, and rather tumbling off
his stool than getting down with his usual deliberation, laughed till he
was quite faint, shaking his head all the time so that little particles
of powder flew palpably about the office. Nor were the brothers at all
behind-hand, for they laughed almost as heartily at the ludicrous idea
of any voluntary separation between themselves and old Tim. Nicholas
and Mr. Frank laughed quite boisterously, perhaps to conceal some other
emotion awakened by this little incident, (and so, indeed, did the three
old fellows after the first burst,) so perhaps there was as much keen
enjoyment and relish in that laugh, altogether, as the politest assembly
ever derived from the most poignant witticism uttered at any one
person’s expense.

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said brother Charles, calling him aside, and taking him
kindly by the hand, ‘I--I--am anxious, my dear sir, to see that you are
properly and comfortably settled in the cottage. We cannot allow those
who serve us well to labour under any privation or discomfort that it is
in our power to remove. I wish, too, to see your mother and sister: to
know them, Mr. Nickleby, and have an opportunity of relieving their minds
by assuring them that any trifling service we have been able to do
them is a great deal more than repaid by the zeal and ardour you
display.--Not a word, my dear sir, I beg. Tomorrow is Sunday. I shall
make bold to come out at teatime, and take the chance of finding you at
home; if you are not, you know, or the ladies should feel a delicacy in
being intruded on, and would rather not be known to me just now, why
I can come again another time, any other time would do for me. Let it
remain upon that understanding. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, let me have
a word with you this way.’

The twins went out of the office arm-in-arm, and Nicholas, who saw in
this act of kindness, and many others of which he had been the subject
that morning, only so many delicate renewals on the arrival of their
nephew of the kind assurance which the brothers had given him in his
absence, could scarcely feel sufficient admiration and gratitude for
such extraordinary consideration.

The intelligence that they were to have a visitor--and such a
visitor--next day, awakened in the breast of Mrs. Nickleby mingled
feelings of exultation and regret; for whereas on the one hand she
hailed it as an omen of her speedy restoration to good society and the
almost-forgotten pleasures of morning calls and evening tea-drinkings,
she could not, on the other, but reflect with bitterness of spirit on
the absence of a silver teapot with an ivory knob on the lid, and a
milk-jug to match, which had been the pride of her heart in days of
yore, and had been kept from year’s end to year’s end wrapped up in
wash-leather on a certain top shelf which now presented itself in lively
colours to her sorrowing imagination.

‘I wonder who’s got that spice-box,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, shaking her
head. ‘It used to stand in the left-hand corner, next but two to the
pickled onions. You remember that spice-box, Kate?’

‘Perfectly well, mama.’

‘I shouldn’t think you did, Kate,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, in a severe
manner, ‘talking about it in that cold and unfeeling way! If there
is any one thing that vexes me in these losses more than the losses
themselves, I do protest and declare,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, rubbing her
nose with an impassioned air, ‘that it is to have people about me who
take things with such provoking calmness.’

‘My dear mama,’ said Kate, stealing her arm round her mother’s neck,
‘why do you say what I know you cannot seriously mean or think, or why
be angry with me for being happy and content? You and Nicholas are left
to me, we are together once again, and what regard can I have for a few
trifling things of which we never feel the want? When I have seen all
the misery and desolation that death can bring, and known the lonesome
feeling of being solitary and alone in crowds, and all the agony of
separation in grief and poverty when we most needed comfort and support
from each other, can you wonder that I look upon this as a place of such
delicious quiet and rest, that with you beside me I have nothing to
wish for or regret? There was a time, and not long since, when all
the comforts of our old home did come back upon me, I own, very
often--oftener than you would think perhaps--but I affected to care
nothing for them, in the hope that you would so be brought to regret
them the less. I was not insensible, indeed. I might have felt happier
if I had been. Dear mama,’ said Kate, in great agitation, ‘I know no
difference between this home and that in which we were all so happy
for so many years, except that the kindest and gentlest heart that ever
ached on earth has passed in peace to heaven.’

‘Kate my dear, Kate,’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, folding her in her arms.

‘I have so often thought,’ sobbed Kate, ‘of all his kind words--of the
last time he looked into my little room, as he passed upstairs to bed,
and said “God bless you, darling.” There was a paleness in his face,
mama--the broken heart--I know it was--I little thought so--then--’

A gush of tears came to her relief, and Kate laid her head upon her
mother’s breast, and wept like a little child.

It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that when the
heart is touched and softened by some tranquil happiness or affectionate
feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most powerfully and
irresistibly. It would almost seem as though our better thoughts and
sympathies were charms, in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold
some vague and mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom
we dearly loved in life. Alas! how often and how long may those patient
angels hover above us, watching for the spell which is so seldom
uttered, and so soon forgotten!

Poor Mrs. Nickleby, accustomed to give ready utterance to whatever
came uppermost in her mind, had never conceived the possibility of her
daughter’s dwelling upon these thoughts in secret, the more especially
as no hard trial or querulous reproach had ever drawn them from her. But
now, when the happiness of all that Nicholas had just told them, and
of their new and peaceful life, brought these recollections so strongly
upon Kate that she could not suppress them, Mrs. Nickleby began to have
a glimmering that she had been rather thoughtless now and then, and was
conscious of something like self-reproach as she embraced her daughter,
and yielded to the emotions which such a conversation naturally
awakened.

There was a mighty bustle that night, and a vast quantity of preparation
for the expected visitor, and a very large nosegay was brought from a
gardener’s hard by, and cut up into a number of very small ones, with
which Mrs. Nickleby would have garnished the little sitting-room, in
a style that certainly could not have failed to attract anybody’s
attention, if Kate had not offered to spare her the trouble, and
arranged them in the prettiest and neatest manner possible. If the
cottage ever looked pretty, it must have been on such a bright and
sunshiny day as the next day was. But Smike’s pride in the garden,
or Mrs. Nickleby’s in the condition of the furniture, or Kate’s in
everything, was nothing to the pride with which Nicholas looked at Kate
herself; and surely the costliest mansion in all England might have
found in her beautiful face and graceful form its most exquisite and
peerless ornament.

About six o’clock in the afternoon Mrs. Nickleby was thrown into a great
flutter of spirits by the long-expected knock at the door, nor was this
flutter at all composed by the audible tread of two pair of boots in the
passage, which Mrs. Nickleby augured, in a breathless state, must be ‘the
two Mr. Cheerybles;’ as it certainly was, though not the two Mrs. Nickleby
expected, because it was Mr. Charles Cheeryble, and his nephew, Mr. Frank,
who made a thousand apologies for his intrusion, which Mrs. Nickleby
(having tea-spoons enough and to spare for all) most graciously
received. Nor did the appearance of this unexpected visitor occasion
the least embarrassment, (save in Kate, and that only to the extent of
a blush or two at first,) for the old gentleman was so kind and cordial,
and the young gentleman imitated him in this respect so well, that the
usual stiffness and formality of a first meeting showed no signs of
appearing, and Kate really more than once detected herself in the very
act of wondering when it was going to begin.

At the tea-table there was plenty of conversation on a great variety of
subjects, nor were there wanting jocose matters of discussion, such as
they were; for young Mr. Cheeryble’s recent stay in Germany happening to
be alluded to, old Mr. Cheeryble informed the company that the aforesaid
young Mr. Cheeryble was suspected to have fallen deeply in love with
the daughter of a certain German burgomaster. This accusation young
Mr. Cheeryble most indignantly repelled, upon which Mrs. Nickleby slyly
remarked, that she suspected, from the very warmth of the denial, there
must be something in it. Young Mr. Cheeryble then earnestly entreated old
Mr. Cheeryble to confess that it was all a jest, which old Mr. Cheeryble
at last did, young Mr. Cheeryble being so much in earnest about it,
that--as Mrs. Nickleby said many thousand times afterwards in recalling
the scene--he ‘quite coloured,’ which she rightly considered a memorable
circumstance, and one worthy of remark, young men not being as a class
remarkable for modesty or self-denial, especially when there is a lady
in the case, when, if they colour at all, it is rather their practice to
colour the story, and not themselves.

After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening being very
fine they strolled out at the garden-gate into some lanes and bye-roads,
and sauntered up and down until it grew quite dark. The time seemed to
pass very quickly with all the party. Kate went first, leaning upon
her brother’s arm, and talking with him and Mr. Frank Cheeryble; and
Mrs. Nickleby and the elder gentleman followed at a short distance, the
kindness of the good merchant, his interest in the welfare of Nicholas,
and his admiration of Kate, so operating upon the good lady’s feelings,
that the usual current of her speech was confined within very narrow
and circumscribed limits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an object of
interest in his life, had been one that day) accompanied them, joining
sometimes one group and sometimes the other, as brother Charles, laying
his hand upon his shoulder, bade him walk with him, or Nicholas, looking
smilingly round, beckoned him to come and talk with the old friend who
understood him best, and who could win a smile into his careworn face
when none else could.

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the pride of
a mother in her children, for that is a compound of two cardinal
virtues--faith and hope. This was the pride which swelled Mrs. Nickleby’s
heart that night, and this it was which left upon her face, glistening
in the light when they returned home, traces of the most grateful tears
she had ever shed.

There was a quiet mirth about the little supper, which harmonised
exactly with this tone of feeling, and at length the two gentlemen
took their leave. There was one circumstance in the leave-taking which
occasioned a vast deal of smiling and pleasantry, and that was, that Mr
Frank Cheeryble offered his hand to Kate twice over, quite forgetting
that he had bade her adieu already. This was held by the elder Mr
Cheeryble to be a convincing proof that he was thinking of his German
flame, and the jest occasioned immense laughter. So easy is it to move
light hearts.

In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil happiness; and as we
all have some bright day--many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of
others--to which we revert with particular delight, so this one was
often looked back to afterwards, as holding a conspicuous place in the
calendar of those who shared it.

Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to have been most
happy?

Who was that who, in the silence of his own chamber, sunk upon his knees
to pray as his first friend had taught him, and folding his hands and
stretching them wildly in the air, fell upon his face in a passion of
bitter grief?



CHAPTER 44

Mr. Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. It would also appear from
the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and Wife, may be
sometimes carried too far


There are some men who, living with the one object of enriching
themselves, no matter by what means, and being perfectly conscious of
the baseness and rascality of the means which they will use every day
towards this end, affect nevertheless--even to themselves--a high tone
of moral rectitude, and shake their heads and sigh over the depravity of
the world. Some of the craftiest scoundrels that ever walked this earth,
or rather--for walking implies, at least, an erect position and the
bearing of a man--that ever crawled and crept through life by its
dirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries the
events of every day, and keep a regular debtor and creditor account with
Heaven, which shall always show a floating balance in their own favour.
Whether this is a gratuitous (the only gratuitous) part of the falsehood
and trickery of such men’s lives, or whether they really hope to cheat
Heaven itself, and lay up treasure in the next world by the same process
which has enabled them to lay up treasure in this--not to question
how it is, so it is. And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain
autobiographies which have enlightened the world) cannot fail to prove
serviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angel some time
and labour.

Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding, dogged,
and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it, save
the gratification of two passions, avarice, the first and predominant
appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second. Affecting to consider
himself but a type of all humanity, he was at little pains to conceal
his true character from the world in general, and in his own heart he
exulted over and cherished every bad design as it had birth. The only
scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby heeded, in the letter, was
‘know thyself.’ He knew himself well, and choosing to imagine that all
mankind were cast in the same mould, hated them; for, though no man
hates himself, the coldest among us having too much self-love for that,
yet most men unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will
be very generally found that those who sneer habitually at human
nature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant
samples.

But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself, who
stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that worthy took
off his fingerless gloves, and spreading them carefully on the palm of
his left hand, and flattening them with his right to take the creases
out, proceeded to roll them up with an absent air as if he were utterly
regardless of all things else, in the deep interest of the ceremonial.

‘Gone out of town!’ said Ralph, slowly. ‘A mistake of yours. Go back
again.’

‘No mistake,’ returned Newman. ‘Not even going; gone.’

‘Has he turned girl or baby?’ muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.

‘I don’t know,’ said Newman, ‘but he’s gone.’

The repetition of the word ‘gone’ seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He
uttered the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as long
as he decently could, and when he could hold out no longer without
attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if even that were
a satisfaction.

‘And WHERE has he gone?’ said Ralph.

‘France,’ replied Newman. ‘Danger of another attack of erysipelas--a
worse attack--in the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And he’s
gone.’

‘And Lord Frederick--?’ began Ralph.

‘He’s gone too,’ replied Newman.

‘And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?’ said Ralph, turning
away; ‘pockets his bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation of a
word, or seeking the smallest reparation!’

‘He’s too ill,’ said Newman.

‘Too ill!’ repeated Ralph. ‘Why I would have it if I were dying; in that
case I should only be the more determined to have it, and that without
delay--I mean if I were he. But he’s too ill! Poor Sir Mulberry! Too
ill!’

Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation of
manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave the room; and throwing
himself into his chair, beat his foot impatiently upon the ground.

‘There is some spell about that boy,’ said Ralph, grinding his teeth.
‘Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune’s favours! What is
even money to such Devil’s luck as this?’

He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, but notwithstanding
his previous reflection there was some consolation there, for his face
relaxed a little; and although there was still a deep frown upon the
contracted brow, it was one of calculation, and not of disappointment.

‘This Hawk will come back, however,’ muttered Ralph; ‘and if I know the
man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lost nothing of its
violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live in retirement--the
monotony of a sick-room to a man of his habits--no life--no drink--no
play--nothing that he likes and lives by. He is not likely to forget
his obligations to the cause of all this. Few men would; but he of all
others? No, no!’

He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon his hand, fell a
musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose and rang the bell.

‘That Mr. Squeers; has he been here?’ said Ralph.

‘He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,’ returned
Newman.

‘I know that, fool, do I not?’ said Ralph, irascibly. ‘Has he been here
since? Was he here this morning?’

‘No,’ bawled Newman, in a very loud key.

‘If he comes while I am out--he is pretty sure to be here by nine
tonight--let him wait. And if there’s another man with him, as there
will be--perhaps,’ said Ralph, checking himself, ‘let him wait too.’

‘Let ‘em both wait?’ said Newman.

‘Ay,’ replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. ‘Help me on
with this spencer, and don’t repeat after me, like a croaking parrot.’

‘I wish I was a parrot,’ Newman, sulkily.

‘I wish you were,’ rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; ‘I’d have
wrung your neck long ago.’

Newman returned no answer to this compliment, but looked over Ralph’s
shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the spencer
behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed to tweak him by the
nose. Meeting Ralph’s eye, however, he suddenly recalled his wandering
fingers, and rubbed his own red nose with a vehemence quite astonishing.

Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than a
threatening look, and an admonition to be careful and make no mistake,
Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked out.

He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneous connection,
and very odd calls he made, some at great rich houses, and some at small
poor ones, but all upon one subject: money. His face was a talisman to
the porters and servants of his more dashing clients, and procured him
ready admission, though he trudged on foot, and others, who were denied,
rattled to the door in carriages. Here he was all softness and cringing
civility; his step so light, that it scarcely produced a sound upon
the thick carpets; his voice so soft that it was not audible beyond the
person to whom it was addressed. But in the poorer habitations Ralph
was another man; his boots creaked upon the passage floor as he walked
boldly in; his voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money that
was overdue; his threats were coarse and angry. With another class of
customers, Ralph was again another man. These were attorneys of more
than doubtful reputation, who helped him to new business, or raised
fresh profits upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and jocose,
humorous upon the topics of the day, and especially pleasant upon
bankruptcies and pecuniary difficulties that made good for trade. In
short, it would have been difficult to have recognised the same man
under these various aspects, but for the bulky leather case full of
bills and notes which he drew from his pocket at every house, and the
constant repetition of the same complaint, (varied only in tone and
style of delivery,) that the world thought him rich, and that perhaps
he might be if he had his own; but there was no getting money in when it
was once out, either principal or interest, and it was a hard matter to
live; even to live from day to day.

It was evening before a long round of such visits (interrupted only by
a scanty dinner at an eating-house) terminated at Pimlico, and Ralph
walked along St James’s Park, on his way home.

There were some deep schemes in his head, as the puckered brow and
firmly-set mouth would have abundantly testified, even if they had been
unaccompanied by a complete indifference to, or unconsciousness of, the
objects about him. So complete was his abstraction, however, that
Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as any man, did not observe that he was
followed by a shambling figure, which at one time stole behind him with
noiseless footsteps, at another crept a few paces before him, and at
another glided along by his side; at all times regarding him with an eye
so keen, and a look so eager and attentive, that it was more like the
expression of an intrusive face in some powerful picture or strongly
marked dream, than the scrutiny even of a most interested and anxious
observer.

The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and the commencement
of a violent storm of rain drove Ralph for shelter to a tree. He was
leaning against it with folded arms, still buried in thought, when,
happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met those of a man who,
creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a searching look.
There was something in the usurer’s expression at the moment, which the
man appeared to remember well, for it decided him; and stepping close up
to Ralph, he pronounced his name.

Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of paces and
surveyed him from head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man, of about
his own age, with a stooping body, and a very sinister face rendered
more ill-favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeply sunburnt, and
thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with the perfect whiteness of
his hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments, of a strange and uncouth
make; and having about him an indefinable manner of depression and
degradation--this, for a moment, was all he saw. But he looked again,
and the face and person seemed gradually to grow less strange; to change
as he looked, to subside and soften into lineaments that were familiar,
until at last they resolved themselves, as if by some strange optical
illusion, into those of one whom he had known for many years, and
forgotten and lost sight of for nearly as many more.

The man saw that the recognition was mutual, and beckoning to Ralph to
take his former place under the tree, and not to stand in the falling
rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been quite regardless,
addressed him in a hoarse, faint tone.

‘You would hardly have known me from my voice, I suppose, Mr. Nickleby?’
he said.

‘No,’ returned Ralph, bending a severe look upon him. ‘Though there is
something in that, that I remember now.’

‘There is little in me that you can call to mind as having been there
eight years ago, I dare say?’ observed the other.

‘Quite enough,’ said Ralph, carelessly, and averting his face. ‘More
than enough.’

‘If I had remained in doubt about YOU, Mr. Nickleby,’ said the other,
‘this reception, and YOUR manner, would have decided me very soon.’

‘Did you expect any other?’ asked Ralph, sharply.

‘No!’ said the man.

‘You were right,’ retorted Ralph; ‘and as you feel no surprise, need
express none.’

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said the man, bluntly, after a brief pause, during which
he had seemed to struggle with an inclination to answer him by some
reproach, ‘will you hear a few words that I have to say?’

‘I am obliged to wait here till the rain holds a little,’ said Ralph,
looking abroad. ‘If you talk, sir, I shall not put my fingers in my
ears, though your talking may have as much effect as if I did.’

‘I was once in your confidence--’ thus his companion began. Ralph looked
round, and smiled involuntarily.

‘Well,’ said the other, ‘as much in your confidence as you ever chose to
let anybody be.’

‘Ah!’ rejoined Ralph, folding his arms; ‘that’s another thing, quite
another thing.’

‘Don’t let us play upon words, Mr. Nickleby, in the name of humanity.’

‘Of what?’ said Ralph.

‘Of humanity,’ replied the other, sternly. ‘I am hungry and in want. If
the change that you must see in me after so long an absence--must see,
for I, upon whom it has come by slow and hard degrees, see it and know
it well--will not move you to pity, let the knowledge that bread; not
the daily bread of the Lord’s Prayer, which, as it is offered up in
cities like this, is understood to include half the luxuries of the
world for the rich, and just as much coarse food as will support life
for the poor--not that, but bread, a crust of dry hard bread, is beyond
my reach today--let that have some weight with you, if nothing else
has.’

‘If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,’ said Ralph, ‘you have
studied your part well; but if you will take advice from one who knows
something of the world and its ways, I should recommend a lower tone; a
little lower tone, or you stand a fair chance of being starved in good
earnest.’

As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with his right
hand, and inclining his head a little on one side and dropping his chin
upon his breast, looked at him whom he addressed with a frowning, sullen
face. The very picture of a man whom nothing could move or soften.

‘Yesterday was my first day in London,’ said the old man, glancing at
his travel-stained dress and worn shoes.

‘It would have been better for you, I think, if it had been your last
also,’ replied Ralph.

‘I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought you were most
likely to be found,’ resumed the other more humbly, ‘and I met you here
at last, when I had almost given up the hope of encountering you, Mr
Nickleby.’

He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph giving him none, he
continued:

‘I am a most miserable and wretched outcast, nearly sixty years old, and
as destitute and helpless as a child of six.’

‘I am sixty years old, too,’ replied Ralph, ‘and am neither destitute
nor helpless. Work. Don’t make fine play-acting speeches about bread,
but earn it.’

‘How?’ cried the other. ‘Where? Show me the means. Will you give them to
me--will you?’

‘I did once,’ replied Ralph, composedly; ‘you scarcely need ask me
whether I will again.’

‘It’s twenty years ago, or more,’ said the man, in a suppressed voice,
‘since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed a share in the
profits of some business I brought to you, and, as I persisted, you
arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, odd shillings, including
interest at fifty per cent, or so.’

‘I remember something of it,’ replied Ralph, carelessly. ‘What then?’

‘That didn’t part us,’ said the man. ‘I made submission, being on the
wrong side of the bolts and bars; and as you were not the made man then
that you are now, you were glad enough to take back a clerk who wasn’t
over nice, and who knew something of the trade you drove.’

‘You begged and prayed, and I consented,’ returned Ralph. ‘That was kind
of me. Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I should think I did, or you
would have begged in vain. You were useful; not too honest, not too
delicate, not too nice of hand or heart; but useful.’

‘Useful, indeed!’ said the man. ‘Come. You had pinched and ground me
down for some years before that, but I had served you faithfully up to
that time, in spite of all your dog’s usage. Had I?’

Ralph made no reply.

‘Had I?’ said the man again.

‘You had had your wages,’ rejoined Ralph, ‘and had done your work. We
stood on equal ground so far, and could both cry quits.’

‘Then, but not afterwards,’ said the other.

‘Not afterwards, certainly, nor even then, for (as you have just said)
you owed me money, and do still,’ replied Ralph.

‘That’s not all,’ said the man, eagerly. ‘That’s not all. Mark that. I
didn’t forget that old sore, trust me. Partly in remembrance of that,
and partly in the hope of making money someday by the scheme, I took
advantage of my position about you, and possessed myself of a hold upon
you, which you would give half of all you have to know, and never can
know but through me. I left you--long after that time, remember--and,
for some poor trickery that came within the law, but was nothing to what
you money-makers daily practise just outside its bounds, was sent away
a convict for seven years. I have returned what you see me. Now, Mr
Nickleby,’ said the man, with a strange mixture of humility and sense of
power, ‘what help and assistance will you give me; what bribe, to speak
out plainly? My expectations are not monstrous, but I must live, and to
live I must eat and drink. Money is on your side, and hunger and thirst
on mine. You may drive an easy bargain.’

‘Is that all?’ said Ralph, still eyeing his companion with the same
steady look, and moving nothing but his lips.

‘It depends on you, Mr. Nickleby, whether that’s all or not,’ was the
rejoinder.

‘Why then, harkye, Mr--, I don’t know by what name I am to call you,’
said Ralph.

‘By my old one, if you like.’

‘Why then, harkye, Mr. Brooker,’ said Ralph, in his harshest accents,
‘and don’t expect to draw another speech from me. Harkye, sir. I know
you of old for a ready scoundrel, but you never had a stout heart; and
hard work, with (maybe) chains upon those legs of yours, and shorter
food than when I “pinched” and “ground” you, has blunted your wits, or
you would not come with such a tale as this to me. You a hold upon me!
Keep it, or publish it to the world, if you like.’

‘I can’t do that,’ interposed Brooker. ‘That wouldn’t serve me.’

‘Wouldn’t it?’ said Ralph. ‘It will serve you as much as bringing it to
me, I promise you. To be plain with you, I am a careful man, and know my
affairs thoroughly. I know the world, and the world knows me. Whatever
you gleaned, or heard, or saw, when you served me, the world knows and
magnifies already. You could tell it nothing that would surprise it,
unless, indeed, it redounded to my credit or honour, and then it would
scout you for a liar. And yet I don’t find business slack, or clients
scrupulous. Quite the contrary. I am reviled or threatened every day by
one man or another,’ said Ralph; ‘but things roll on just the same, and
I don’t grow poorer either.’

‘I neither revile nor threaten,’ rejoined the man. ‘I can tell you of
what you have lost by my act, what I only can restore, and what, if I
die without restoring, dies with me, and never can be regained.’

‘I tell my money pretty accurately, and generally keep it in my own
custody,’ said Ralph. ‘I look sharply after most men that I deal with,
and most of all I looked sharply after you. You are welcome to all you
have kept from me.’

‘Are those of your own name dear to you?’ said the man emphatically. ‘If
they are--’

‘They are not,’ returned Ralph, exasperated at this perseverance, and
the thought of Nicholas, which the last question awakened. ‘They are
not. If you had come as a common beggar, I might have thrown a sixpence
to you in remembrance of the clever knave you used to be; but since you
try to palm these stale tricks upon one you might have known better,
I’ll not part with a halfpenny--nor would I to save you from rotting.
And remember this, ‘scape-gallows,’ said Ralph, menacing him with
his hand, ‘that if we meet again, and you so much as notice me by one
begging gesture, you shall see the inside of a jail once more, and
tighten this hold upon me in intervals of the hard labour that vagabonds
are put to. There’s my answer to your trash. Take it.’

With a disdainful scowl at the object of his anger, who met his eye
but uttered not a word, Ralph walked away at his usual pace, without
manifesting the slightest curiosity to see what became of his late
companion, or indeed once looking behind him. The man remained on the
same spot with his eyes fixed upon his retreating figure until it was
lost to view, and then drawing his arm about his chest, as if the damp
and lack of food struck coldly to him, lingered with slouching steps by
the wayside, and begged of those who passed along.

Ralph, in no-wise moved by what had lately passed, further than as he
had already expressed himself, walked deliberately on, and turning out
of the Park and leaving Golden Square on his right, took his way through
some streets at the west end of the town until he arrived in that
particular one in which stood the residence of Madame Mantalini. The
name of that lady no longer appeared on the flaming door-plate, that of
Miss Knag being substituted in its stead; but the bonnets and dresses
were still dimly visible in the first-floor windows by the decaying
light of a summer’s evening, and excepting this ostensible alteration in
the proprietorship, the establishment wore its old appearance.

‘Humph!’ muttered Ralph, drawing his hand across his mouth with a
connoisseur-like air, and surveying the house from top to bottom; ‘these
people look pretty well. They can’t last long; but if I know of their
going in good time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. I must keep them
closely in view; that’s all.’

So, nodding his head very complacently, Ralph was leaving the spot, when
his quick ear caught the sound of a confused noise and hubbub of voices,
mingled with a great running up and down stairs, in the very house
which had been the subject of his scrutiny; and while he was hesitating
whether to knock at the door or listen at the keyhole a little longer, a
female servant of Madame Mantalini’s (whom he had often seen) opened
it abruptly and bounced out, with her blue cap-ribbons streaming in the
air.

‘Hallo here. Stop!’ cried Ralph. ‘What’s the matter? Here am I. Didn’t
you hear me knock?’

‘Oh! Mr. Nickleby, sir,’ said the girl. ‘Go up, for the love of Gracious.
Master’s been and done it again.’

‘Done what?’ said Ralph, tartly; ‘what d’ye mean?’

‘I knew he would if he was drove to it,’ cried the girl. ‘I said so all
along.’

‘Come here, you silly wench,’ said Ralph, catching her by the wrist;
‘and don’t carry family matters to the neighbours, destroying the credit
of the establishment. Come here; do you hear me, girl?’

Without any further expostulation, he led or rather pulled the
frightened handmaid into the house, and shut the door; then bidding her
walk upstairs before him, followed without more ceremony.

Guided by the noise of a great many voices all talking together, and
passing the girl in his impatience, before they had ascended many steps,
Ralph quickly reached the private sitting-room, when he was rather
amazed by the confused and inexplicable scene in which he suddenly found
himself.

There were all the young-lady workers, some with bonnets and some
without, in various attitudes expressive of alarm and consternation;
some gathered round Madame Mantalini, who was in tears upon one chair;
and others round Miss Knag, who was in opposition tears upon another;
and others round Mr. Mantalini, who was perhaps the most striking figure
in the whole group, for Mr. Mantalini’s legs were extended at full length
upon the floor, and his head and shoulders were supported by a very
tall footman, who didn’t seem to know what to do with them, and Mr
Mantalini’s eyes were closed, and his face was pale and his hair was
comparatively straight, and his whiskers and moustache were limp, and
his teeth were clenched, and he had a little bottle in his right hand,
and a little tea-spoon in his left; and his hands, arms, legs, and
shoulders, were all stiff and powerless. And yet Madame Mantalini was
not weeping upon the body, but was scolding violently upon her chair;
and all this amidst a clamour of tongues perfectly deafening, and which
really appeared to have driven the unfortunate footman to the utmost
verge of distraction.

‘What is the matter here?’ said Ralph, pressing forward.

At this inquiry, the clamour was increased twenty-fold, and an
astounding string of such shrill contradictions as ‘He’s poisoned
himself’--‘He hasn’t’--‘Send for a doctor’--‘Don’t’--‘He’s dying’--‘He
isn’t, he’s only pretending’--with various other cries, poured forth
with bewildering volubility, until Madame Mantalini was seen to address
herself to Ralph, when female curiosity to know what she would say,
prevailed, and, as if by general consent, a dead silence, unbroken by a
single whisper, instantaneously succeeded.

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini; ‘by what chance you came here, I
don’t know.’

Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate, as part of the wanderings
of a sick man, the words ‘Demnition sweetness!’ but nobody heeded
them except the footman, who, being startled to hear such awful tones
proceeding, as it were, from between his very fingers, dropped his
master’s head upon the floor with a pretty loud crash, and then, without
an effort to lift it up, gazed upon the bystanders, as if he had done
something rather clever than otherwise.

‘I will, however,’ continued Madame Mantalini, drying her eyes, and
speaking with great indignation, ‘say before you, and before everybody
here, for the first time, and once for all, that I never will supply
that man’s extravagances and viciousness again. I have been a dupe and a
fool to him long enough. In future, he shall support himself if he
can, and then he may spend what money he pleases, upon whom and how he
pleases; but it shall not be mine, and therefore you had better pause
before you trust him further.’

Thereupon Madame Mantalini, quite unmoved by some most pathetic
lamentations on the part of her husband, that the apothecary had not
mixed the prussic acid strong enough, and that he must take another
bottle or two to finish the work he had in hand, entered into a
catalogue of that amiable gentleman’s gallantries, deceptions,
extravagances, and infidelities (especially the last), winding up with
a protest against being supposed to entertain the smallest remnant
of regard for him; and adducing, in proof of the altered state of her
affections, the circumstance of his having poisoned himself in private
no less than six times within the last fortnight, and her not having
once interfered by word or deed to save his life.

‘And I insist on being separated and left to myself,’ said Madame
Mantalini, sobbing. ‘If he dares to refuse me a separation, I’ll have
one in law--I can--and I hope this will be a warning to all girls who
have seen this disgraceful exhibition.’

Miss Knag, who was unquestionably the oldest girl in company, said with
great solemnity, that it would be a warning to HER, and so did the
young ladies generally, with the exception of one or two who appeared to
entertain some doubts whether such whispers could do wrong.

‘Why do you say all this before so many listeners?’ said Ralph, in a low
voice. ‘You know you are not in earnest.’

‘I AM in earnest,’ replied Madame Mantalini, aloud, and retreating
towards Miss Knag.

‘Well, but consider,’ reasoned Ralph, who had a great interest in the
matter. ‘It would be well to reflect. A married woman has no property.’

‘Not a solitary single individual dem, my soul,’ and Mr. Mantalini,
raising himself upon his elbow.

‘I am quite aware of that,’ retorted Madame Mantalini, tossing her head;
‘and I have none. The business, the stock, this house, and everything in
it, all belong to Miss Knag.’

‘That’s quite true, Madame Mantalini,’ said Miss Knag, with whom her
late employer had secretly come to an amicable understanding on this
point. ‘Very true, indeed, Madame Mantalini--hem--very true. And I never
was more glad in all my life, that I had strength of mind to resist
matrimonial offers, no matter how advantageous, than I am when I think
of my present position as compared with your most unfortunate and most
undeserved one, Madame Mantalini.’

‘Demmit!’ cried Mr. Mantalini, turning his head towards his wife. ‘Will
it not slap and pinch the envious dowager, that dares to reflect upon
its own delicious?’

But the day of Mr. Mantalini’s blandishments had departed. ‘Miss
Knag, sir,’ said his wife, ‘is my particular friend;’ and although Mr
Mantalini leered till his eyes seemed in danger of never coming back to
their right places again, Madame Mantalini showed no signs of softening.

To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she had been mainly instrumental
in bringing about this altered state of things, for, finding by daily
experience, that there was no chance of the business thriving, or even
continuing to exist, while Mr. Mantalini had any hand in the expenditure,
and having now a considerable interest in its well-doing, she had
sedulously applied herself to the investigation of some little matters
connected with that gentleman’s private character, which she had so well
elucidated, and artfully imparted to Madame Mantalini, as to open her
eyes more effectually than the closest and most philosophical reasoning
could have done in a series of years. To which end, the accidental
discovery by Miss Knag of some tender correspondence, in which Madame
Mantalini was described as ‘old’ and ‘ordinary,’ had most providentially
contributed.

However, notwithstanding her firmness, Madame Mantalini wept very
piteously; and as she leant upon Miss Knag, and signed towards the door,
that young lady and all the other young ladies with sympathising faces,
proceeded to bear her out.

‘Nickleby,’ said Mr. Mantalini in tears, ‘you have been made a witness
to this demnition cruelty, on the part of the demdest enslaver and
captivator that never was, oh dem! I forgive that woman.’

‘Forgive!’ repeated Madame Mantalini, angrily.

‘I do forgive her, Nickleby,’ said Mr. Mantalini. ‘You will blame me, the
world will blame me, the women will blame me; everybody will laugh,
and scoff, and smile, and grin most demnebly. They will say, “She had a
blessing. She did not know it. He was too weak; he was too good; he was
a dem’d fine fellow, but he loved too strong; he could not bear her to
be cross, and call him wicked names. It was a dem’d case, there never
was a demder.” But I forgive her.’

With this affecting speech Mr. Mantalini fell down again very flat, and
lay to all appearance without sense or motion, until all the females
had left the room, when he came cautiously into a sitting posture, and
confronted Ralph with a very blank face, and the little bottle still in
one hand and the tea-spoon in the other.

‘You may put away those fooleries now, and live by your wits again,’
said Ralph, coolly putting on his hat.

‘Demmit, Nickleby, you’re not serious?’

‘I seldom joke,’ said Ralph. ‘Good-night.’

‘No, but Nickleby--’ said Mantalini.

‘I am wrong, perhaps,’ rejoined Ralph. ‘I hope so. You should know best.
Good-night.’

Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he would stay and advise with
him, Ralph left the crest-fallen Mr. Mantalini to his meditations, and
left the house quietly.

‘Oho!’ he said, ‘sets the wind that way so soon? Half knave and half
fool, and detected in both characters? I think your day is over, sir.’

As he said this, he made some memorandum in his pocket-book in which Mr
Mantalini’s name figured conspicuously, and finding by his watch that it
was between nine and ten o’clock, made all speed home.

‘Are they here?’ was the first question he asked of Newman.

Newman nodded. ‘Been here half an hour.’

‘Two of them? One a fat sleek man?’

‘Ay,’ said Newman. ‘In your room now.’

‘Good,’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Get me a coach.’

‘A coach! What, you--going to--eh?’ stammered Newman.

Ralph angrily repeated his orders, and Noggs, who might well have been
excused for wondering at such an unusual and extraordinary circumstance
(for he had never seen Ralph in a coach in his life) departed on his
errand, and presently returned with the conveyance.

Into it went Mr. Squeers, and Ralph, and the third man, whom Newman Noggs
had never seen. Newman stood upon the door-step to see them off, not
troubling himself to wonder where or upon what business they were going,
until he chanced by mere accident to hear Ralph name the address whither
the coachman was to drive.

Quick as lightning and in a state of the most extreme wonder, Newman
darted into his little office for his hat, and limped after the coach
as if with the intention of getting up behind; but in this design he
was balked, for it had too much the start of him and was soon hopelessly
ahead, leaving him gaping in the empty street.

‘I don’t know though,’ said Noggs, stopping for breath, ‘any good that
I could have done by going too. He would have seen me if I had. Drive
THERE! What can come of this? If I had only known it yesterday I could
have told--drive there! There’s mischief in it. There must be.’

His reflections were interrupted by a grey-haired man of a very
remarkable, though far from prepossessing appearance, who, coming
stealthily towards him, solicited relief.

Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away; but the man followed him,
and pressed him with such a tale of misery that Newman (who might have
been considered a hopeless person to beg from, and who had little enough
to give) looked into his hat for some halfpence which he usually kept
screwed up, when he had any, in a corner of his pocket-handkerchief.

While he was busily untwisting the knot with his teeth, the man said
something which attracted his attention; whatever that something was, it
led to something else, and in the end he and Newman walked away side by
side--the strange man talking earnestly, and Newman listening.



CHAPTER 45

Containing Matter of a surprising Kind


‘As we gang awa’ fra’ Lunnun tomorrow neeght, and as I dinnot know that
I was e’er so happy in a’ my days, Misther Nickleby, Ding! but I WILL
tak’ anoother glass to our next merry meeting!’

So said John Browdie, rubbing his hands with great joyousness, and
looking round him with a ruddy shining face, quite in keeping with the
declaration.

The time at which John found himself in this enviable condition was the
same evening to which the last chapter bore reference; the place was
the cottage; and the assembled company were Nicholas, Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs
Browdie, Kate Nickleby, and Smike.

A very merry party they had been. Mrs. Nickleby, knowing of her son’s
obligations to the honest Yorkshireman, had, after some demur, yielded
her consent to Mr. and Mrs. Browdie being invited out to tea; in the
way of which arrangement, there were at first sundry difficulties and
obstacles, arising out of her not having had an opportunity of ‘calling’
upon Mrs. Browdie first; for although Mrs. Nickleby very often observed
with much complacency (as most punctilious people do), that she had not
an atom of pride or formality about her, still she was a great stickler
for dignity and ceremonies; and as it was manifest that, until a call
had been made, she could not be (politely speaking, and according to the
laws of society) even cognisant of the fact of Mrs. Browdie’s existence,
she felt her situation to be one of peculiar delicacy and difficulty.

‘The call MUST originate with me, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that’s
indispensable. The fact is, my dear, that it’s necessary there should
be a sort of condescension on my part, and that I should show this
young person that I am willing to take notice of her. There’s a very
respectable-looking young man,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a short
consideration, ‘who is conductor to one of the omnibuses that go by
here, and who wears a glazed hat--your sister and I have noticed him
very often--he has a wart upon his nose, Kate, you know, exactly like a
gentleman’s servant.’

‘Have all gentlemen’s servants warts upon their noses, mother?’ asked
Nicholas.

‘Nicholas, my dear, how very absurd you are,’ returned his mother; ‘of
course I mean that his glazed hat looks like a gentleman’s servant, and
not the wart upon his nose; though even that is not so ridiculous as it
may seem to you, for we had a footboy once, who had not only a wart, but
a wen also, and a very large wen too, and he demanded to have his wages
raised in consequence, because he found it came very expensive. Let me
see, what was I--oh yes, I know. The best way that I can think of would
be to send a card, and my compliments, (I’ve no doubt he’d take ‘em for
a pot of porter,) by this young man, to the Saracen with Two Necks. If
the waiter took him for a gentleman’s servant, so much the better. Then
all Mrs. Browdie would have to do would be to send her card back by the
carrier (he could easily come with a double knock), and there’s an end
of it.’

‘My dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘I don’t suppose such unsophisticated
people as these ever had a card of their own, or ever will have.’

‘Oh that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that’s
another thing. If you put it upon that ground, why, of course, I have
no more to say, than that I have no doubt they are very good sort of
persons, and that I have no kind of objection to their coming here to
tea if they like, and shall make a point of being very civil to them if
they do.’

The point being thus effectually set at rest, and Mrs. Nickleby duly
placed in the patronising and mildly-condescending position which became
her rank and matrimonial years, Mr. and Mrs. Browdie were invited and
came; and as they were very deferential to Mrs. Nickleby, and seemed
to have a becoming appreciation of her greatness, and were very much
pleased with everything, the good lady had more than once given Kate
to understand, in a whisper, that she thought they were the very
best-meaning people she had ever seen, and perfectly well behaved.

And thus it came to pass, that John Browdie declared, in the parlour
after supper, to wit, and twenty minutes before eleven o’clock p.m.,
that he had never been so happy in all his days.

Nor was Mrs. Browdie much behind her husband in this respect, for that
young matron, whose rustic beauty contrasted very prettily with the
more delicate loveliness of Kate, and without suffering by the contrast
either, for each served as it were to set off and decorate the other,
could not sufficiently admire the gentle and winning manners of the
young lady, or the engaging affability of the elder one. Then Kate had
the art of turning the conversation to subjects upon which the country
girl, bashful at first in strange company, could feel herself at
home; and if Mrs. Nickleby was not quite so felicitous at times in the
selection of topics of discourse, or if she did seem, as Mrs. Browdie
expressed it, ‘rather high in her notions,’ still nothing could be
kinder, and that she took considerable interest in the young couple was
manifest from the very long lectures on housewifery with which she
was so obliging as to entertain Mrs. Browdie’s private ear, which
were illustrated by various references to the domestic economy of the
cottage, in which (those duties falling exclusively upon Kate) the good
lady had about as much share, either in theory or practice, as any one
of the statues of the Twelve Apostles which embellish the exterior of St
Paul’s Cathedral.

‘Mr. Browdie,’ said Kate, addressing his young wife, ‘is the
best-humoured, the kindest and heartiest creature I ever saw. If I were
oppressed with I don’t know how many cares, it would make me happy only
to look at him.’

‘He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most excellent creature, Kate,’
said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘most excellent. And I am sure that at all times it
will give me pleasure--really pleasure now--to have you, Mrs. Browdie,
to see me in this plain and homely manner. We make no display,’ said Mrs
Nickleby, with an air which seemed to insinuate that they could make a
vast deal if they were so disposed; ‘no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn’t
allow it. I said, “Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs. Browdie feel
uncomfortable, and how very foolish and inconsiderate that would be!”’

‘I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma’am,’ returned Mrs. Browdie,
gratefully. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock, John. I am afraid we are
keeping you up very late, ma’am.’

‘Late!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and one little
cough at the end, like a note of admiration expressed. ‘This is quite
early for us. We used to keep such hours! Twelve, one, two, three
o’clock was nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card-parties! Never were such
rakes as the people about where we used to live. I often think now, I
am sure, that how we ever could go through with it is quite astonishing,
and that is just the evil of having a large connection and being a great
deal sought after, which I would recommend all young married people
steadily to resist; though of course, and it’s perfectly clear, and a
very happy thing too, I think, that very few young married people can
be exposed to such temptations. There was one family in particular,
that used to live about a mile from us--not straight down the road, but
turning sharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail
ran over the donkey--that were quite extraordinary people for giving
the most extravagant parties, with artificial flowers and champagne, and
variegated lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of eating and drinking
that the most singular epicure could possibly require. I don’t think
that there ever were such people as those Peltiroguses. You remember the
Peltiroguses, Kate?’

Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time
to stay this flood of recollection, so answered that she entertained of
the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct remembrance; and then said
that Mr. Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that he would
sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should
redeem his promise, because she was sure it would afford her mama more
amusement and pleasure than it was possible to express.

Mrs. Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace--for
there was patronage in that too, and a kind of implication that she had
a discerning taste in such matters, and was something of a critic--John
Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and
to take his wife’s recollection respecting the same. This done, he made
divers ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular
fly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyes
upon him, and began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to be uttered
by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of
thunder.

At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had
waited until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent
knocking at the street-door; so loud and so violent, indeed, that the
ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.

‘It must be some mistake,’ said Nicholas, carelessly. ‘We know nobody
who would come here at this hour.’

Mrs. Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the counting-house was
burnt down, or perhaps ‘the Mr. Cheerybles’ had sent to take Nicholas
into partnership (which certainly appeared highly probable at that time
of night), or perhaps Mr. Linkinwater had run away with the property, or
perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps--

But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in her
conjectures, and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.

‘Stay,’ said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards
him, threw herself upon his arm. ‘Before that boy says a word, hear me.’

Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner, but
appeared for the moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kate clung
closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind them, and John Browdie,
who had heard of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty in
recognising him, stepped between the old man and his young friend, as
if with the intention of preventing either of them from advancing a step
further.

‘Hear me, I say,’ said Ralph, ‘and not him.’

‘Say what thou’st gotten to say then, sir,’ retorted John; ‘and tak’
care thou dinnot put up angry bluid which thou’dst betther try to
quiet.’

‘I should know YOU,’ said Ralph, ‘by your tongue; and HIM’ (pointing to
Smike) ‘by his looks.’

‘Don’t speak to him,’ said Nicholas, recovering his voice. ‘I will not
have it. I will not hear him. I do not know that man. I cannot breathe
the air that he corrupts. His presence is an insult to my sister. It is
shame to see him. I will not bear it.’

‘Stand!’ cried John, laying his heavy hand upon his chest.

‘Then let him instantly retire,’ said Nicholas, struggling. ‘I am not
going to lay hands upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have him
here. John, John Browdie, is this my house, am I a child? If he stands
there,’ cried Nicholas, burning with fury, ‘looking so calmly upon those
who know his black and dastardly heart, he’ll drive me mad.’

To all these exclamations John Browdie answered not a word, but he
retained his hold upon Nicholas; and when he was silent again, spoke.

‘There’s more to say and hear than thou think’st for,’ said John. ‘I
tell’ee I ha’ gotten scent o’ thot already. Wa’at be that shadow
ootside door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself, mun; dinnot be
sheame-feaced. Noo, auld gen’l’man, let’s have schoolmeasther, coom.’

Hearing this adjuration, Mr. Squeers, who had been lingering in the
passage until such time as it should be expedient for him to enter and
he could appear with effect, was fain to present himself in a somewhat
undignified and sneaking way; at which John Browdie laughed with such
keen and heartfelt delight, that even Kate, in all the pain, anxiety,
and surprise of the scene, and though the tears were in her eyes, felt a
disposition to join him.

‘Have you done enjoying yourself, sir?’ said Ralph, at length.

‘Pratty nigh for the prasant time, sir,’ replied John.

‘I can wait,’ said Ralph. ‘Take your own time, pray.’

Ralph waited until there was a perfect silence, and then turning to Mrs
Nickleby, but directing an eager glance at Kate, as if more anxious to
watch his effect upon her, said:

‘Now, ma’am, listen to me. I don’t imagine that you were a party to a
very fine tirade of words sent me by that boy of yours, because I don’t
believe that under his control, you have the slightest will of your own,
or that your advice, your opinion, your wants, your wishes, anything
which in nature and reason (or of what use is your great experience?)
ought to weigh with him, has the slightest influence or weight whatever,
or is taken for a moment into account.’

Mrs. Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as if there were a good deal in
that, certainly.

‘For this reason,’ resumed Ralph, ‘I address myself to you, ma’am. For
this reason, partly, and partly because I do not wish to be disgraced by
the acts of a vicious stripling whom I was obliged to disown, and who,
afterwards, in his boyish majesty, feigns to--ha! ha!--to disown ME, I
present myself here tonight. I have another motive in coming: a motive
of humanity. I come here,’ said Ralph, looking round with a biting and
triumphant smile, and gloating and dwelling upon the words as if he
were loath to lose the pleasure of saying them, ‘to restore a parent his
child. Ay, sir,’ he continued, bending eagerly forward, and addressing
Nicholas, as he marked the change of his countenance, ‘to restore a
parent his child; his son, sir; trepanned, waylaid, and guarded at every
turn by you, with the base design of robbing him some day of any little
wretched pittance of which he might become possessed.’

‘In that, you know you lie,’ said Nicholas, proudly.

‘In this, I know I speak the truth. I have his father here,’ retorted
Ralph.

‘Here!’ sneered Squeers, stepping forward. ‘Do you hear that? Here!
Didn’t I tell you to be careful that his father didn’t turn up and send
him back to me? Why, his father’s my friend; he’s to come back to me
directly, he is. Now, what do you say--eh!--now--come--what do you say
to that--an’t you sorry you took so much trouble for nothing? an’t you?
an’t you?’

‘You bear upon your body certain marks I gave you,’ said Nicholas,
looking quietly away, ‘and may talk in acknowledgment of them as much
as you please. You’ll talk a long time before you rub them out, Mr
Squeers.’

The estimable gentleman last named cast a hasty look at the table, as if
he were prompted by this retort to throw a jug or bottle at the head of
Nicholas, but he was interrupted in this design (if such design he had)
by Ralph, who, touching him on the elbow, bade him tell the father that
he might now appear and claim his son.

This being purely a labour of love, Mr. Squeers readily complied,
and leaving the room for the purpose, almost immediately returned,
supporting a sleek personage with an oily face, who, bursting from him,
and giving to view the form and face of Mr. Snawley, made straight up
to Smike, and tucking that poor fellow’s head under his arm in a most
uncouth and awkward embrace, elevated his broad-brimmed hat at arm’s
length in the air as a token of devout thanksgiving, exclaiming,
meanwhile, ‘How little did I think of this here joyful meeting, when I
saw him last! Oh, how little did I think it!’

‘Be composed, sir,’ said Ralph, with a gruff expression of sympathy,
‘you have got him now.’

‘Got him! Oh, haven’t I got him! Have I got him, though?’ cried Mr
Snawley, scarcely able to believe it. ‘Yes, here he is, flesh and blood,
flesh and blood.’

‘Vary little flesh,’ said John Browdie.

Mr. Snawley was too much occupied by his parental feelings to notice this
remark; and, to assure himself more completely of the restoration of his
child, tucked his head under his arm again, and kept it there.

‘What was it,’ said Snawley, ‘that made me take such a strong interest
in him, when that worthy instructor of youth brought him to my house?
What was it that made me burn all over with a wish to chastise him
severely for cutting away from his best friends, his pastors and
masters?’

‘It was parental instinct, sir,’ observed Squeers.

‘That’s what it was, sir,’ rejoined Snawley; ‘the elevated feeling, the
feeling of the ancient Romans and Grecians, and of the beasts of the
field and birds of the air, with the exception of rabbits and tom-cats,
which sometimes devour their offspring. My heart yearned towards him. I
could have--I don’t know what I couldn’t have done to him in the anger
of a father.’

‘It only shows what Natur is, sir,’ said Mr. Squeers. ‘She’s rum ‘un, is
Natur.’

‘She is a holy thing, sir,’ remarked Snawley.

‘I believe you,’ added Mr. Squeers, with a moral sigh. ‘I should like
to know how we should ever get on without her. Natur,’ said Mr. Squeers,
solemnly, ‘is more easier conceived than described. Oh what a blessed
thing, sir, to be in a state of natur!’

Pending this philosophical discourse, the bystanders had been quite
stupefied with amazement, while Nicholas had looked keenly from Snawley
to Squeers, and from Squeers to Ralph, divided between his feelings of
disgust, doubt, and surprise. At this juncture, Smike escaping from his
father fled to Nicholas, and implored him, in most moving terms, never
to give him up, but to let him live and die beside him.

‘If you are this boy’s father,’ said Nicholas, ‘look at the wreck he is,
and tell me that you purpose to send him back to that loathsome den from
which I brought him.’

‘Scandal again!’ cried Squeers. ‘Recollect, you an’t worth powder and
shot, but I’ll be even with you one way or another.’

‘Stop,’ interposed Ralph, as Snawley was about to speak. ‘Let us
cut this matter short, and not bandy words here with hare-brained
profligates. This is your son, as you can prove. And you, Mr. Squeers,
you know this boy to be the same that was with you for so many years
under the name of Smike. Do you?’

‘Do I!’ returned Squeers. ‘Don’t I?’

‘Good,’ said Ralph; ‘a very few words will be sufficient here. You had a
son by your first wife, Mr. Snawley?’

‘I had,’ replied that person, ‘and there he stands.’

‘We’ll show that presently,’ said Ralph. ‘You and your wife were
separated, and she had the boy to live with her, when he was a year old.
You received a communication from her, when you had lived apart a year
or two, that the boy was dead; and you believed it?’

‘Of course I did!’ returned Snawley. ‘Oh the joy of--’

‘Be rational, sir, pray,’ said Ralph. ‘This is business, and
transports interfere with it. This wife died a year and a half ago, or
thereabouts--not more--in some obscure place, where she was housekeeper
in a family. Is that the case?’

‘That’s the case,’ replied Snawley.

‘Having written on her death-bed a letter or confession to you, about
this very boy, which, as it was not directed otherwise than in your
name, only reached you, and that by a circuitous course, a few days
since?’

‘Just so,’ said Snawley. ‘Correct in every particular, sir.’

‘And this confession,’ resumed Ralph, ‘is to the effect that his
death was an invention of hers to wound you--was a part of a system
of annoyance, in short, which you seem to have adopted towards each
other--that the boy lived, but was of weak and imperfect intellect--that
she sent him by a trusty hand to a cheap school in Yorkshire--that she
had paid for his education for some years, and then, being poor, and
going a long way off, gradually deserted him, for which she prayed
forgiveness?’

Snawley nodded his head, and wiped his eyes; the first slightly, the
last violently.

‘The school was Mr. Squeers’s,’ continued Ralph; ‘the boy was left there
in the name of Smike; every description was fully given, dates tally
exactly with Mr. Squeers’s books, Mr. Squeers is lodging with you at this
time; you have two other boys at his school: you communicated the whole
discovery to him, he brought you to me as the person who had recommended
to him the kidnapper of his child; and I brought you here. Is that so?’

‘You talk like a good book, sir, that’s got nothing in its inside but
what’s the truth,’ replied Snawley.

‘This is your pocket-book,’ said Ralph, producing one from his coat;
‘the certificates of your first marriage and of the boy’s birth, and
your wife’s two letters, and every other paper that can support these
statements directly or by implication, are here, are they?’

‘Every one of ‘em, sir.’

‘And you don’t object to their being looked at here, so that these
people may be convinced of your power to substantiate your claim at once
in law and reason, and you may resume your control over your own son
without more delay. Do I understand you?’

‘I couldn’t have understood myself better, sir.’

‘There, then,’ said Ralph, tossing the pocket-book upon the table. ‘Let
them see them if they like; and as those are the original papers, I
should recommend you to stand near while they are being examined, or you
may chance to lose some.’

With these words Ralph sat down unbidden, and compressing his lips,
which were for the moment slightly parted by a smile, folded his arms,
and looked for the first time at his nephew.

Nicholas, stung by the concluding taunt, darted an indignant glance at
him; but commanding himself as well as he could, entered upon a close
examination of the documents, at which John Browdie assisted. There was
nothing about them which could be called in question. The certificates
were regularly signed as extracts from the parish books, the first
letter had a genuine appearance of having been written and preserved
for some years, the handwriting of the second tallied with it exactly,
(making proper allowance for its having been written by a person in
extremity,) and there were several other corroboratory scraps of entries
and memoranda which it was equally difficult to question.

‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, who had been looking anxiously over his
shoulder, ‘can this be really the case? Is this statement true?’

‘I fear it is,’ answered Nicholas. ‘What say you, John?’

John scratched his head and shook it, but said nothing at all.

‘You will observe, ma’am,’ said Ralph, addressing himself to Mrs
Nickleby, ‘that this boy being a minor and not of strong mind, we might
have come here tonight, armed with the powers of the law, and backed by
a troop of its myrmidons. I should have done so, ma’am, unquestionably,
but for my regard for the feelings of yourself, and your daughter.’

‘You have shown your regard for HER feelings well,’ said Nicholas,
drawing his sister towards him.

‘Thank you,’ replied Ralph. ‘Your praise, sir, is commendation, indeed.’

‘Well,’ said Squeers, ‘what’s to be done? Them hackney-coach horses will
catch cold if we don’t think of moving; there’s one of ‘em a sneezing
now, so that he blows the street door right open. What’s the order of
the day? Is Master Snawley to come along with us?’

‘No, no, no,’ replied Smike, drawing back, and clinging to Nicholas.

‘No. Pray, no. I will not go from you with him. No, no.’

‘This is a cruel thing,’ said Snawley, looking to his friends for
support. ‘Do parents bring children into the world for this?’

‘Do parents bring children into the world for THOT?’ said John Browdie
bluntly, pointing, as he spoke, to Squeers.

‘Never you mind,’ retorted that gentleman, tapping his nose derisively.

‘Never I mind!’ said John, ‘no, nor never nobody mind, say’st thou,
schoolmeasther. It’s nobody’s minding that keeps sike men as thou
afloat. Noo then, where be’est thou coomin’ to? Dang it, dinnot coom
treadin’ ower me, mun.’

Suiting the action to the word, John Browdie just jerked his elbow
into the chest of Mr. Squeers who was advancing upon Smike; with so much
dexterity that the schoolmaster reeled and staggered back upon Ralph
Nickleby, and being unable to recover his balance, knocked that
gentleman off his chair, and stumbled heavily upon him.

This accidental circumstance was the signal for some very decisive
proceedings. In the midst of a great noise, occasioned by the prayers
and entreaties of Smike, the cries and exclamations of the women, and
the vehemence of the men, demonstrations were made of carrying off the
lost son by violence. Squeers had actually begun to haul him out, when
Nicholas (who, until then, had been evidently undecided how to act)
took him by the collar, and shaking him so that such teeth as he had,
chattered in his head, politely escorted him to the room-door, and
thrusting him into the passage, shut it upon him.

‘Now,’ said Nicholas to the other two, ‘have the goodness to follow your
friend.’

‘I want my son,’ said Snawley.

‘Your son,’ replied Nicholas, ‘chooses for himself. He chooses to remain
here, and he shall.’

‘You won’t give him up?’ said Snawley.

‘I would not give him up against his will, to be the victim of such
brutality as that to which you would consign him,’ replied Nicholas, ‘if
he were a dog or a rat.’

‘Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,’ cried Mr. Squeers, through
the keyhole, ‘and bring out my hat, somebody, will you, unless he wants
to steal it.’

‘I am very sorry, indeed,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, who, with Mrs. Browdie, had
stood crying and biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate (very pale,
but perfectly quiet) had kept as near her brother as she could. ‘I am
very sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don’t know what would be best
to do, and that’s the truth. Nicholas ought to be the best judge, and I
hope he is. Of course, it’s a hard thing to have to keep other people’s
children, though young Mr. Snawley is certainly as useful and willing
as it’s possible for anybody to be; but, if it could be settled in any
friendly manner--if old Mr. Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay
something certain for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement
was come to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and a
pudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort--I do think that
it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.’

This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs,
not exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it;
and poor Mrs. Nickleby accordingly proceeded to enlighten Mrs. Browdie
upon the advantages of such a scheme, and the unhappy results flowing,
on all occasions, from her not being attended to when she proffered her
advice.

‘You, sir,’ said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, ‘are an
unnatural, ungrateful, unlovable boy. You won’t let me love you when I
want to. Won’t you come home, won’t you?’

‘No, no, no,’ cried Smike, shrinking back.

‘He never loved nobody,’ bawled Squeers, through the keyhole. ‘He
never loved me; he never loved Wackford, who is next door but one to
a cherubim. How can you expect that he’ll love his father? He’ll never
love his father, he won’t. He don’t know what it is to have a father. He
don’t understand it. It an’t in him.’

Mr. Snawley looked steadfastly at his son for a full minute, and then
covering his eyes with his hand, and once more raising his hat in the
air, appeared deeply occupied in deploring his black ingratitude. Then
drawing his arm across his eyes, he picked up Mr. Squeers’s hat, and
taking it under one arm, and his own under the other, walked slowly and
sadly out.

‘Your romance, sir,’ said Ralph, lingering for a moment, ‘is destroyed,
I take it. No unknown; no persecuted descendant of a man of high degree;
but the weak, imbecile son of a poor, petty tradesman. We shall see how
your sympathy melts before plain matter of fact.’

‘You shall,’ said Nicholas, motioning towards the door.

‘And trust me, sir,’ added Ralph, ‘that I never supposed you would give
him up tonight. Pride, obstinacy, reputation for fine feeling, were all
against it. These must be brought down, sir, lowered, crushed, as they
shall be soon. The protracted and wearing anxiety and expense of the law
in its most oppressive form, its torture from hour to hour, its weary
days and sleepless nights, with these I’ll prove you, and break your
haughty spirit, strong as you deem it now. And when you make this house
a hell, and visit these trials upon yonder wretched object (as you will;
I know you), and those who think you now a young-fledged hero, we’ll
go into old accounts between us two, and see who stands the debtor, and
comes out best at last, even before the world.’

Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr. Squeers, who had heard a portion of this
closing address, and was by this time wound up to a pitch of impotent
malignity almost unprecedented, could not refrain from returning to the
parlour door, and actually cutting some dozen capers with various wry
faces and hideous grimaces, expressive of his triumphant confidence in
the downfall and defeat of Nicholas.

Having concluded this war-dance, in which his short trousers and large
boots had borne a very conspicuous figure, Mr. Squeers followed his
friends, and the family were left to meditate upon recent occurrences.



CHAPTER 46

Throws some Light upon Nicholas’s Love; but whether for Good or Evil the
Reader must determine


After an anxious consideration of the painful and embarrassing position
in which he was placed, Nicholas decided that he ought to lose no time
in frankly stating it to the kind brothers. Availing himself of the
first opportunity of being alone with Mr. Charles Cheeryble at the close
of next day, he accordingly related Smike’s little history, and modestly
but firmly expressed his hope that the good old gentleman would, under
such circumstances as he described, hold him justified in adopting the
extreme course of interfering between parent and child, and upholding
the latter in his disobedience; even though his horror and dread of his
father might seem, and would doubtless be represented as, a thing so
repulsive and unnatural, as to render those who countenanced him in it,
fit objects of general detestation and abhorrence.

‘So deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be,’ said
Nicholas, ‘that I can hardly believe he really is his son. Nature
does not seem to have implanted in his breast one lingering feeling of
affection for him, and surely she can never err.’

‘My dear sir,’ replied brother Charles, ‘you fall into the very common
mistake of charging upon Nature, matters with which she has not the
smallest connection, and for which she is in no way responsible. Men
talk of Nature as an abstract thing, and lose sight of what is natural
while they do so. Here is a poor lad who has never felt a parent’s care,
who has scarcely known anything all his life but suffering and sorrow,
presented to a man who he is told is his father, and whose first act
is to signify his intention of putting an end to his short term of
happiness, of consigning him to his old fate, and taking him from the
only friend he has ever had--which is yourself. If Nature, in such a
case, put into that lad’s breast but one secret prompting which urged
him towards his father and away from you, she would be a liar and an
idiot.’

Nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke so warmly,
and in the hope that he might say something more to the same purpose,
made no reply.

‘The same mistake presents itself to me, in one shape or other, at
every turn,’ said brother Charles. ‘Parents who never showed their love,
complain of want of natural affection in their children; children who
never showed their duty, complain of want of natural feeling in their
parents; law-makers who find both so miserable that their affections
have never had enough of life’s sun to develop them, are loud in their
moralisings over parents and children too, and cry that the very ties of
nature are disregarded. Natural affections and instincts, my dear sir,
are the most beautiful of the Almighty’s works, but like other beautiful
works of His, they must be reared and fostered, or it is as natural that
they should be wholly obscured, and that new feelings should usurp
their place, as it is that the sweetest productions of the earth, left
untended, should be choked with weeds and briers. I wish we could be
brought to consider this, and remembering natural obligations a little
more at the right time, talk about them a little less at the wrong one.’

After this, brother Charles, who had talked himself into a great heat,
stopped to cool a little, and then continued:

‘I dare say you are surprised, my dear sir, that I have listened to
your recital with so little astonishment. That is easily explained. Your
uncle has been here this morning.’

Nicholas coloured, and drew back a step or two.

‘Yes,’ said the old gentleman, tapping his desk emphatically, ‘here, in
this room. He would listen neither to reason, feeling, nor justice. But
brother Ned was hard upon him; brother Ned, sir, might have melted a
paving-stone.’

‘He came to--’ said Nicholas.

‘To complain of you,’ returned brother Charles, ‘to poison our ears with
calumnies and falsehoods; but he came on a fruitless errand, and went
away with some wholesome truths in his ear besides. Brother Ned, my dear
Mr. Nickleby--brother Ned, sir, is a perfect lion. So is Tim Linkinwater;
Tim is quite a lion. We had Tim in to face him at first, and Tim was at
him, sir, before you could say “Jack Robinson.”’

‘How can I ever thank you for all the deep obligations you impose upon
me every day?’ said Nicholas.

‘By keeping silence upon the subject, my dear sir,’ returned brother
Charles. ‘You shall be righted. At least you shall not be wronged.
Nobody belonging to you shall be wronged. They shall not hurt a hair of
your head, or the boy’s head, or your mother’s head, or your sister’s
head. I have said it, brother Ned has said it, Tim Linkinwater has said
it. We have all said it, and we’ll all do it. I have seen the father--if
he is the father--and I suppose he must be. He is a barbarian and a
hypocrite, Mr. Nickleby. I told him, “You are a barbarian, sir.” I did.
I said, “You’re a barbarian, sir.” And I’m glad of it, I am VERY glad I
told him he was a barbarian, very glad indeed!’

By this time brother Charles was in such a very warm state of
indignation, that Nicholas thought he might venture to put in a word,
but the moment he essayed to do so, Mr. Cheeryble laid his hand softly
upon his arm, and pointed to a chair.

‘The subject is at an end for the present,’ said the old gentleman,
wiping his face. ‘Don’t revive it by a single word. I am going to speak
upon another subject, a confidential subject, Mr. Nickleby. We must be
cool again, we must be cool.’

After two or three turns across the room he resumed his seat, and
drawing his chair nearer to that on which Nicholas was seated, said:

‘I am about to employ you, my dear sir, on a confidential and delicate
mission.’

‘You might employ many a more able messenger, sir,’ said Nicholas, ‘but
a more trustworthy or zealous one, I may be bold to say, you could not
find.’

‘Of that I am well assured,’ returned brother Charles, ‘well assured.
You will give me credit for thinking so, when I tell you that the object
of this mission is a young lady.’

‘A young lady, sir!’ cried Nicholas, quite trembling for the moment with
his eagerness to hear more.

‘A very beautiful young lady,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, gravely.

‘Pray go on, sir,’ returned Nicholas.

‘I am thinking how to do so,’ said brother Charles; sadly, as it
seemed to his young friend, and with an expression allied to pain. ‘You
accidentally saw a young lady in this room one morning, my dear sir, in
a fainting fit. Do you remember? Perhaps you have forgotten.’

‘Oh no,’ replied Nicholas, hurriedly. ‘I--I--remember it very well
indeed.’

‘SHE is the lady I speak of,’ said brother Charles. Like the famous
parrot, Nicholas thought a great deal, but was unable to utter a word.

‘She is the daughter,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, ‘of a lady who, when she was a
beautiful girl herself, and I was very many years younger, I--it seems
a strange word for me to utter now--I loved very dearly. You will smile,
perhaps, to hear a grey-headed man talk about such things. You will not
offend me, for when I was as young as you, I dare say I should have done
the same.’

‘I have no such inclination, indeed,’ said Nicholas.

‘My dear brother Ned,’ continued Mr. Cheeryble, ‘was to have married her
sister, but she died. She is dead too now, and has been for many years.
She married her choice; and I wish I could add that her after-life was
as happy as God knows I ever prayed it might be!’

A short silence intervened, which Nicholas made no effort to break.

‘If trial and calamity had fallen as lightly on his head, as in the
deepest truth of my own heart I ever hoped (for her sake) it would, his
life would have been one of peace and happiness,’ said the old gentleman
calmly. ‘It will be enough to say that this was not the case; that
she was not happy; that they fell into complicated distresses and
difficulties; that she came, twelve months before her death, to appeal
to my old friendship; sadly changed, sadly altered, broken-spirited from
suffering and ill-usage, and almost broken-hearted. He readily availed
himself of the money which, to give her but one hour’s peace of mind,
I would have poured out as freely as water--nay, he often sent her back
for more--and yet even while he squandered it, he made the very success
of these, her applications to me, the groundwork of cruel taunts and
jeers, protesting that he knew she thought with bitter remorse of the
choice she had made, that she had married him from motives of interest
and vanity (he was a gay young man with great friends about him when
she chose him for her husband), and venting in short upon her, by every
unjust and unkind means, the bitterness of that ruin and disappointment
which had been brought about by his profligacy alone. In those times
this young lady was a mere child. I never saw her again until that
morning when you saw her also, but my nephew, Frank--’

Nicholas started, and indistinctly apologising for the interruption,
begged his patron to proceed.

‘--My nephew, Frank, I say,’ resumed Mr. Cheeryble, ‘encountered her by
accident, and lost sight of her almost in a minute afterwards, within
two days after he returned to England. Her father lay in some secret
place to avoid his creditors, reduced, between sickness and poverty, to
the verge of death, and she, a child,--we might almost think, if we did
not know the wisdom of all Heaven’s decrees--who should have blessed a
better man, was steadily braving privation, degradation, and everything
most terrible to such a young and delicate creature’s heart, for the
purpose of supporting him. She was attended, sir,’ said brother Charles,
‘in these reverses, by one faithful creature, who had been, in old
times, a poor kitchen wench in the family, who was then their solitary
servant, but who might have been, for the truth and fidelity of her
heart--who might have been--ah! the wife of Tim Linkinwater himself,
sir!’

Pursuing this encomium upon the poor follower with such energy and
relish as no words can describe, brother Charles leant back in his
chair, and delivered the remainder of his relation with greater
composure.

It was in substance this: That proudly resisting all offers of permanent
aid and support from her late mother’s friends, because they were made
conditional upon her quitting the wretched man, her father, who had no
friends left, and shrinking with instinctive delicacy from appealing
in their behalf to that true and noble heart which he hated, and
had, through its greatest and purest goodness, deeply wronged by
misconstruction and ill report, this young girl had struggled alone and
unassisted to maintain him by the labour of her hands. That through the
utmost depths of poverty and affliction she had toiled, never turning
aside for an instant from her task, never wearied by the petulant gloom
of a sick man sustained by no consoling recollections of the past or
hopes of the future; never repining for the comforts she had rejected,
or bewailing the hard lot she had voluntarily incurred. That every
little accomplishment she had acquired in happier days had been put into
requisition for this purpose, and directed to this one end. That for
two long years, toiling by day and often too by night, working at the
needle, the pencil, and the pen, and submitting, as a daily governess,
to such caprices and indignities as women (with daughters too) too often
love to inflict upon their own sex when they serve in such capacities,
as though in jealousy of the superior intelligence which they are
necessitated to employ,--indignities, in ninety-nine cases out of
every hundred, heaped upon persons immeasurably and incalculably their
betters, but outweighing in comparison any that the most heartless
blackleg would put upon his groom--that for two long years, by dint
of labouring in all these capacities and wearying in none, she had not
succeeded in the sole aim and object of her life, but that, overwhelmed
by accumulated difficulties and disappointments, she had been compelled
to seek out her mother’s old friend, and, with a bursting heart, to
confide in him at last.

‘If I had been poor,’ said brother Charles, with sparkling eyes; ‘if
I had been poor, Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir, which thank God I am not,
I would have denied myself (of course anybody would under such
circumstances) the commonest necessaries of life, to help her. As it is,
the task is a difficult one. If her father were dead, nothing could
be easier, for then she should share and cheer the happiest home that
brother Ned and I could have, as if she were our child or sister. But
he is still alive. Nobody can help him; that has been tried a thousand
times; he was not abandoned by all without good cause, I know.’

‘Cannot she be persuaded to--’ Nicholas hesitated when he had got thus
far.

‘To leave him?’ said brother Charles. ‘Who could entreat a child
to desert her parent? Such entreaties, limited to her seeing him
occasionally, have been urged upon her--not by me--but always with the
same result.’

‘Is he kind to her?’ said Nicholas. ‘Does he requite her affection?’

‘True kindness, considerate self-denying kindness, is not in his
nature,’ returned Mr. Cheeryble. ‘Such kindness as he knows, he regards
her with, I believe. The mother was a gentle, loving, confiding
creature, and although he wounded her from their marriage till her death
as cruelly and wantonly as ever man did, she never ceased to love him.
She commended him on her death-bed to her child’s care. Her child has
never forgotten it, and never will.’

‘Have you no influence over him?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I, my dear sir! The last man in the world. Such are his jealousy and
hatred of me, that if he knew his daughter had opened her heart to me,
he would render her life miserable with his reproaches; although--this
is the inconsistency and selfishness of his character--although if he
knew that every penny she had came from me, he would not relinquish one
personal desire that the most reckless expenditure of her scanty stock
could gratify.’

‘An unnatural scoundrel!’ said Nicholas, indignantly.

‘We will use no harsh terms,’ said brother Charles, in a gentle voice;
‘but accommodate ourselves to the circumstances in which this young lady
is placed. Such assistance as I have prevailed upon her to accept,
I have been obliged, at her own earnest request, to dole out in the
smallest portions, lest he, finding how easily money was procured,
should squander it even more lightly than he is accustomed to do. She
has come to and fro, to and fro, secretly and by night, to take even
this; and I cannot bear that things should go on in this way, Mr
Nickleby, I really cannot bear it.’

Then it came out by little and little, how that the twins had been
revolving in their good old heads manifold plans and schemes for helping
this young lady in the most delicate and considerate way, and so that
her father should not suspect the source whence the aid was derived; and
how they had at last come to the conclusion, that the best course would
be to make a feint of purchasing her little drawings and ornamental work
at a high price, and keeping up a constant demand for the same. For
the furtherance of which end and object it was necessary that somebody
should represent the dealer in such commodities, and after great
deliberation they had pitched upon Nicholas to support this character.

‘He knows me,’ said brother Charles, ‘and he knows my brother Ned.
Neither of us would do. Frank is a very good fellow--a very fine
fellow--but we are afraid that he might be a little flighty and
thoughtless in such a delicate matter, and that he might, perhaps--that
he might, in short, be too susceptible (for she is a beautiful creature,
sir; just what her poor mother was), and falling in love with her before
he knew well his own mind, carry pain and sorrow into that innocent
breast, which we would be the humble instruments of gradually making
happy. He took an extraordinary interest in her fortunes when he first
happened to encounter her; and we gather from the inquiries we have made
of him, that it was she in whose behalf he made that turmoil which led
to your first acquaintance.’

Nicholas stammered out that he had before suspected the possibility
of such a thing; and in explanation of its having occurred to him,
described when and where he had seen the young lady himself.

‘Well; then you see,’ continued brother Charles, ‘that HE wouldn’t
do. Tim Linkinwater is out of the question; for Tim, sir, is such a
tremendous fellow, that he could never contain himself, but would go
to loggerheads with the father before he had been in the place five
minutes. You don’t know what Tim is, sir, when he is aroused by anything
that appeals to his feelings very strongly; then he is terrific, sir,
is Tim Linkinwater, absolutely terrific. Now, in you we can repose the
strictest confidence; in you we have seen--or at least I have seen,
and that’s the same thing, for there’s no difference between me and my
brother Ned, except that he is the finest creature that ever lived,
and that there is not, and never will be, anybody like him in all the
world--in you we have seen domestic virtues and affections, and delicacy
of feeling, which exactly qualify you for such an office. And you are
the man, sir.’

‘The young lady, sir,’ said Nicholas, who felt so embarrassed that he
had no small difficulty in saying anything at all--‘Does--is--is she a
party to this innocent deceit?’

‘Yes, yes,’ returned Mr. Cheeryble; ‘at least she knows you come from us;
she does NOT know, however, but that we shall dispose of these little
productions that you’ll purchase from time to time; and, perhaps, if
you did it very well (that is, VERY well indeed), perhaps she might be
brought to believe that we--that we made a profit of them. Eh? Eh?’

In this guileless and most kind simplicity, brother Charles was so
happy, and in this possibility of the young lady being led to think that
she was under no obligation to him, he evidently felt so sanguine and
had so much delight, that Nicholas would not breathe a doubt upon the
subject.

All this time, however, there hovered upon the tip of his tongue a
confession that the very same objections which Mr. Cheeryble had stated
to the employment of his nephew in this commission applied with at least
equal force and validity to himself, and a hundred times had he been
upon the point of avowing the real state of his feelings, and entreating
to be released from it. But as often, treading upon the heels of this
impulse, came another which urged him to refrain, and to keep his secret
to his own breast. ‘Why should I,’ thought Nicholas, ‘why should I throw
difficulties in the way of this benevolent and high-minded design? What
if I do love and reverence this good and lovely creature. Should I not
appear a most arrogant and shallow coxcomb if I gravely represented that
there was any danger of her falling in love with me? Besides, have I
no confidence in myself? Am I not now bound in honour to repress these
thoughts? Has not this excellent man a right to my best and heartiest
services, and should any considerations of self deter me from rendering
them?’

Asking himself such questions as these, Nicholas mentally answered
with great emphasis ‘No!’ and persuading himself that he was a most
conscientious and glorious martyr, nobly resolved to do what, if he had
examined his own heart a little more carefully, he would have found he
could not resist. Such is the sleight of hand by which we juggle
with ourselves, and change our very weaknesses into stanch and most
magnanimous virtues!

Mr. Cheeryble, being of course wholly unsuspicious that such reflections
were presenting themselves to his young friend, proceeded to give him
the needful credentials and directions for his first visit, which was
to be made next morning; and all preliminaries being arranged, and the
strictest secrecy enjoined, Nicholas walked home for the night very
thoughtfully indeed.

The place to which Mr. Cheeryble had directed him was a row of mean and
not over-cleanly houses, situated within ‘the Rules’ of the King’s
Bench Prison, and not many hundred paces distant from the obelisk in St
George’s Fields. The Rules are a certain liberty adjoining the prison,
and comprising some dozen streets in which debtors who can raise money
to pay large fees, from which their creditors do NOT derive any benefit,
are permitted to reside by the wise provisions of the same enlightened
laws which leave the debtor who can raise no money to starve in jail,
without the food, clothing, lodging, or warmth, which are provided
for felons convicted of the most atrocious crimes that can disgrace
humanity. There are many pleasant fictions of the law in constant
operation, but there is not one so pleasant or practically humorous as
that which supposes every man to be of equal value in its impartial
eye, and the benefits of all laws to be equally attainable by all men,
without the smallest reference to the furniture of their pockets.

To the row of houses indicated to him by Mr. Charles Cheeryble, Nicholas
directed his steps, without much troubling his head with such matters
as these; and at this row of houses--after traversing a very dirty
and dusty suburb, of which minor theatricals, shell-fish, ginger-beer,
spring vans, greengrocery, and brokers’ shops, appeared to compose
the main and most prominent features--he at length arrived with a
palpitating heart. There were small gardens in front which, being wholly
neglected in all other respects, served as little pens for the dust to
collect in, until the wind came round the corner and blew it down the
road. Opening the rickety gate which, dangling on its broken hinges
before one of these, half admitted and half repulsed the visitor,
Nicholas knocked at the street door with a faltering hand.

It was in truth a shabby house outside, with very dim parlour windows
and very small show of blinds, and very dirty muslin curtains dangling
across the lower panes on very loose and limp strings. Neither, when the
door was opened, did the inside appear to belie the outward promise,
as there was faded carpeting on the stairs and faded oil-cloth in the
passage; in addition to which discomforts a gentleman Ruler was smoking
hard in the front parlour (though it was not yet noon), while the lady
of the house was busily engaged in turpentining the disjointed fragments
of a tent-bedstead at the door of the back parlour, as if in preparation
for the reception of some new lodger who had been fortunate enough to
engage it.

Nicholas had ample time to make these observations while the little boy,
who went on errands for the lodgers, clattered down the kitchen stairs
and was heard to scream, as in some remote cellar, for Miss Bray’s
servant, who, presently appearing and requesting him to follow her,
caused him to evince greater symptoms of nervousness and disorder than
so natural a consequence of his having inquired for that young lady
would seem calculated to occasion.

Upstairs he went, however, and into a front room he was shown, and
there, seated at a little table by the window, on which were drawing
materials with which she was occupied, sat the beautiful girl who had
so engrossed his thoughts, and who, surrounded by all the new and strong
interest which Nicholas attached to her story, seemed now, in his eyes,
a thousand times more beautiful than he had ever yet supposed her.

But how the graces and elegancies which she had dispersed about the
poorly-furnished room went to the heart of Nicholas! Flowers, plants,
birds, the harp, the old piano whose notes had sounded so much sweeter
in bygone times; how many struggles had it cost her to keep these two
last links of that broken chain which bound her yet to home! With every
slender ornament, the occupation of her leisure hours, replete with that
graceful charm which lingers in every little tasteful work of woman’s
hands, how much patient endurance and how many gentle affections were
entwined! He felt as though the smile of Heaven were on the little
chamber; as though the beautiful devotion of so young and weak a
creature had shed a ray of its own on the inanimate things around,
and made them beautiful as itself; as though the halo with which old
painters surround the bright angels of a sinless world played about a
being akin in spirit to them, and its light were visibly before him.

And yet Nicholas was in the Rules of the King’s Bench Prison! If he
had been in Italy indeed, and the time had been sunset, and the scene
a stately terrace! But, there is one broad sky over all the world, and
whether it be blue or cloudy, the same heaven beyond it; so, perhaps, he
had no need of compunction for thinking as he did.

It is not to be supposed that he took in everything at one glance, for
he had as yet been unconscious of the presence of a sick man propped up
with pillows in an easy-chair, who, moving restlessly and impatiently in
his seat, attracted his attention.

He was scarce fifty, perhaps, but so emaciated as to appear much older.
His features presented the remains of a handsome countenance, but one
in which the embers of strong and impetuous passions were easier to be
traced than any expression which would have rendered a far plainer face
much more prepossessing. His looks were very haggard, and his limbs and
body literally worn to the bone, but there was something of the old fire
in the large sunken eye notwithstanding, and it seemed to kindle afresh
as he struck a thick stick, with which he seemed to have supported
himself in his seat, impatiently on the floor twice or thrice, and
called his daughter by her name.

‘Madeline, who is this? What does anybody want here? Who told a stranger
we could be seen? What is it?’

‘I believe--’ the young lady began, as she inclined her head with an air
of some confusion, in reply to the salutation of Nicholas.

‘You always believe,’ returned her father, petulantly. ‘What is it?’

By this time Nicholas had recovered sufficient presence of mind to speak
for himself, so he said (as it had been agreed he should say) that he
had called about a pair of hand-screens, and some painted velvet for an
ottoman, both of which were required to be of the most elegant design
possible, neither time nor expense being of the smallest consideration.
He had also to pay for the two drawings, with many thanks, and,
advancing to the little table, he laid upon it a bank note, folded in an
envelope and sealed.

‘See that the money is right, Madeline,’ said the father. ‘Open the
paper, my dear.’

‘It’s quite right, papa, I’m sure.’

‘Here!’ said Mr. Bray, putting out his hand, and opening and shutting
his bony fingers with irritable impatience. ‘Let me see. What are you
talking about, Madeline? You’re sure? How can you be sure of any such
thing? Five pounds--well, is THAT right?’

‘Quite,’ said Madeline, bending over him. She was so busily employed in
arranging the pillows that Nicholas could not see her face, but as she
stooped he thought he saw a tear fall.

‘Ring the bell, ring the bell,’ said the sick man, with the same nervous
eagerness, and motioning towards it with such a quivering hand that the
bank note rustled in the air. ‘Tell her to get it changed, to get me a
newspaper, to buy me some grapes, another bottle of the wine that I had
last week--and--and--I forget half I want just now, but she can go out
again. Let her get those first, those first. Now, Madeline, my love,
quick, quick! Good God, how slow you are!’

‘He remembers nothing that SHE wants!’ thought Nicholas. Perhaps
something of what he thought was expressed in his countenance, for the
sick man, turning towards him with great asperity, demanded to know if
he waited for a receipt.

‘It is no matter at all,’ said Nicholas.

‘No matter! what do you mean, sir?’ was the tart rejoinder. ‘No matter!
Do you think you bring your paltry money here as a favour or a gift;
or as a matter of business, and in return for value received? D--n you,
sir, because you can’t appreciate the time and taste which are bestowed
upon the goods you deal in, do you think you give your money away? Do
you know that you are talking to a gentleman, sir, who at one time
could have bought up fifty such men as you and all you have? What do you
mean?’

‘I merely mean that as I shall have many dealings with this lady, if
she will kindly allow me, I will not trouble her with such forms,’ said
Nicholas.

‘Then I mean, if you please, that we’ll have as many forms as we can,
returned the father. ‘My daughter, sir, requires no kindness from you
or anybody else. Have the goodness to confine your dealings strictly to
trade and business, and not to travel beyond it. Every petty tradesman
is to begin to pity her now, is he? Upon my soul! Very pretty. Madeline,
my dear, give him a receipt; and mind you always do so.’

While she was feigning to write it, and Nicholas was ruminating upon the
extraordinary but by no means uncommon character thus presented to his
observation, the invalid, who appeared at times to suffer great bodily
pain, sank back in his chair and moaned out a feeble complaint that the
girl had been gone an hour, and that everybody conspired to goad him.

‘When,’ said Nicholas, as he took the piece of paper, ‘when shall I call
again?’

This was addressed to the daughter, but the father answered immediately.

‘When you’re requested to call, sir, and not before. Don’t worry and
persecute. Madeline, my dear, when is this person to call again?’

‘Oh, not for a long time, not for three or four weeks; it is not
necessary, indeed; I can do without,’ said the young lady, with great
eagerness.

‘Why, how are we to do without?’ urged her father, not speaking above
his breath. ‘Three or four weeks, Madeline! Three or four weeks!’

‘Then sooner, sooner, if you please,’ said the young lady, turning to
Nicholas.

‘Three or four weeks!’ muttered the father. ‘Madeline, what on earth--do
nothing for three or four weeks!’

‘It is a long time, ma’am,’ said Nicholas.

‘YOU think so, do you?’ retorted the father, angrily. ‘If I chose to
beg, sir, and stoop to ask assistance from people I despise, three or
four months would not be a long time; three or four years would not be a
long time. Understand, sir, that is if I chose to be dependent; but as I
don’t, you may call in a week.’

Nicholas bowed low to the young lady and retired, pondering upon Mr
Bray’s ideas of independence, and devoutly hoping that there might
be few such independent spirits as he mingling with the baser clay of
humanity.

He heard a light footstep above him as he descended the stairs, and
looking round saw that the young lady was standing there, and glancing
timidly towards him, seemed to hesitate whether she should call him back
or no. The best way of settling the question was to turn back at once,
which Nicholas did.

‘I don’t know whether I do right in asking you, sir,’ said Madeline,
hurriedly, ‘but pray, pray, do not mention to my poor mother’s dear
friends what has passed here today. He has suffered much, and is worse
this morning. I beg you, sir, as a boon, a favour to myself.’

‘You have but to hint a wish,’ returned Nicholas fervently, ‘and I would
hazard my life to gratify it.’

‘You speak hastily, sir.’

‘Truly and sincerely,’ rejoined Nicholas, his lips trembling as he
formed the words, ‘if ever man spoke truly yet. I am not skilled in
disguising my feelings, and if I were, I could not hide my heart from
you. Dear madam, as I know your history, and feel as men and angels must
who hear and see such things, I do entreat you to believe that I would
die to serve you.’

The young lady turned away her head, and was plainly weeping.

‘Forgive me,’ said Nicholas, with respectful earnestness, ‘if I seem to
say too much, or to presume upon the confidence which has been intrusted
to me. But I could not leave you as if my interest and sympathy expired
with the commission of the day. I am your faithful servant, humbly
devoted to you from this hour, devoted in strict truth and honour to him
who sent me here, and in pure integrity of heart, and distant respect
for you. If I meant more or less than this, I should be unworthy his
regard, and false to the very nature that prompts the honest words I
utter.’

She waved her hand, entreating him to be gone, but answered not a word.
Nicholas could say no more, and silently withdrew. And thus ended his
first interview with Madeline Bray.



CHAPTER 47

Mr. Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old
Friend. They concert between them a Project, which promises well for
both


‘There go the three-quarters past!’ muttered Newman Noggs, listening
to the chimes of some neighbouring church ‘and my dinner time’s two. He
does it on purpose. He makes a point of it. It’s just like him.’

It was in his own little den of an office and on the top of his official
stool that Newman thus soliloquised; and the soliloquy referred, as
Newman’s grumbling soliloquies usually did, to Ralph Nickleby.

‘I don’t believe he ever had an appetite,’ said Newman, ‘except for
pounds, shillings, and pence, and with them he’s as greedy as a wolf. I
should like to have him compelled to swallow one of every English coin.
The penny would be an awkward morsel--but the crown--ha! ha!’

His good-humour being in some degree restored by the vision of Ralph
Nickleby swallowing, perforce, a five-shilling piece, Newman slowly
brought forth from his desk one of those portable bottles, currently
known as pocket-pistols, and shaking the same close to his ear so as to
produce a rippling sound very cool and pleasant to listen to, suffered
his features to relax, and took a gurgling drink, which relaxed them
still more. Replacing the cork, he smacked his lips twice or thrice with
an air of great relish, and, the taste of the liquor having by this time
evaporated, recurred to his grievance again.

‘Five minutes to three,’ growled Newman; ‘it can’t want more by this
time; and I had my breakfast at eight o’clock, and SUCH a breakfast!
and my right dinner-time two! And I might have a nice little bit of hot
roast meat spoiling at home all this time--how does HE know I haven’t?
“Don’t go till I come back,” “Don’t go till I come back,” day after day.
What do you always go out at my dinner-time for then--eh? Don’t you know
it’s nothing but aggravation--eh?’

These words, though uttered in a very loud key, were addressed to
nothing but empty air. The recital of his wrongs, however, seemed to
have the effect of making Newman Noggs desperate; for he flattened his
old hat upon his head, and drawing on the everlasting gloves, declared
with great vehemence, that come what might, he would go to dinner that
very minute.

Carrying this resolution into instant effect, he had advanced as far as
the passage, when the sound of the latch-key in the street door caused
him to make a precipitate retreat into his own office again.

‘Here he is,’ growled Newman, ‘and somebody with him. Now it’ll be “Stop
till this gentleman’s gone.” But I won’t. That’s flat.’

So saying, Newman slipped into a tall empty closet which opened with two
half doors, and shut himself up; intending to slip out directly Ralph
was safe inside his own room.

‘Noggs!’ cried Ralph, ‘where is that fellow, Noggs?’

But not a word said Newman.

‘The dog has gone to his dinner, though I told him not,’ muttered Ralph,
looking into the office, and pulling out his watch. ‘Humph!’ You had
better come in here, Gride. My man’s out, and the sun is hot upon my
room. This is cool and in the shade, if you don’t mind roughing it.’

‘Not at all, Mr. Nickleby, oh not at all! All places are alike to me,
sir. Ah! very nice indeed. Oh! very nice!’

The parson who made this reply was a little old man, of about seventy or
seventy-five years of age, of a very lean figure, much bent and slightly
twisted. He wore a grey coat with a very narrow collar, an old-fashioned
waistcoat of ribbed black silk, and such scanty trousers as displayed
his shrunken spindle-shanks in their full ugliness. The only articles of
display or ornament in his dress were a steel watch-chain to which
were attached some large gold seals; and a black ribbon into which, in
compliance with an old fashion scarcely ever observed in these days,
his grey hair was gathered behind. His nose and chin were sharp and
prominent, his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth, his face
was shrivelled and yellow, save where the cheeks were streaked with
the colour of a dry winter apple; and where his beard had been, there
lingered yet a few grey tufts which seemed, like the ragged eyebrows, to
denote the badness of the soil from which they sprung. The whole air and
attitude of the form was one of stealthy cat-like obsequiousness;
the whole expression of the face was concentrated in a wrinkled leer,
compounded of cunning, lecherousness, slyness, and avarice.

Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face there was not a wrinkle, in
whose dress there was not one spare fold or plait, but expressed
the most covetous and griping penury, and sufficiently indicated his
belonging to that class of which Ralph Nickleby was a member. Such was
old Arthur Gride, as he sat in a low chair looking up into the face of
Ralph Nickleby, who, lounging upon the tall office stool, with his arms
upon his knees, looked down into his; a match for him on whatever errand
he had come.

‘And how have you been?’ said Gride, feigning great interest in Ralph’s
state of health. ‘I haven’t seen you for--oh! not for--’

‘Not for a long time,’ said Ralph, with a peculiar smile, importing
that he very well knew it was not on a mere visit of compliment that his
friend had come. ‘It was a narrow chance that you saw me now, for I had
only just come up to the door as you turned the corner.’

‘I am very lucky,’ observed Gride.

‘So men say,’ replied Ralph, drily.

The older money-lender wagged his chin and smiled, but he originated no
new remark, and they sat for some little time without speaking. Each was
looking out to take the other at a disadvantage.

‘Come, Gride,’ said Ralph, at length; ‘what’s in the wind today?’

‘Aha! you’re a bold man, Mr. Nickleby,’ cried the other, apparently very
much relieved by Ralph’s leading the way to business. ‘Oh dear, dear,
what a bold man you are!’

‘Why, you have a sleek and slinking way with you that makes me seem so
by contrast,’ returned Ralph. ‘I don’t know but that yours may answer
better, but I want the patience for it.’

‘You were born a genius, Mr. Nickleby,’ said old Arthur. ‘Deep, deep,
deep. Ah!’

‘Deep enough,’ retorted Ralph, ‘to know that I shall need all the depth
I have, when men like you begin to compliment. You know I have stood by
when you fawned and flattered other people, and I remember pretty well
what THAT always led to.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. ‘So you do, so you do,
no doubt. Not a man knows it better. Well, it’s a pleasant thing now to
think that you remember old times. Oh dear!’

‘Now then,’ said Ralph, composedly; ‘what’s in the wind, I ask again?
What is it?’

‘See that now!’ cried the other. ‘He can’t even keep from business while
we’re chatting over bygones. Oh dear, dear, what a man it is!’

‘WHICH of the bygones do you want to revive?’ said Ralph. ‘One of them,
I know, or you wouldn’t talk about them.’

‘He suspects even me!’ cried old Arthur, holding up his hands. ‘Even
me! Oh dear, even me. What a man it is! Ha, ha, ha! What a man it is! Mr
Nickleby against all the world. There’s nobody like him. A giant among
pigmies, a giant, a giant!’

Ralph looked at the old dog with a quiet smile as he chuckled on in this
strain, and Newman Noggs in the closet felt his heart sink within him as
the prospect of dinner grew fainter and fainter.

‘I must humour him though,’ cried old Arthur; ‘he must have his way--a
wilful man, as the Scotch say--well, well, they’re a wise people, the
Scotch. He will talk about business, and won’t give away his time for
nothing. He’s very right. Time is money, time is money.’

‘He was one of us who made that saying, I should think,’ said Ralph.
‘Time is money, and very good money too, to those who reckon interest by
it. Time IS money! Yes, and time costs money; it’s rather an expensive
article to some people we could name, or I forget my trade.’

In rejoinder to this sally, old Arthur again raised his hands, again
chuckled, and again ejaculated ‘What a man it is!’ which done, he
dragged the low chair a little nearer to Ralph’s high stool, and looking
upwards into his immovable face, said,

‘What would you say to me, if I was to tell you that I was--that I
was--going to be married?’

‘I should tell you,’ replied Ralph, looking coldly down upon him, ‘that
for some purpose of your own you told a lie, and that it wasn’t the
first time and wouldn’t be the last; that I wasn’t surprised and wasn’t
to be taken in.’

‘Then I tell you seriously that I am,’ said old Arthur.

‘And I tell you seriously,’ rejoined Ralph, ‘what I told you this
minute. Stay. Let me look at you. There’s a liquorish devilry in your
face. What is this?’

‘I wouldn’t deceive YOU, you know,’ whined Arthur Gride; ‘I couldn’t do
it, I should be mad to try. I, I, to deceive Mr. Nickleby! The pigmy to
impose upon the giant. I ask again--he, he, he!--what should you say to
me if I was to tell you that I was going to be married?’

‘To some old hag?’ said Ralph.

‘No, No,’ cried Arthur, interrupting him, and rubbing his hands in an
ecstasy. ‘Wrong, wrong again. Mr. Nickleby for once at fault; out, quite
out! To a young and beautiful girl; fresh, lovely, bewitching, and not
nineteen. Dark eyes, long eyelashes, ripe and ruddy lips that to look at
is to long to kiss, beautiful clustering hair that one’s fingers itch to
play with, such a waist as might make a man clasp the air involuntarily,
thinking of twining his arm about it, little feet that tread so lightly
they hardly seem to walk upon the ground--to marry all this, sir,
this--hey, hey!’

‘This is something more than common drivelling,’ said Ralph, after
listening with a curled lip to the old sinner’s raptures. ‘The girl’s
name?’

‘Oh deep, deep! See now how deep that is!’ exclaimed old Arthur. ‘He
knows I want his help, he knows he can give it me, he knows it must all
turn to his advantage, he sees the thing already. Her name--is there
nobody within hearing?’

‘Why, who the devil should there be?’ retorted Ralph, testily.

‘I didn’t know but that perhaps somebody might be passing up or down the
stairs,’ said Arthur Gride, after looking out at the door and carefully
reclosing it; ‘or but that your man might have come back and might have
been listening outside. Clerks and servants have a trick of listening,
and I should have been very uncomfortable if Mr. Noggs--’

‘Curse Mr. Noggs,’ said Ralph, sharply, ‘and go on with what you have to
say.’

‘Curse Mr. Noggs, by all means,’ rejoined old Arthur; ‘I am sure I have
not the least objection to that. Her name is--’

‘Well,’ said Ralph, rendered very irritable by old Arthur’s pausing
again ‘what is it?’

‘Madeline Bray.’

Whatever reasons there might have been--and Arthur Gride appeared to
have anticipated some--for the mention of this name producing an effect
upon Ralph, or whatever effect it really did produce upon him, he
permitted none to manifest itself, but calmly repeated the name several
times, as if reflecting when and where he had heard it before.

‘Bray,’ said Ralph. ‘Bray--there was young Bray of--no, he never had a
daughter.’

‘You remember Bray?’ rejoined Arthur Gride.

‘No,’ said Ralph, looking vacantly at him.

‘Not Walter Bray! The dashing man, who used his handsome wife so ill?’

‘If you seek to recall any particular dashing man to my recollection
by such a trait as that,’ said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I shall
confound him with nine-tenths of the dashing men I have ever known.’

‘Tut, tut. That Bray who is now in the Rules of the Bench,’ said old
Arthur. ‘You can’t have forgotten Bray. Both of us did business with
him. Why, he owes you money!’

‘Oh HIM!’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Ay, ay. Now you speak. Oh! It’s HIS daughter,
is it?’

Naturally as this was said, it was not said so naturally but that a
kindred spirit like old Arthur Gride might have discerned a design upon
the part of Ralph to lead him on to much more explicit statements and
explanations than he would have volunteered, or that Ralph could in all
likelihood have obtained by any other means. Old Arthur, however, was so
intent upon his own designs, that he suffered himself to be overreached,
and had no suspicion but that his good friend was in earnest.

‘I knew you couldn’t forget him, when you came to think for a moment,’
he said.

‘You were right,’ answered Ralph. ‘But old Arthur Gride and matrimony
is a most anomalous conjunction of words; old Arthur Gride and dark
eyes and eyelashes, and lips that to look at is to long to kiss, and
clustering hair that he wants to play with, and waists that he wants to
span, and little feet that don’t tread upon anything--old Arthur Gride
and such things as these is more monstrous still; but old Arthur Gride
marrying the daughter of a ruined “dashing man” in the Rules of the
Bench, is the most monstrous and incredible of all. Plainly, friend
Arthur Gride, if you want any help from me in this business (which of
course you do, or you would not be here), speak out, and to the purpose.
And, above all, don’t talk to me of its turning to my advantage, for I
know it must turn to yours also, and to a good round tune too, or you
would have no finger in such a pie as this.’

There was enough acerbity and sarcasm not only in the matter of Ralph’s
speech, but in the tone of voice in which he uttered it, and the looks
with which he eked it out, to have fired even the ancient usurer’s
cold blood and flushed even his withered cheek. But he gave vent to no
demonstration of anger, contenting himself with exclaiming as before,
‘What a man it is!’ and rolling his head from side to side, as if in
unrestrained enjoyment of his freedom and drollery. Clearly observing,
however, from the expression in Ralph’s features, that he had best
come to the point as speedily as might be, he composed himself for
more serious business, and entered upon the pith and marrow of his
negotiation.

First, he dwelt upon the fact that Madeline Bray was devoted to the
support and maintenance, and was a slave to every wish, of her only
parent, who had no other friend on earth; to which Ralph rejoined that
he had heard something of the kind before, and that if she had known a
little more of the world, she wouldn’t have been such a fool.

Secondly, he enlarged upon the character of her father, arguing, that
even taking it for granted that he loved her in return with the utmost
affection of which he was capable, yet he loved himself a great deal
better; which Ralph said it was quite unnecessary to say anything more
about, as that was very natural, and probable enough.

And, thirdly, old Arthur premised that the girl was a delicate and
beautiful creature, and that he had really a hankering to have her for
his wife. To this Ralph deigned no other rejoinder than a harsh smile,
and a glance at the shrivelled old creature before him, which were,
however, sufficiently expressive.

‘Now,’ said Gride, ‘for the little plan I have in my mind to bring
this about; because, I haven’t offered myself even to the father yet, I
should have told you. But that you have gathered already? Ah! oh dear,
oh dear, what an edged tool you are!’

‘Don’t play with me then,’ said Ralph impatiently. ‘You know the
proverb.’

‘A reply always on the tip of his tongue!’ cried old Arthur, raising his
hands and eyes in admiration. ‘He is always prepared! Oh dear, what a
blessing to have such a ready wit, and so much ready money to back it!’
Then, suddenly changing his tone, he went on: ‘I have been backwards and
forwards to Bray’s lodgings several times within the last six months.
It is just half a year since I first saw this delicate morsel, and, oh
dear, what a delicate morsel it is! But that is neither here nor there.
I am his detaining creditor for seventeen hundred pounds!’

‘You talk as if you were the only detaining creditor,’ said Ralph,
pulling out his pocket-book. ‘I am another for nine hundred and
seventy-five pounds four and threepence.’

‘The only other, Mr. Nickleby,’ said old Arthur, eagerly. ‘The only
other. Nobody else went to the expense of lodging a detainer, trusting
to our holding him fast enough, I warrant you. We both fell into the
same snare; oh dear, what a pitfall it was; it almost ruined me! And
lent him our money upon bills, with only one name besides his own, which
to be sure everybody supposed to be a good one, and was as negotiable
as money, but which turned out you know how. Just as we should have come
upon him, he died insolvent. Ah! it went very nigh to ruin me, that loss
did!’

‘Go on with your scheme,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s of no use raising the cry of
our trade just now; there’s nobody to hear us!’

‘It’s always as well to talk that way,’ returned old Arthur, with a
chuckle, ‘whether there’s anybody to hear us or not. Practice makes
perfect, you know. Now, if I offer myself to Bray as his son-in-law,
upon one simple condition that the moment I am fast married he shall be
quietly released, and have an allowance to live just t’other side the
water like a gentleman (he can’t live long, for I have asked his
doctor, and he declares that his complaint is one of the Heart and it
is impossible), and if all the advantages of this condition are properly
stated and dwelt upon to him, do you think he could resist me? And if
he could not resist ME, do you think his daughter could resist HIM?
Shouldn’t I have her Mrs. Arthur Gride--pretty Mrs. Arthur Gride--a
tit-bit--a dainty chick--shouldn’t I have her Mrs. Arthur Gride in a
week, a month, a day--any time I chose to name?’

‘Go on,’ said Ralph, nodding his head deliberately, and speaking in
a tone whose studied coldness presented a strange contrast to the
rapturous squeak to which his friend had gradually mounted. ‘Go on. You
didn’t come here to ask me that.’

‘Oh dear, how you talk!’ cried old Arthur, edging himself closer still
to Ralph. ‘Of course I didn’t, I don’t pretend I did! I came to ask what
you would take from me, if I prospered with the father, for this debt of
yours. Five shillings in the pound, six and-eightpence, ten shillings? I
WOULD go as far as ten for such a friend as you, we have always been on
such good terms, but you won’t be so hard upon me as that, I know. Now,
will you?’

‘There’s something more to be told,’ said Ralph, as stony and immovable
as ever.

‘Yes, yes, there is, but you won’t give me time,’ returned Arthur Gride.
‘I want a backer in this matter; one who can talk, and urge, and press a
point, which you can do as no man can. I can’t do that, for I am a poor,
timid, nervous creature. Now, if you get a good composition for this
debt, which you long ago gave up for lost, you’ll stand my friend, and
help me. Won’t you?’

‘There’s something more,’ said Ralph.

‘No, no, indeed,’ cried Arthur Gride.

‘Yes, yes, indeed. I tell you yes,’ said Ralph.

‘Oh!’ returned old Arthur feigning to be suddenly enlightened. ‘You mean
something more, as concerns myself and my intention. Ay, surely, surely.
Shall I mention that?’

‘I think you had better,’ rejoined Ralph, drily.

‘I didn’t like to trouble you with that, because I supposed your
interest would cease with your own concern in the affair,’ said Arthur
Gride. ‘That’s kind of you to ask. Oh dear, how very kind of you! Why,
supposing I had a knowledge of some property--some little property--very
little--to which this pretty chick was entitled; which nobody does or
can know of at this time, but which her husband could sweep into his
pouch, if he knew as much as I do, would that account for--’

‘For the whole proceeding,’ rejoined Ralph, abruptly. ‘Now, let me turn
this matter over, and consider what I ought to have if I should help you
to success.’

‘But don’t be hard,’ cried old Arthur, raising his hands with an
imploring gesture, and speaking, in a tremulous voice. ‘Don’t be too
hard upon me. It’s a very small property, it is indeed. Say the ten
shillings, and we’ll close the bargain. It’s more than I ought to give,
but you’re so kind--shall we say the ten? Do now, do.’

Ralph took no notice of these supplications, but sat for three or four
minutes in a brown study, looking thoughtfully at the person from whom
they proceeded. After sufficient cogitation he broke silence, and
it certainly could not be objected that he used any needless
circumlocution, or failed to speak directly to the purpose.

‘If you married this girl without me,’ said Ralph, ‘you must pay my debt
in full, because you couldn’t set her father free otherwise. It’s plain,
then, that I must have the whole amount, clear of all deduction or
incumbrance, or I should lose from being honoured with your confidence,
instead of gaining by it. That’s the first article of the treaty. For
the second, I shall stipulate that for my trouble in negotiation and
persuasion, and helping you to this fortune, I have five hundred pounds.
That’s very little, because you have the ripe lips, and the clustering
hair, and what not, all to yourself. For the third and last article, I
require that you execute a bond to me, this day, binding yourself in the
payment of these two sums, before noon of the day of your marriage with
Madeline Bray. You have told me I can urge and press a point. I press
this one, and will take nothing less than these terms. Accept them if
you like. If not, marry her without me if you can. I shall still get my
debt.’

To all entreaties, protestations, and offers of compromise between his
own proposals and those which Arthur Gride had first suggested, Ralph
was deaf as an adder. He would enter into no further discussion of the
subject, and while old Arthur dilated upon the enormity of his demands
and proposed modifications of them, approaching by degrees nearer and
nearer to the terms he resisted, sat perfectly mute, looking with an
air of quiet abstraction over the entries and papers in his pocket-book.
Finding that it was impossible to make any impression upon his staunch
friend, Arthur Gride, who had prepared himself for some such result
before he came, consented with a heavy heart to the proposed treaty, and
upon the spot filled up the bond required (Ralph kept such instruments
handy), after exacting the condition that Mr. Nickleby should accompany
him to Bray’s lodgings that very hour, and open the negotiation at once,
should circumstances appear auspicious and favourable to their designs.

In pursuance of this last understanding the worthy gentlemen went out
together shortly afterwards, and Newman Noggs emerged, bottle in hand,
from the cupboard, out of the upper door of which, at the imminent risk
of detection, he had more than once thrust his red nose when such parts
of the subject were under discussion as interested him most.

‘I have no appetite now,’ said Newman, putting the flask in his pocket.
‘I’ve had MY dinner.’

Having delivered this observation in a very grievous and doleful
tone, Newman reached the door in one long limp, and came back again in
another.

‘I don’t know who she may be, or what she may be,’ he said: ‘but I pity
her with all my heart and soul; and I can’t help her, nor can I any of
the people against whom a hundred tricks, but none so vile as this, are
plotted every day! Well, that adds to my pain, but not to theirs. The
thing is no worse because I know it, and it tortures me as well as
them. Gride and Nickleby! Good pair for a curricle. Oh roguery! roguery!
roguery!’

With these reflections, and a very hard knock on the crown of his
unfortunate hat at each repetition of the last word, Newman Noggs,
whose brain was a little muddled by so much of the contents of
the pocket-pistol as had found their way there during his recent
concealment, went forth to seek such consolation as might be derivable
from the beef and greens of some cheap eating-house.

Meanwhile the two plotters had betaken themselves to the same house
whither Nicholas had repaired for the first time but a few mornings
before, and having obtained access to Mr. Bray, and found his daughter
from home, had by a train of the most masterly approaches that Ralph’s
utmost skill could frame, at length laid open the real object of their
visit.

‘There he sits, Mr. Bray,’ said Ralph, as the invalid, not yet recovered
from his surprise, reclined in his chair, looking alternately at him
and Arthur Gride. ‘What if he has had the ill-fortune to be one cause
of your detention in this place? I have been another; men must live; you
are too much a man of the world not to see that in its true light. We
offer the best reparation in our power. Reparation! Here is an offer
of marriage, that many a titled father would leap at, for his child. Mr
Arthur Gride, with the fortune of a prince. Think what a haul it is!’

‘My daughter, sir,’ returned Bray, haughtily, ‘as I have brought her
up, would be a rich recompense for the largest fortune that a man could
bestow in exchange for her hand.’

‘Precisely what I told you,’ said the artful Ralph, turning to his
friend, old Arthur. ‘Precisely what made me consider the thing so fair
and easy. There is no obligation on either side. You have money, and
Miss Madeline has beauty and worth. She has youth, you have money.
She has not money, you have not youth. Tit for tat, quits, a match of
Heaven’s own making!’

‘Matches are made in Heaven, they say,’ added Arthur Gride, leering
hideously at the father-in-law he wanted. ‘If we are married, it will be
destiny, according to that.’

‘Then think, Mr. Bray,’ said Ralph, hastily substituting for this
argument considerations more nearly allied to earth, ‘think what a stake
is involved in the acceptance or rejection of these proposals of my
friend.’

‘How can I accept or reject,’ interrupted Mr. Bray, with an irritable
consciousness that it really rested with him to decide. ‘It is for my
daughter to accept or reject; it is for my daughter. You know that.’

‘True,’ said Ralph, emphatically; ‘but you have still the power to
advise; to state the reasons for and against; to hint a wish.’

‘To hint a wish, sir!’ returned the debtor, proud and mean by turns, and
selfish at all times. ‘I am her father, am I not? Why should I hint, and
beat about the bush? Do you suppose, like her mother’s friends and my
enemies--a curse upon them all!--that there is anything in what she has
done for me but duty, sir, but duty? Or do you think that my having been
unfortunate is a sufficient reason why our relative positions should
be changed, and that she should command and I should obey? Hint a wish,
too! Perhaps you think, because you see me in this place and
scarcely able to leave this chair without assistance, that I am some
broken-spirited dependent creature, without the courage or power to do
what I may think best for my own child. Still the power to hint a wish!
I hope so!’

‘Pardon me,’ returned Ralph, who thoroughly knew his man, and had taken
his ground accordingly; ‘you do not hear me out. I was about to say that
your hinting a wish, even hinting a wish, would surely be equivalent to
commanding.’

‘Why, of course it would,’ retorted Mr. Bray, in an exasperated tone. ‘If
you don’t happen to have heard of the time, sir, I tell you that there
was a time, when I carried every point in triumph against her mother’s
whole family, although they had power and wealth on their side, by my
will alone.’

‘Still,’ rejoined Ralph, as mildly as his nature would allow him, ‘you
have not heard me out. You are a man yet qualified to shine in society,
with many years of life before you; that is, if you lived in freer air,
and under brighter skies, and chose your own companions. Gaiety is
your element, you have shone in it before. Fashion and freedom for you.
France, and an annuity that would support you there in luxury, would
give you a new lease of life, would transfer you to a new existence. The
town rang with your expensive pleasures once, and you could blaze up
on a new scene again, profiting by experience, and living a little at
others’ cost, instead of letting others live at yours. What is there on
the reverse side of the picture? What is there? I don’t know which is
the nearest churchyard, but a gravestone there, wherever it is, and a
date, perhaps two years hence, perhaps twenty. That’s all.’

Mr. Bray rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, and shaded his face
with his hand.

‘I speak plainly,’ said Ralph, sitting down beside him, ‘because I feel
strongly. It’s my interest that you should marry your daughter to my
friend Gride, because then he sees me paid--in part, that is. I don’t
disguise it. I acknowledge it openly. But what interest have you in
recommending her to such a step? Keep that in view. She might object,
remonstrate, shed tears, talk of his being too old, and plead that her
life would be rendered miserable. But what is it now?’

Several slight gestures on the part of the invalid showed that these
arguments were no more lost upon him, than the smallest iota of his
demeanour was upon Ralph.

‘What is it now, I say,’ pursued the wily usurer, ‘or what has it a
chance of being? If you died, indeed, the people you hate would make her
happy. But can you bear the thought of that?’

‘No!’ returned Bray, urged by a vindictive impulse he could not repress.

‘I should imagine not, indeed!’ said Ralph, quietly. ‘If she profits
by anybody’s death,’ this was said in a lower tone, ‘let it be by her
husband’s. Don’t let her have to look back to yours, as the event from
which to date a happier life. Where is the objection? Let me hear it
stated. What is it? That her suitor is an old man? Why, how often do men
of family and fortune, who haven’t your excuse, but have all the means
and superfluities of life within their reach, how often do they marry
their daughters to old men, or (worse still) to young men without heads
or hearts, to tickle some idle vanity, strengthen some family interest,
or secure some seat in Parliament! Judge for her, sir, judge for her.
You must know best, and she will live to thank you.’

‘Hush! hush!’ cried Mr. Bray, suddenly starting up, and covering Ralph’s
mouth with his trembling hand. ‘I hear her at the door!’

There was a gleam of conscience in the shame and terror of this hasty
action, which, in one short moment, tore the thin covering of sophistry
from the cruel design, and laid it bare in all its meanness and
heartless deformity. The father fell into his chair pale and trembling;
Arthur Gride plucked and fumbled at his hat, and durst not raise his
eyes from the floor; even Ralph crouched for the moment like a beaten
hound, cowed by the presence of one young innocent girl!

The effect was almost as brief as sudden. Ralph was the first to recover
himself, and observing Madeline’s looks of alarm, entreated the poor
girl to be composed, assuring her that there was no cause for fear.

‘A sudden spasm,’ said Ralph, glancing at Mr. Bray. ‘He is quite well
now.’

It might have moved a very hard and worldly heart to see the young and
beautiful creature, whose certain misery they had been contriving but
a minute before, throw her arms about her father’s neck, and pour forth
words of tender sympathy and love, the sweetest a father’s ear can know,
or child’s lips form. But Ralph looked coldly on; and Arthur Gride,
whose bleared eyes gloated only over the outward beauties, and were
blind to the spirit which reigned within, evinced--a fantastic kind of
warmth certainly, but not exactly that kind of warmth of feeling which
the contemplation of virtue usually inspires.

‘Madeline,’ said her father, gently disengaging himself, ‘it was
nothing.’

‘But you had that spasm yesterday, and it is terrible to see you in such
pain. Can I do nothing for you?’

‘Nothing just now. Here are two gentlemen, Madeline, one of whom you
have seen before. She used to say,’ added Mr. Bray, addressing Arthur
Gride, ‘that the sight of you always made me worse. That was natural,
knowing what she did, and only what she did, of our connection and its
results. Well, well. Perhaps she may change her mind on that point;
girls have leave to change their minds, you know. You are very tired, my
dear.’

‘I am not, indeed.’

‘Indeed you are. You do too much.’

‘I wish I could do more.’

‘I know you do, but you overtask your strength. This wretched life, my
love, of daily labour and fatigue, is more than you can bear, I am sure
it is. Poor Madeline!’

With these and many more kind words, Mr. Bray drew his daughter to him
and kissed her cheek affectionately. Ralph, watching him sharply and
closely in the meantime, made his way towards the door, and signed to
Gride to follow him.

‘You will communicate with us again?’ said Ralph.

‘Yes, yes,’ returned Mr. Bray, hastily thrusting his daughter aside. ‘In
a week. Give me a week.’

‘One week,’ said Ralph, turning to his companion, ‘from today.
Good-morning. Miss Madeline, I kiss your hand.’

‘We will shake hands, Gride,’ said Mr. Bray, extending his, as old Arthur
bowed. ‘You mean well, no doubt. I am bound to say so now. If I owed you
money, that was not your fault. Madeline, my love, your hand here.’

‘Oh dear! If the young lady would condescent! Only the tips of her
fingers,’ said Arthur, hesitating and half retreating.

Madeline shrunk involuntarily from the goblin figure, but she placed the
tips of her fingers in his hand and instantly withdrew them. After an
ineffectual clutch, intended to detain and carry them to his lips,
old Arthur gave his own fingers a mumbling kiss, and with many amorous
distortions of visage went in pursuit of his friend, who was by this
time in the street.

‘What does he say, what does he say? What does the giant say to the
pigmy?’ inquired Arthur Gride, hobbling up to Ralph.

‘What does the pigmy say to the giant?’ rejoined Ralph, elevating his
eyebrows and looking down upon his questioner.

‘He doesn’t know what to say,’ replied Arthur Gride. ‘He hopes and
fears. But is she not a dainty morsel?’

‘I have no great taste for beauty,’ growled Ralph.

‘But I have,’ rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. ‘Oh dear! How handsome
her eyes looked when she was stooping over him! Such long lashes, such
delicate fringe! She--she--looked at me so soft.’

‘Not over-lovingly, I think,’ said Ralph. ‘Did she?’

‘No, you think not?’ replied old Arthur. ‘But don’t you think it can be
brought about? Don’t you think it can?’

Ralph looked at him with a contemptuous frown, and replied with a sneer,
and between his teeth:

‘Did you mark his telling her she was tired and did too much, and
overtasked her strength?’

‘Ay, ay. What of it?’

‘When do you think he ever told her that before? The life is more than
she can bear. Yes, yes. He’ll change it for her.’

‘D’ye think it’s done?’ inquired old Arthur, peering into his
companion’s face with half-closed eyes.

‘I am sure it’s done,’ said Ralph. ‘He is trying to deceive himself,
even before our eyes, already. He is making believe that he thinks
of her good and not his own. He is acting a virtuous part, and so
considerate and affectionate, sir, that the daughter scarcely knew him.
I saw a tear of surprise in her eye. There’ll be a few more tears of
surprise there before long, though of a different kind. Oh! we may wait
with confidence for this day week.’



CHAPTER 48

Being for the Benefit of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and positively his last
Appearance on this Stage


It was with a very sad and heavy heart, oppressed by many painful ideas,
that Nicholas retraced his steps eastward and betook himself to the
counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers. Whatever the idle hopes he had
suffered himself to entertain, whatever the pleasant visions which had
sprung up in his mind and grouped themselves round the fair image of
Madeline Bray, they were now dispelled, and not a vestige of their
gaiety and brightness remained.

It would be a poor compliment to Nicholas’s better nature, and one which
he was very far from deserving, to insinuate that the solution, and such
a solution, of the mystery which had seemed to surround Madeline Bray,
when he was ignorant even of her name, had damped his ardour or cooled
the fervour of his admiration. If he had regarded her before, with
such a passion as young men attracted by mere beauty and elegance may
entertain, he was now conscious of much deeper and stronger feelings.
But, reverence for the truth and purity of her heart, respect for the
helplessness and loneliness of her situation, sympathy with the trials
of one so young and fair and admiration of her great and noble spirit,
all seemed to raise her far above his reach, and, while they imparted
new depth and dignity to his love, to whisper that it was hopeless.

‘I will keep my word, as I have pledged it to her,’ said Nicholas,
manfully. ‘This is no common trust that I have to discharge, and I will
perform the double duty that is imposed upon me most scrupulously and
strictly. My secret feelings deserve no consideration in such a case as
this, and they shall have none.’

Still, there were the secret feelings in existence just the same, and in
secret Nicholas rather encouraged them than otherwise; reasoning (if
he reasoned at all) that there they could do no harm to anybody but
himself, and that if he kept them to himself from a sense of duty, he
had an additional right to entertain himself with them as a reward for
his heroism.

All these thoughts, coupled with what he had seen that morning and the
anticipation of his next visit, rendered him a very dull and abstracted
companion; so much so, indeed, that Tim Linkinwater suspected he must
have made the mistake of a figure somewhere, which was preying upon his
mind, and seriously conjured him, if such were the case, to make a clean
breast and scratch it out, rather than have his whole life embittered by
the tortures of remorse.

But in reply to these considerate representations, and many others both
from Tim and Mr. Frank, Nicholas could only be brought to state that
he was never merrier in his life; and so went on all day, and so went
towards home at night, still turning over and over again the same
subjects, thinking over and over again the same things, and arriving
over and over again at the same conclusions.

In this pensive, wayward, and uncertain state, people are apt to lounge
and loiter without knowing why, to read placards on the walls with great
attention and without the smallest idea of one word of their contents,
and to stare most earnestly through shop-windows at things which they
don’t see. It was thus that Nicholas found himself poring with the
utmost interest over a large play-bill hanging outside a Minor Theatre
which he had to pass on his way home, and reading a list of the actors
and actresses who had promised to do honour to some approaching benefit,
with as much gravity as if it had been a catalogue of the names of those
ladies and gentlemen who stood highest upon the Book of Fate, and he had
been looking anxiously for his own. He glanced at the top of the bill,
with a smile at his own dulness, as he prepared to resume his walk, and
there saw announced, in large letters with a large space between each
of them, ‘Positively the last appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles of
Provincial Celebrity!!!’

‘Nonsense!’ said Nicholas, turning back again. ‘It can’t be.’

But there it was. In one line by itself was an announcement of the first
night of a new melodrama; in another line by itself was an announcement
of the last six nights of an old one; a third line was devoted to the
re-engagement of the unrivalled African Knife-swallower, who had kindly
suffered himself to be prevailed upon to forego his country engagements
for one week longer; a fourth line announced that Mr. Snittle Timberry,
having recovered from his late severe indisposition, would have the
honour of appearing that evening; a fifth line said that there were
‘Cheers, Tears, and Laughter!’ every night; a sixth, that that was
positively the last appearance of Mr. Vincent Crummles of Provincial
Celebrity.

‘Surely it must be the same man,’ thought Nicholas. ‘There can’t be two
Vincent Crummleses.’

The better to settle this question he referred to the bill again, and
finding that there was a Baron in the first piece, and that Roberto (his
son) was enacted by one Master Crummles, and Spaletro (his nephew) by
one Master Percy Crummles--THEIR last appearances--and that, incidental
to the piece, was a characteristic dance by the characters, and a
castanet pas seul by the Infant Phenomenon--HER last appearance--he no
longer entertained any doubt; and presenting himself at the stage-door,
and sending in a scrap of paper with ‘Mr. Johnson’ written thereon in
pencil, was presently conducted by a Robber, with a very large belt and
buckle round his waist, and very large leather gauntlets on his hands,
into the presence of his former manager.

Mr. Crummles was unfeignedly glad to see him, and starting up from before
a small dressing-glass, with one very bushy eyebrow stuck on crooked
over his left eye, and the fellow eyebrow and the calf of one of his
legs in his hand, embraced him cordially; at the same time observing,
that it would do Mrs. Crummles’s heart good to bid him goodbye before
they went.

‘You were always a favourite of hers, Johnson,’ said Crummles, ‘always
were from the first. I was quite easy in my mind about you from that
first day you dined with us. One that Mrs. Crummles took a fancy to, was
sure to turn out right. Ah! Johnson, what a woman that is!’

‘I am sincerely obliged to her for her kindness in this and all other
respects,’ said Nicholas. ‘But where are you going, that you talk about
bidding goodbye?’

‘Haven’t you seen it in the papers?’ said Crummles, with some dignity.

‘No,’ replied Nicholas.

‘I wonder at that,’ said the manager. ‘It was among the varieties. I had
the paragraph here somewhere--but I don’t know--oh, yes, here it is.’

So saying, Mr. Crummles, after pretending that he thought he must have
lost it, produced a square inch of newspaper from the pocket of the
pantaloons he wore in private life (which, together with the plain
clothes of several other gentlemen, lay scattered about on a kind of
dresser in the room), and gave it to Nicholas to read:

‘The talented Vincent Crummles, long favourably known to fame as a
country manager and actor of no ordinary pretensions, is about to cross
the Atlantic on a histrionic expedition. Crummles is to be accompanied,
we hear, by his lady and gifted family. We know no man superior to
Crummles in his particular line of character, or one who, whether as a
public or private individual, could carry with him the best wishes of a
larger circle of friends. Crummles is certain to succeed.’

‘Here’s another bit,’ said Mr. Crummles, handing over a still smaller
scrap. ‘This is from the notices to correspondents, this one.’

Nicholas read it aloud. ‘“Philo-Dramaticus. Crummles, the country
manager and actor, cannot be more than forty-three, or forty-four
years of age. Crummles is NOT a Prussian, having been born at Chelsea.”
 Humph!’ said Nicholas, ‘that’s an odd paragraph.’

‘Very,’ returned Crummles, scratching the side of his nose, and looking
at Nicholas with an assumption of great unconcern. ‘I can’t think who
puts these things in. I didn’t.’

Still keeping his eye on Nicholas, Mr. Crummles shook his head twice or
thrice with profound gravity, and remarking, that he could not for the
life of him imagine how the newspapers found out the things they did,
folded up the extracts and put them in his pocket again.

‘I am astonished to hear this news,’ said Nicholas. ‘Going to America!
You had no such thing in contemplation when I was with you.’

‘No,’ replied Crummles, ‘I hadn’t then. The fact is that Mrs
Crummles--most extraordinary woman, Johnson.’ Here he broke off and
whispered something in his ear.

‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, smiling. ‘The prospect of an addition to your
family?’

‘The seventh addition, Johnson,’ returned Mr. Crummles, solemnly. ‘I
thought such a child as the Phenomenon must have been a closer; but it
seems we are to have another. She is a very remarkable woman.’

‘I congratulate you,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I hope this may prove a
phenomenon too.’

‘Why, it’s pretty sure to be something uncommon, I suppose,’ rejoined
Mr. Crummles. ‘The talent of the other three is principally in combat and
serious pantomime. I should like this one to have a turn for juvenile
tragedy; I understand they want something of that sort in America very
much. However, we must take it as it comes. Perhaps it may have a genius
for the tight-rope. It may have any sort of genius, in short, if it
takes after its mother, Johnson, for she is an universal genius; but,
whatever its genius is, that genius shall be developed.’

Expressing himself after these terms, Mr. Crummles put on his other
eyebrow, and the calves of his legs, and then put on his legs, which
were of a yellowish flesh-colour, and rather soiled about the knees,
from frequent going down upon those joints, in curses, prayers, last
struggles, and other strong passages.

While the ex-manager completed his toilet, he informed Nicholas that as
he should have a fair start in America from the proceeds of a tolerably
good engagement which he had been fortunate enough to obtain, and as
he and Mrs. Crummles could scarcely hope to act for ever (not being
immortal, except in the breath of Fame and in a figurative sense) he had
made up his mind to settle there permanently, in the hope of acquiring
some land of his own which would support them in their old age, and
which they could afterwards bequeath to their children. Nicholas, having
highly commended the resolution, Mr. Crummles went on to impart such
further intelligence relative to their mutual friends as he thought
might prove interesting; informing Nicholas, among other things, that
Miss Snevellicci was happily married to an affluent young wax-chandler
who had supplied the theatre with candles, and that Mr. Lillyvick didn’t
dare to say his soul was his own, such was the tyrannical sway of Mrs
Lillyvick, who reigned paramount and supreme.

Nicholas responded to this confidence on the part of Mr. Crummles, by
confiding to him his own name, situation, and prospects, and informing
him, in as few general words as he could, of the circumstances which
had led to their first acquaintance. After congratulating him with great
heartiness on the improved state of his fortunes, Mr. Crummles gave him
to understand that next morning he and his were to start for Liverpool,
where the vessel lay which was to carry them from the shores of England,
and that if Nicholas wished to take a last adieu of Mrs. Crummles, he
must repair with him that night to a farewell supper, given in honour of
the family at a neighbouring tavern; at which Mr. Snittle Timberry would
preside, while the honours of the vice-chair would be sustained by the
African Swallower.

The room being by this time very warm and somewhat crowded, in
consequence of the influx of four gentlemen, who had just killed
each other in the piece under representation, Nicholas accepted
the invitation, and promised to return at the conclusion of the
performances; preferring the cool air and twilight out of doors to the
mingled perfume of gas, orange-peel, and gunpowder, which pervaded the
hot and glaring theatre.

He availed himself of this interval to buy a silver snuff-box--the best
his funds would afford--as a token of remembrance for Mr. Crummles,
and having purchased besides a pair of ear-rings for Mrs. Crummles, a
necklace for the Phenomenon, and a flaming shirt-pin for each of the
young gentlemen, he refreshed himself with a walk, and returning a
little after the appointed time, found the lights out, the theatre
empty, the curtain raised for the night, and Mr. Crummles walking up and
down the stage expecting his arrival.

‘Timberry won’t be long,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘He played the audience out
tonight. He does a faithful black in the last piece, and it takes him a
little longer to wash himself.’

‘A very unpleasant line of character, I should think?’ said Nicholas.

‘No, I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Crummles; ‘it comes off easily enough,
and there’s only the face and neck. We had a first-tragedy man in our
company once, who, when he played Othello, used to black himself all
over. But that’s feeling a part and going into it as if you meant it; it
isn’t usual; more’s the pity.’

Mr. Snittle Timberry now appeared, arm-in-arm with the African Swallower,
and, being introduced to Nicholas, raised his hat half a foot, and said
he was proud to know him. The Swallower said the same, and looked and
spoke remarkably like an Irishman.

‘I see by the bills that you have been ill, sir,’ said Nicholas to Mr
Timberry. ‘I hope you are none the worse for your exertions tonight?’

Mr. Timberry, in reply, shook his head with a gloomy air, tapped his
chest several times with great significancy, and drawing his cloak more
closely about him, said, ‘But no matter, no matter. Come!’

It is observable that when people upon the stage are in any strait
involving the very last extremity of weakness and exhaustion, they
invariably perform feats of strength requiring great ingenuity and
muscular power. Thus, a wounded prince or bandit chief, who is bleeding
to death and too faint to move, except to the softest music (and then
only upon his hands and knees), shall be seen to approach a cottage
door for aid in such a series of writhings and twistings, and with
such curlings up of the legs, and such rollings over and over, and such
gettings up and tumblings down again, as could never be achieved save
by a very strong man skilled in posture-making. And so natural did this
sort of performance come to Mr. Snittle Timberry, that on their way out
of the theatre and towards the tavern where the supper was to be holden,
he testified the severity of his recent indisposition and its wasting
effects upon the nervous system, by a series of gymnastic performances
which were the admiration of all witnesses.

‘Why this is indeed a joy I had not looked for!’ said Mrs. Crummles, when
Nicholas was presented.

‘Nor I,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It is by a mere chance that I have this
opportunity of seeing you, although I would have made a great exertion
to have availed myself of it.’

‘Here is one whom you know,’ said Mrs. Crummles, thrusting forward the
Phenomenon in a blue gauze frock, extensively flounced, and trousers
of the same; ‘and here another--and another,’ presenting the Master
Crummleses. ‘And how is your friend, the faithful Digby?’

‘Digby!’ said Nicholas, forgetting at the instant that this had been
Smike’s theatrical name. ‘Oh yes. He’s quite--what am I saying?--he is
very far from well.’

‘How!’ exclaimed Mrs. Crummles, with a tragic recoil.

‘I fear,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head, and making an attempt to
smile, ‘that your better-half would be more struck with him now than
ever.’

‘What mean you?’ rejoined Mrs. Crummles, in her most popular manner.
‘Whence comes this altered tone?’

‘I mean that a dastardly enemy of mine has struck at me through him, and
that while he thinks to torture me, he inflicts on him such agonies of
terror and suspense as--You will excuse me, I am sure,’ said Nicholas,
checking himself. ‘I should never speak of this, and never do, except to
those who know the facts, but for a moment I forgot myself.’

With this hasty apology Nicholas stooped down to salute the Phenomenon,
and changed the subject; inwardly cursing his precipitation, and very
much wondering what Mrs. Crummles must think of so sudden an explosion.

That lady seemed to think very little about it, for the supper being by
this time on table, she gave her hand to Nicholas and repaired with a
stately step to the left hand of Mr. Snittle Timberry. Nicholas had the
honour to support her, and Mr. Crummles was placed upon the chairman’s
right; the Phenomenon and the Master Crummleses sustained the vice.

The company amounted in number to some twenty-five or thirty, being
composed of such members of the theatrical profession, then engaged or
disengaged in London, as were numbered among the most intimate friends
of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles. The ladies and gentlemen were pretty equally
balanced; the expenses of the entertainment being defrayed by the
latter, each of whom had the privilege of inviting one of the former as
his guest.

It was upon the whole a very distinguished party, for independently of
the lesser theatrical lights who clustered on this occasion round
Mr. Snittle Timberry, there was a literary gentleman present who had
dramatised in his time two hundred and forty-seven novels as fast as
they had come out--some of them faster than they had come out--and who
WAS a literary gentleman in consequence.

This gentleman sat on the left hand of Nicholas, to whom he was
introduced by his friend the African Swallower, from the bottom of the
table, with a high eulogium upon his fame and reputation.

‘I am happy to know a gentleman of such great distinction,’ said
Nicholas, politely.

‘Sir,’ replied the wit, ‘you’re very welcome, I’m sure. The honour is
reciprocal, sir, as I usually say when I dramatise a book. Did you ever
hear a definition of fame, sir?’

‘I have heard several,’ replied Nicholas, with a smile. ‘What is yours?’

‘When I dramatise a book, sir,’ said the literary gentleman, ‘THAT’S
fame. For its author.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘That’s fame, sir,’ said the literary gentleman.

‘So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw have handed down to
fame the names of those on whom they committed their most impudent
robberies?’ said Nicholas.

‘I don’t know anything about that, sir,’ answered the literary
gentleman.

‘Shakespeare dramatised stories which had previously appeared in print,
it is true,’ observed Nicholas.

‘Meaning Bill, sir?’ said the literary gentleman. ‘So he did. Bill
was an adapter, certainly, so he was--and very well he adapted
too--considering.’

‘I was about to say,’ rejoined Nicholas, ‘that Shakespeare derived some
of his plots from old tales and legends in general circulation; but it
seems to me, that some of the gentlemen of your craft, at the present
day, have shot very far beyond him--’

‘You’re quite right, sir,’ interrupted the literary gentleman, leaning
back in his chair and exercising his toothpick. ‘Human intellect, sir,
has progressed since his time, is progressing, will progress.’

‘Shot beyond him, I mean,’ resumed Nicholas, ‘in quite another
respect, for, whereas he brought within the magic circle of his genius,
traditions peculiarly adapted for his purpose, and turned familiar
things into constellations which should enlighten the world for ages,
you drag within the magic circle of your dulness, subjects not at all
adapted to the purposes of the stage, and debase as he exalted. For
instance, you take the uncompleted books of living authors, fresh from
their hands, wet from the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the powers
and capacities of your actors, and the capability of your theatres,
finish unfinished works, hastily and crudely vamp up ideas not yet
worked out by their original projector, but which have doubtless cost
him many thoughtful days and sleepless nights; by a comparison of
incidents and dialogue, down to the very last word he may have written
a fortnight before, do your utmost to anticipate his plot--all this
without his permission, and against his will; and then, to crown the
whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, an unmeaning farrago of
garbled extracts from his work, to which your name as author, with the
honourable distinction annexed, of having perpetrated a hundred other
outrages of the same description. Now, show me the distinction between
such pilfering as this, and picking a man’s pocket in the street:
unless, indeed, it be, that the legislature has a regard for
pocket-handkerchiefs, and leaves men’s brains, except when they are
knocked out by violence, to take care of themselves.’

‘Men must live, sir,’ said the literary gentleman, shrugging his
shoulders.

‘That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,’ replied Nicholas;
‘but if you put it upon that ground, I have nothing more to say, than,
that if I were a writer of books, and you a thirsty dramatist, I would
rather pay your tavern score for six months, large as it might be, than
have a niche in the Temple of Fame with you for the humblest corner of
my pedestal, through six hundred generations.’

The conversation threatened to take a somewhat angry tone when it had
arrived thus far, but Mrs. Crummles opportunely interposed to prevent
its leading to any violent outbreak, by making some inquiries of the
literary gentleman relative to the plots of the six new pieces which he
had written by contract to introduce the African Knife-swallower in
his various unrivalled performances. This speedily engaged him in an
animated conversation with that lady, in the interest of which, all
recollection of his recent discussion with Nicholas very quickly
evaporated.

The board being now clear of the more substantial articles of food,
and punch, wine, and spirits being placed upon it and handed about, the
guests, who had been previously conversing in little groups of three
or four, gradually fell off into a dead silence, while the majority of
those present glanced from time to time at Mr. Snittle Timberry, and
the bolder spirits did not even hesitate to strike the table with their
knuckles, and plainly intimate their expectations, by uttering such
encouragements as ‘Now, Tim,’ ‘Wake up, Mr. Chairman,’ ‘All charged, sir,
and waiting for a toast,’ and so forth.

To these remonstrances Mr. Timberry deigned no other rejoinder than
striking his chest and gasping for breath, and giving many other
indications of being still the victim of indisposition--for a man
must not make himself too cheap either on the stage or off--while
Mr. Crummles, who knew full well that he would be the subject of the
forthcoming toast, sat gracefully in his chair with his arm thrown
carelessly over the back, and now and then lifted his glass to his mouth
and drank a little punch, with the same air with which he was accustomed
to take long draughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard goblets in
banquet scenes.

At length Mr. Snittle Timberry rose in the most approved attitude, with
one hand in the breast of his waistcoat and the other on the nearest
snuff-box, and having been received with great enthusiasm, proposed,
with abundance of quotations, his friend Mr. Vincent Crummles: ending a
pretty long speech by extending his right hand on one side and his left
on the other, and severally calling upon Mr. and Mrs. Crummles to grasp
the same. This done, Mr. Vincent Crummles returned thanks, and that done,
the African Swallower proposed Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in affecting terms.
Then were heard loud moans and sobs from Mrs. Crummles and the ladies,
despite of which that heroic woman insisted upon returning thanks
herself, which she did, in a manner and in a speech which has never been
surpassed and seldom equalled. It then became the duty of Mr. Snittle
Timberry to give the young Crummleses, which he did; after which
Mr. Vincent Crummles, as their father, addressed the company in a
supplementary speech, enlarging on their virtues, amiabilities, and
excellences, and wishing that they were the sons and daughter of every
lady and gentleman present. These solemnities having been succeeded by
a decent interval, enlivened by musical and other entertainments,
Mr. Crummles proposed that ornament of the profession, the African
Swallower, his very dear friend, if he would allow him to call him so;
which liberty (there being no particular reason why he should not allow
it) the African Swallower graciously permitted. The literary gentleman
was then about to be drunk, but it being discovered that he had been
drunk for some time in another acceptation of the term, and was then
asleep on the stairs, the intention was abandoned, and the honour
transferred to the ladies. Finally, after a very long sitting, Mr
Snittle Timberry vacated the chair, and the company with many adieux and
embraces dispersed.

Nicholas waited to the last to give his little presents. When he had
said goodbye all round and came to Mr. Crummles, he could not but mark
the difference between their present separation and their parting at
Portsmouth. Not a jot of his theatrical manner remained; he put out his
hand with an air which, if he could have summoned it at will, would have
made him the best actor of his day in homely parts, and when Nicholas
shook it with the warmth he honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.

‘We were a very happy little company, Johnson,’ said poor Crummles. ‘You
and I never had a word. I shall be very glad tomorrow morning to think
that I saw you again, but now I almost wish you hadn’t come.’

Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply, when he was greatly
disconcerted by the sudden apparition of Mrs. Grudden, who it seemed had
declined to attend the supper in order that she might rise earlier in
the morning, and who now burst out of an adjoining bedroom, habited in
very extraordinary white robes; and throwing her arms about his neck,
hugged him with great affection.

‘What! Are you going too?’ said Nicholas, submitting with as good a
grace as if she had been the finest young creature in the world.

‘Going?’ returned Mrs. Grudden. ‘Lord ha’ mercy, what do you think they’d
do without me?’

Nicholas submitted to another hug with even a better grace than before,
if that were possible, and waving his hat as cheerfully as he could,
took farewell of the Vincent Crummleses.



CHAPTER 49

Chronicles the further Proceedings of the Nickleby Family, and the
Sequel of the Adventure of the Gentleman in the Small-clothes


While Nicholas, absorbed in the one engrossing subject of interest which
had recently opened upon him, occupied his leisure hours with thoughts
of Madeline Bray, and in execution of the commissions which the anxiety
of brother Charles in her behalf imposed upon him, saw her again and
again, and each time with greater danger to his peace of mind and a more
weakening effect upon the lofty resolutions he had formed, Mrs. Nickleby
and Kate continued to live in peace and quiet, agitated by no other
cares than those which were connected with certain harassing proceedings
taken by Mr. Snawley for the recovery of his son, and their anxiety for
Smike himself, whose health, long upon the wane, began to be so much
affected by apprehension and uncertainty as sometimes to occasion both
them and Nicholas considerable uneasiness, and even alarm.

It was no complaint or murmur on the part of the poor fellow himself
that thus disturbed them. Ever eager to be employed in such slight
services as he could render, and always anxious to repay his benefactors
with cheerful and happy looks, less friendly eyes might have seen in him
no cause for any misgiving. But there were times, and often too, when
the sunken eye was too bright, the hollow cheek too flushed, the breath
too thick and heavy in its course, the frame too feeble and exhausted,
to escape their regard and notice.

There is a dread disease which so prepares its victim, as it were, for
death; which so refines it of its grosser aspect, and throws around
familiar looks unearthly indications of the coming change; a dread
disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is so gradual,
quiet, and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day, and grain by
grain, the mortal part wastes and withers away, so that the spirit grows
light and sanguine with its lightening load, and, feeling immortality at
hand, deems it but a new term of mortal life; a disease in which death
and life are so strangely blended, that death takes the glow and hue
of life, and life the gaunt and grisly form of death; a disease which
medicine never cured, wealth never warded off, or poverty could boast
exemption from; which sometimes moves in giant strides, and sometimes at
a tardy sluggish pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure and certain.

It was with some faint reference in his own mind to this disorder,
though he would by no means admit it, even to himself, that Nicholas had
already carried his faithful companion to a physician of great repute.
There was no cause for immediate alarm, he said. There were no present
symptoms which could be deemed conclusive. The constitution had been
greatly tried and injured in childhood, but still it MIGHT not be--and
that was all.

But he seemed to grow no worse, and, as it was not difficult to find a
reason for these symptoms of illness in the shock and agitation he had
recently undergone, Nicholas comforted himself with the hope that his
poor friend would soon recover. This hope his mother and sister shared
with him; and as the object of their joint solicitude seemed to have
no uneasiness or despondency for himself, but each day answered with a
quiet smile that he felt better than he had upon the day before, their
fears abated, and the general happiness was by degrees restored.

Many and many a time in after years did Nicholas look back to this
period of his life, and tread again the humble quiet homely scenes that
rose up as of old before him. Many and many a time, in the twilight of a
summer evening, or beside the flickering winter’s fire--but not so often
or so sadly then--would his thoughts wander back to these old days, and
dwell with a pleasant sorrow upon every slight remembrance which they
brought crowding home. The little room in which they had so often sat
long after it was dark, figuring such happy futures; Kate’s cheerful
voice and merry laugh; how, if she were from home, they used to sit and
watch for her return scarcely breaking silence but to say how dull it
seemed without her; the glee with which poor Smike would start from the
darkened corner where he used to sit, and hurry to admit her, and the
tears they often saw upon his face, half wondering to see them too, and
he so pleased and happy; every little incident, and even slight words
and looks of those old days little heeded then, but well remembered when
busy cares and trials were quite forgotten, came fresh and thick before
him many and many a time, and, rustling above the dusty growth of years,
came back green boughs of yesterday.

But there were other persons associated with these recollections, and
many changes came about before they had being. A necessary reflection
for the purposes of these adventures, which at once subside into their
accustomed train, and shunning all flighty anticipations or wayward
wanderings, pursue their steady and decorous course.

If the brothers Cheeryble, as they found Nicholas worthy of trust and
confidence, bestowed upon him every day some new and substantial mark
of kindness, they were not less mindful of those who depended on him.
Various little presents to Mrs. Nickleby, always of the very things
they most required, tended in no slight degree to the improvement and
embellishment of the cottage. Kate’s little store of trinkets became
quite dazzling; and for company! If brother Charles and brother Ned
failed to look in for at least a few minutes every Sunday, or one
evening in the week, there was Mr. Tim Linkinwater (who had never made
half-a-dozen other acquaintances in all his life, and who took such
delight in his new friends as no words can express) constantly coming
and going in his evening walks, and stopping to rest; while Mr. Frank
Cheeryble happened, by some strange conjunction of circumstances, to be
passing the door on some business or other at least three nights in the
week.

‘He is the most attentive young man I ever saw, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby
to her daughter one evening, when this last-named gentleman had been the
subject of the worthy lady’s eulogium for some time, and Kate had sat
perfectly silent.

‘Attentive, mama!’ rejoined Kate.

‘Bless my heart, Kate!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, with her wonted suddenness,
‘what a colour you have got; why, you’re quite flushed!’

‘Oh, mama! what strange things you fancy!’

‘It wasn’t fancy, Kate, my dear, I’m certain of that,’ returned her
mother. ‘However, it’s gone now at any rate, so it don’t much matter
whether it was or not. What was it we were talking about? Oh! Mr. Frank.
I never saw such attention in MY life, never.’

‘Surely you are not serious,’ returned Kate, colouring again; and this
time beyond all dispute.

‘Not serious!’ returned Mrs. Nickleby; ‘why shouldn’t I be serious?
I’m sure I never was more serious. I will say that his politeness and
attention to me is one of the most becoming, gratifying, pleasant
things I have seen for a very long time. You don’t often meet with such
behaviour in young men, and it strikes one more when one does meet with
it.’

‘Oh! attention to YOU, mama,’ rejoined Kate quickly--‘oh yes.’

‘Dear me, Kate,’ retorted Mrs. Nickleby, ‘what an extraordinary girl you
are! Was it likely I should be talking of his attention to anybody else?
I declare I’m quite sorry to think he should be in love with a German
lady, that I am.’

‘He said very positively that it was no such thing, mama,’ returned
Kate. ‘Don’t you remember his saying so that very first night he came
here? Besides,’ she added, in a more gentle tone, ‘why should WE be
sorry if it is the case? What is it to us, mama?’

‘Nothing to US, Kate, perhaps,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, emphatically; ‘but
something to ME, I confess. I like English people to be thorough English
people, and not half English and half I don’t know what. I shall tell
him point-blank next time he comes, that I wish he would marry one of
his own country-women; and see what he says to that.’

‘Pray don’t think of such a thing, mama,’ returned Kate, hastily; ‘not
for the world. Consider. How very--’

‘Well, my dear, how very what?’ said Mrs. Nickleby, opening her eyes in
great astonishment.

Before Kate had returned any reply, a queer little double knock
announced that Miss La Creevy had called to see them; and when Miss La
Creevy presented herself, Mrs. Nickleby, though strongly disposed to be
argumentative on the previous question, forgot all about it in a gush
of supposes about the coach she had come by; supposing that the man who
drove must have been either the man in the shirt-sleeves or the man with
the black eye; that whoever he was, he hadn’t found that parasol she
left inside last week; that no doubt they had stopped a long while at
the Halfway House, coming down; or that perhaps being full, they had
come straight on; and, lastly, that they, surely, must have passed
Nicholas on the road.

‘I saw nothing of him,’ answered Miss La Creevy; ‘but I saw that dear
old soul Mr. Linkinwater.’

‘Taking his evening walk, and coming on to rest here, before he turns
back to the city, I’ll be bound!’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘I should think he was,’ returned Miss La Creevy; ‘especially as young
Mr. Cheeryble was with him.’

‘Surely that is no reason why Mr. Linkinwater should be coming here,’
said Kate.

‘Why I think it is, my dear,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘For a young man, Mr
Frank is not a very great walker; and I observe that he generally falls
tired, and requires a good long rest, when he has come as far as this.
But where is my friend?’ said the little woman, looking about, after
having glanced slyly at Kate. ‘He has not been run away with again, has
he?’

‘Ah! where is Mr. Smike?’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘he was here this instant.’

Upon further inquiry, it turned out, to the good lady’s unbounded
astonishment, that Smike had, that moment, gone upstairs to bed.

‘Well now,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘he is the strangest creature! Last
Tuesday--was it Tuesday? Yes, to be sure it was; you recollect, Kate, my
dear, the very last time young Mr. Cheeryble was here--last Tuesday night
he went off in just the same strange way, at the very moment the knock
came to the door. It cannot be that he don’t like company, because he is
always fond of people who are fond of Nicholas, and I am sure young Mr
Cheeryble is. And the strangest thing is, that he does not go to bed;
therefore it cannot be because he is tired. I know he doesn’t go to bed,
because my room is the next one, and when I went upstairs last Tuesday,
hours after him, I found that he had not even taken his shoes off; and
he had no candle, so he must have sat moping in the dark all the time.
Now, upon my word,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘when I come to think of it,
that’s very extraordinary!’

As the hearers did not echo this sentiment, but remained profoundly
silent, either as not knowing what to say, or as being unwilling to
interrupt, Mrs. Nickleby pursued the thread of her discourse after her
own fashion.

‘I hope,’ said that lady, ‘that this unaccountable conduct may not be
the beginning of his taking to his bed and living there all his life,
like the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury, or the Cock-lane Ghost, or some of
those extraordinary creatures. One of them had some connection with
our family. I forget, without looking back to some old letters I have
upstairs, whether it was my great-grandfather who went to school with
the Cock-lane Ghost, or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury who went to school
with my grandmother. Miss La Creevy, you know, of course. Which was it
that didn’t mind what the clergyman said? The Cock-lane Ghost or the
Thirsty Woman of Tutbury?’

‘The Cock-lane Ghost, I believe.’

‘Then I have no doubt,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that it was with him my
great-grandfather went to school; for I know the master of his school
was a dissenter, and that would, in a great measure, account for the
Cock-lane Ghost’s behaving in such an improper manner to the clergyman
when he grew up. Ah! Train up a Ghost--child, I mean--’

Any further reflections on this fruitful theme were abruptly cut short
by the arrival of Tim Linkinwater and Mr. Frank Cheeryble; in the hurry
of receiving whom, Mrs. Nickleby speedily lost sight of everything else.

‘I am so sorry Nicholas is not at home,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Kate, my
dear, you must be both Nicholas and yourself.’

‘Miss Nickleby need be but herself,’ said Frank. ‘I--if I may venture to
say so--oppose all change in her.’

‘Then at all events she shall press you to stay,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby.
‘Mr. Linkinwater says ten minutes, but I cannot let you go so soon;
Nicholas would be very much vexed, I am sure. Kate, my dear!’

In obedience to a great number of nods, and winks, and frowns of extra
significance, Kate added her entreaties that the visitors would remain;
but it was observable that she addressed them exclusively to Tim
Linkinwater; and there was, besides, a certain embarrassment in her
manner, which, although it was as far from impairing its graceful
character as the tinge it communicated to her cheek was from diminishing
her beauty, was obvious at a glance even to Mrs. Nickleby. Not being of
a very speculative character, however, save under circumstances when her
speculations could be put into words and uttered aloud, that discreet
matron attributed the emotion to the circumstance of her daughter’s
not happening to have her best frock on: ‘though I never saw her look
better, certainly,’ she reflected at the same time. Having settled the
question in this way, and being most complacently satisfied that in
this, and in all other instances, her conjecture could not fail to be
the right one, Mrs. Nickleby dismissed it from her thoughts, and inwardly
congratulated herself on being so shrewd and knowing.

Nicholas did not come home nor did Smike reappear; but neither
circumstance, to say the truth, had any great effect upon the little
party, who were all in the best humour possible. Indeed, there sprung up
quite a flirtation between Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater, who said
a thousand jocose and facetious things, and became, by degrees, quite
gallant, not to say tender. Little Miss La Creevy, on her part, was in
high spirits, and rallied Tim on having remained a bachelor all his life
with so much success, that Tim was actually induced to declare, that
if he could get anybody to have him, he didn’t know but what he might
change his condition even yet. Miss La Creevy earnestly recommended a
lady she knew, who would exactly suit Mr. Linkinwater, and had a very
comfortable property of her own; but this latter qualification had very
little effect upon Tim, who manfully protested that fortune would be
no object with him, but that true worth and cheerfulness of disposition
were what a man should look for in a wife, and that if he had these, he
could find money enough for the moderate wants of both. This avowal was
considered so honourable to Tim, that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor Miss La
Creevy could sufficiently extol it; and stimulated by their praises,
Tim launched out into several other declarations also manifesting the
disinterestedness of his heart, and a great devotion to the fair sex:
which were received with no less approbation. This was done and said
with a comical mixture of jest and earnest, and, leading to a great
amount of laughter, made them very merry indeed.

Kate was commonly the life and soul of the conversation at home; but she
was more silent than usual upon this occasion (perhaps because Tim and
Miss La Creevy engrossed so much of it), and, keeping aloof from the
talkers, sat at the window watching the shadows as the evening closed
in, and enjoying the quiet beauty of the night, which seemed to have
scarcely less attractions to Frank, who first lingered near, and then
sat down beside, her. No doubt, there are a great many things to be said
appropriate to a summer evening, and no doubt they are best said in a
low voice, as being most suitable to the peace and serenity of the hour;
long pauses, too, at times, and then an earnest word or so, and then
another interval of silence which, somehow, does not seem like silence
either, and perhaps now and then a hasty turning away of the head, or
drooping of the eyes towards the ground, all these minor circumstances,
with a disinclination to have candles introduced and a tendency to
confuse hours with minutes, are doubtless mere influences of the time,
as many lovely lips can clearly testify. Neither is there the slightest
reason why Mrs. Nickleby should have expressed surprise when, candles
being at length brought in, Kate’s bright eyes were unable to bear the
light which obliged her to avert her face, and even to leave the room
for some short time; because, when one has sat in the dark so long,
candles ARE dazzling, and nothing can be more strictly natural than that
such results should be produced, as all well-informed young people know.
For that matter, old people know it too, or did know it once, but they
forget these things sometimes, and more’s the pity.

The good lady’s surprise, however, did not end here. It was greatly
increased when it was discovered that Kate had not the least appetite
for supper: a discovery so alarming that there is no knowing in what
unaccountable efforts of oratory Mrs. Nickleby’s apprehensions might have
been vented, if the general attention had not been attracted, at the
moment, by a very strange and uncommon noise, proceeding, as the pale
and trembling servant girl affirmed, and as everybody’s sense of hearing
seemed to affirm also, ‘right down’ the chimney of the adjoining room.

It being quite plain to the comprehension of all present that, however
extraordinary and improbable it might appear, the noise did nevertheless
proceed from the chimney in question; and the noise (which was a strange
compound of various shuffling, sliding, rumbling, and struggling sounds,
all muffled by the chimney) still continuing, Frank Cheeryble caught
up a candle, and Tim Linkinwater the tongs, and they would have very
quickly ascertained the cause of this disturbance if Mrs. Nickleby
had not been taken very faint, and declined being left behind, on any
account. This produced a short remonstrance, which terminated in their
all proceeding to the troubled chamber in a body, excepting only Miss La
Creevy, who, as the servant girl volunteered a confession of having been
subject to fits in her infancy, remained with her to give the alarm and
apply restoratives, in case of extremity.

Advancing to the door of the mysterious apartment, they were not
a little surprised to hear a human voice, chanting with a highly
elaborated expression of melancholy, and in tones of suffocation which
a human voice might have produced from under five or six feather-beds
of the best quality, the once popular air of ‘Has she then failed in
her truth, the beautiful maid I adore?’ Nor, on bursting into the room
without demanding a parley, was their astonishment lessened by the
discovery that these romantic sounds certainly proceeded from the throat
of some man up the chimney, of whom nothing was visible but a pair of
legs, which were dangling above the grate; apparently feeling, with
extreme anxiety, for the top bar whereon to effect a landing.

A sight so unusual and unbusiness-like as this, completely paralysed
Tim Linkinwater, who, after one or two gentle pinches at the stranger’s
ankles, which were productive of no effect, stood clapping the tongs
together, as if he were sharpening them for another assault, and did
nothing else.

‘This must be some drunken fellow,’ said Frank. ‘No thief would announce
his presence thus.’

As he said this, with great indignation, he raised the candle to obtain
a better view of the legs, and was darting forward to pull them down
with very little ceremony, when Mrs. Nickleby, clasping her hands,
uttered a sharp sound, something between a scream and an exclamation,
and demanded to know whether the mysterious limbs were not clad in
small-clothes and grey worsted stockings, or whether her eyes had
deceived her.

‘Yes,’ cried Frank, looking a little closer. ‘Small-clothes certainly,
and--and--rough grey stockings, too. Do you know him, ma’am?’

‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, deliberately sitting herself down
in a chair with that sort of desperate resignation which seemed to imply
that now matters had come to a crisis, and all disguise was useless,
‘you will have the goodness, my love, to explain precisely how this
matter stands. I have given him no encouragement--none whatever--not the
least in the world. You know that, my dear, perfectly well. He was very
respectful, exceedingly respectful, when he declared, as you were a
witness to; still at the same time, if I am to be persecuted in this
way, if vegetable what’s-his-names and all kinds of garden-stuff are
to strew my path out of doors, and gentlemen are to come choking up our
chimneys at home, I really don’t know--upon my word I do NOT know--what
is to become of me. It’s a very hard case--harder than anything I was
ever exposed to, before I married your poor dear papa, though I suffered
a good deal of annoyance then--but that, of course, I expected, and made
up my mind for. When I was not nearly so old as you, my dear, there
was a young gentleman who sat next us at church, who used, almost every
Sunday, to cut my name in large letters in the front of his pew while
the sermon was going on. It was gratifying, of course, naturally so,
but still it was an annoyance, because the pew was in a very conspicuous
place, and he was several times publicly taken out by the beadle for
doing it. But that was nothing to this. This is a great deal worse, and
a great deal more embarrassing. I would rather, Kate, my dear,’ said
Mrs. Nickleby, with great solemnity, and an effusion of tears: ‘I would
rather, I declare, have been a pig-faced lady, than be exposed to such a
life as this!’

Frank Cheeryble and Tim Linkinwater looked, in irrepressible
astonishment, first at each other and then at Kate, who felt that some
explanation was necessary, but who, between her terror at the apparition
of the legs, her fear lest their owner should be smothered, and her
anxiety to give the least ridiculous solution of the mystery that it was
capable of bearing, was quite unable to utter a single word.

‘He gives me great pain,’ continued Mrs. Nickleby, drying her eyes,
‘great pain; but don’t hurt a hair of his head, I beg. On no account
hurt a hair of his head.’

It would not, under existing circumstances, have been quite so easy to
hurt a hair of the gentleman’s head as Mrs. Nickleby seemed to imagine,
inasmuch as that part of his person was some feet up the chimney, which
was by no means a wide one. But, as all this time he had never left off
singing about the bankruptcy of the beautiful maid in respect of truth,
and now began not only to croak very feebly, but to kick with great
violence as if respiration became a task of difficulty, Frank Cheeryble,
without further hesitation, pulled at the shorts and worsteds with
such heartiness as to bring him floundering into the room with greater
precipitation than he had quite calculated upon.

‘Oh! yes, yes,’ said Kate, directly the whole figure of this singular
visitor appeared in this abrupt manner. ‘I know who it is. Pray don’t be
rough with him. Is he hurt? I hope not. Oh, pray see if he is hurt.’

‘He is not, I assure you,’ replied Frank, handling the object of his
surprise, after this appeal, with sudden tenderness and respect. ‘He is
not hurt in the least.’

‘Don’t let him come any nearer,’ said Kate, retiring as far as she
could.

‘Oh, no, he shall not,’ rejoined Frank. ‘You see I have him secure here.
But may I ask you what this means, and whether you expected this old
gentleman?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Kate, ‘of course not; but he--mama does not think so, I
believe--but he is a mad gentleman who has escaped from the next house,
and must have found an opportunity of secreting himself here.’

‘Kate,’ interposed Mrs. Nickleby with severe dignity, ‘I am surprised at
you.’

‘Dear mama,’ Kate gently remonstrated.

‘I am surprised at you,’ repeated Mrs. Nickleby; ‘upon my word, Kate,
I am quite astonished that you should join the persecutors of this
unfortunate gentleman, when you know very well that they have the basest
designs upon his property, and that that is the whole secret of it. It
would be much kinder of you, Kate, to ask Mr. Linkinwater or Mr. Cheeryble
to interfere in his behalf, and see him righted. You ought not to allow
your feelings to influence you; it’s not right, very far from it. What
should my feelings be, do you suppose? If anybody ought to be indignant,
who is it? I, of course, and very properly so. Still, at the same time,
I wouldn’t commit such an injustice for the world. No,’ continued Mrs
Nickleby, drawing herself up, and looking another way with a kind of
bashful stateliness; ‘this gentleman will understand me when I tell him
that I repeat the answer I gave him the other day; that I always will
repeat it, though I do believe him to be sincere when I find him placing
himself in such dreadful situations on my account; and that I request
him to have the goodness to go away directly, or it will be impossible
to keep his behaviour a secret from my son Nicholas. I am obliged to
him, very much obliged to him, but I cannot listen to his addresses for
a moment. It’s quite impossible.’

While this address was in course of delivery, the old gentleman, with
his nose and cheeks embellished with large patches of soot, sat upon the
ground with his arms folded, eyeing the spectators in profound silence,
and with a very majestic demeanour. He did not appear to take the
smallest notice of what Mrs. Nickleby said, but when she ceased to
speak he honoured her with a long stare, and inquired if she had quite
finished.

‘I have nothing more to say,’ replied that lady modestly. ‘I really
cannot say anything more.’

‘Very good,’ said the old gentleman, raising his voice, ‘then bring in
the bottled lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.’

Nobody executing this order, the old gentleman, after a short pause,
raised his voice again and demanded a thunder sandwich. This article not
being forthcoming either, he requested to be served with a fricassee of
boot-tops and goldfish sauce, and then laughing heartily, gratified his
hearers with a very long, very loud, and most melodious bellow.

But still Mrs. Nickleby, in reply to the significant looks of all about
her, shook her head as though to assure them that she saw nothing
whatever in all this, unless, indeed, it were a slight degree of
eccentricity. She might have remained impressed with these opinions
down to the latest moment of her life, but for a slight train of
circumstances, which, trivial as they were, altered the whole complexion
of the case.

It happened that Miss La Creevy, finding her patient in no very
threatening condition, and being strongly impelled by curiosity to see
what was going forward, bustled into the room while the old gentleman
was in the very act of bellowing. It happened, too, that the instant the
old gentleman saw her, he stopped short, skipped suddenly on his feet,
and fell to kissing his hand violently: a change of demeanour which
almost terrified the little portrait painter out of her senses, and
caused her to retreat behind Tim Linkinwater with the utmost expedition.

‘Aha!’ cried the old gentleman, folding his hands, and squeezing them
with great force against each other. ‘I see her now; I see her now! My
love, my life, my bride, my peerless beauty. She is come at last--at
last--and all is gas and gaiters!’

Mrs. Nickleby looked rather disconcerted for a moment, but immediately
recovering, nodded to Miss La Creevy and the other spectators several
times, and frowned, and smiled gravely, giving them to understand that
she saw where the mistake was, and would set it all to rights in a
minute or two.

‘She is come!’ said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his heart.
‘Cormoran and Blunderbore! She is come! All the wealth I have is hers
if she will take me for her slave. Where are grace, beauty, and
blandishments, like those? In the Empress of Madagascar? No. In the
Queen of Diamonds? No. In Mrs. Rowland, who every morning bathes in
Kalydor for nothing? No. Melt all these down into one, with the three
Graces, the nine Muses, and fourteen biscuit-bakers’ daughters from
Oxford Street, and make a woman half as lovely. Pho! I defy you.’

After uttering this rhapsody, the old gentleman snapped his fingers
twenty or thirty times, and then subsided into an ecstatic contemplation
of Miss La Creevy’s charms. This affording Mrs. Nickleby a favourable
opportunity of explanation, she went about it straight.

‘I am sure,’ said the worthy lady, with a prefatory cough, ‘that it’s a
great relief, under such trying circumstances as these, to have anybody
else mistaken for me--a very great relief; and it’s a circumstance that
never occurred before, although I have several times been mistaken for
my daughter Kate. I have no doubt the people were very foolish, and
perhaps ought to have known better, but still they did take me for
her, and of course that was no fault of mine, and it would be very
hard indeed if I was to be made responsible for it. However, in this
instance, of course, I must feel that I should do exceedingly wrong if
I suffered anybody--especially anybody that I am under great obligations
to--to be made uncomfortable on my account. And therefore I think it my
duty to tell that gentleman that he is mistaken, that I am the lady
who he was told by some impertinent person was niece to the Council of
Paving-stones, and that I do beg and entreat of him to go quietly away,
if it’s only for,’ here Mrs. Nickleby simpered and hesitated, ‘for MY
sake.’

It might have been expected that the old gentleman would have been
penetrated to the heart by the delicacy and condescension of this
appeal, and that he would at least have returned a courteous and
suitable reply. What, then, was the shock which Mrs. Nickleby received,
when, accosting HER in the most unmistakable manner, he replied in a
loud and sonourous voice: ‘Avaunt! Cat!’

‘Sir!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, in a faint tone.

‘Cat!’ repeated the old gentleman. ‘Puss, Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby,
Brindle! Whoosh!’ with which last sound, uttered in a hissing manner
between his teeth, the old gentleman swung his arms violently round and
round, and at the same time alternately advanced on Mrs. Nickleby, and
retreated from her, in that species of savage dance with which boys on
market-days may be seen to frighten pigs, sheep, and other animals, when
they give out obstinate indications of turning down a wrong street.

Mrs. Nickleby wasted no words, but uttered an exclamation of horror and
surprise, and immediately fainted away.

‘I’ll attend to mama,’ said Kate, hastily; ‘I am not at all frightened.
But pray take him away: pray take him away!’

Frank was not at all confident of his power of complying with this
request, until he bethought himself of the stratagem of sending Miss La
Creevy on a few paces in advance, and urging the old gentleman to
follow her. It succeeded to a miracle; and he went away in a rapture of
admiration, strongly guarded by Tim Linkinwater on one side, and Frank
himself on the other.

‘Kate,’ murmured Mrs. Nickleby, reviving when the coast was clear, ‘is he
gone?’

She was assured that he was.

‘I shall never forgive myself, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘Never! That
gentleman has lost his senses, and I am the unhappy cause.’

‘YOU the cause!’ said Kate, greatly astonished.

‘I, my love,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, with a desperate calmness. ‘You saw
what he was the other day; you see what he is now. I told your brother,
weeks and weeks ago, Kate, that I hoped a disappointment might not be
too much for him. You see what a wreck he is. Making allowance for
his being a little flighty, you know how rationally, and sensibly, and
honourably he talked, when we saw him in the garden. You have heard the
dreadful nonsense he has been guilty of this night, and the manner in
which he has gone on with that poor unfortunate little old maid. Can
anybody doubt how all this has been brought about?’

‘I should scarcely think they could,’ said Kate mildly.

‘I should scarcely think so, either,’ rejoined her mother. ‘Well! if
I am the unfortunate cause of this, I have the satisfaction of knowing
that I am not to blame. I told Nicholas, I said to him, “Nicholas, my
dear, we should be very careful how we proceed.” He would scarcely hear
me. If the matter had only been properly taken up at first, as I wished
it to be! But you are both of you so like your poor papa. However, I
have MY consolation, and that should be enough for me!’

Washing her hands, thus, of all responsibility under this head, past,
present, or to come, Mrs. Nickleby kindly added that she hoped her
children might never have greater cause to reproach themselves than she
had, and prepared herself to receive the escort, who soon returned with
the intelligence that the old gentleman was safely housed, and that
they found his custodians, who had been making merry with some friends,
wholly ignorant of his absence.

Quiet being again restored, a delicious half-hour--so Frank called it,
in the course of subsequent conversation with Tim Linkinwater as they
were walking home--was spent in conversation, and Tim’s watch at length
apprising him that it was high time to depart, the ladies were left
alone, though not without many offers on the part of Frank to remain
until Nicholas arrived, no matter what hour of the night it might be,
if, after the late neighbourly irruption, they entertained the least
fear of being left to themselves. As their freedom from all further
apprehension, however, left no pretext for his insisting on mounting
guard, he was obliged to abandon the citadel, and to retire with the
trusty Tim.

Nearly three hours of silence passed away. Kate blushed to find, when
Nicholas returned, how long she had been sitting alone, occupied with
her own thoughts.

‘I really thought it had not been half an hour,’ she said.

‘They must have been pleasant thoughts, Kate,’ rejoined Nicholas gaily,
‘to make time pass away like that. What were they now?’

Kate was confused; she toyed with some trifle on the table, looked up
and smiled, looked down and dropped a tear.

‘Why, Kate,’ said Nicholas, drawing his sister towards him and kissing
her, ‘let me see your face. No? Ah! that was but a glimpse; that’s
scarcely fair. A longer look than that, Kate. Come--and I’ll read your
thoughts for you.’

There was something in this proposition, albeit it was said without the
slightest consciousness or application, which so alarmed his sister,
that Nicholas laughingly changed the subject to domestic matters, and
thus gathered, by degrees, as they left the room and went upstairs
together, how lonely Smike had been all night--and by very slow
degrees, too; for on this subject also, Kate seemed to speak with some
reluctance.

‘Poor fellow,’ said Nicholas, tapping gently at his door, ‘what can be
the cause of all this?’

Kate was hanging on her brother’s arm. The door being quickly opened,
she had not time to disengage herself, before Smike, very pale and
haggard, and completely dressed, confronted them.

‘And have you not been to bed?’ said Nicholas.

‘N--n--no,’ was the reply.

Nicholas gently detained his sister, who made an effort to retire; and
asked, ‘Why not?’

‘I could not sleep,’ said Smike, grasping the hand which his friend
extended to him.

‘You are not well?’ rejoined Nicholas.

‘I am better, indeed. A great deal better,’ said Smike quickly.

‘Then why do you give way to these fits of melancholy?’ inquired
Nicholas, in his kindest manner; ‘or why not tell us the cause? You grow
a different creature, Smike.’

‘I do; I know I do,’ he replied. ‘I will tell you the reason one day,
but not now. I hate myself for this; you are all so good and kind. But I
cannot help it. My heart is very full; you do not know how full it is.’

He wrung Nicholas’s hand before he released it; and glancing, for a
moment, at the brother and sister as they stood together, as if there
were something in their strong affection which touched him very deeply,
withdrew into his chamber, and was soon the only watcher under that
quiet roof.



CHAPTER 50

Involves a serious Catastrophe


The little race-course at Hampton was in the full tide and height of
its gaiety; the day as dazzling as day could be; the sun high in the
cloudless sky, and shining in its fullest splendour. Every gaudy colour
that fluttered in the air from carriage seat and garish tent top, shone
out in its gaudiest hues. Old dingy flags grew new again, faded gilding
was re-burnished, stained rotten canvas looked a snowy white, the very
beggars’ rags were freshened up, and sentiment quite forgot its charity
in its fervent admiration of poverty so picturesque.

It was one of those scenes of life and animation, caught in its very
brightest and freshest moments, which can scarcely fail to please;
for if the eye be tired of show and glare, or the ear be weary with a
ceaseless round of noise, the one may repose, turn almost where it
will, on eager, happy, and expectant faces, and the other deaden
all consciousness of more annoying sounds in those of mirth and
exhilaration. Even the sunburnt faces of gypsy children, half naked
though they be, suggest a drop of comfort. It is a pleasant thing to see
that the sun has been there; to know that the air and light are on them
every day; to feel that they ARE children, and lead children’s lives;
that if their pillows be damp, it is with the dews of Heaven, and not
with tears; that the limbs of their girls are free, and that they are
not crippled by distortions, imposing an unnatural and horrible penance
upon their sex; that their lives are spent, from day to day, at least
among the waving trees, and not in the midst of dreadful engines which
make young children old before they know what childhood is, and give
them the exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like age, the
privilege to die. God send that old nursery tales were true, and that
gypsies stole such children by the score!

The great race of the day had just been run; and the close lines of
people, on either side of the course, suddenly breaking up and pouring
into it, imparted a new liveliness to the scene, which was again all
busy movement. Some hurried eagerly to catch a glimpse of the winning
horse; others darted to and fro, searching, no less eagerly, for the
carriages they had left in quest of better stations. Here, a little knot
gathered round a pea and thimble table to watch the plucking of some
unhappy greenhorn; and there, another proprietor with his confederates
in various disguises--one man in spectacles; another, with an eyeglass
and a stylish hat; a third, dressed as a farmer well to do in the world,
with his top-coat over his arm and his flash notes in a large leathern
pocket-book; and all with heavy-handled whips to represent most innocent
country fellows who had trotted there on horseback--sought, by loud and
noisy talk and pretended play, to entrap some unwary customer, while the
gentlemen confederates (of more villainous aspect still, in clean linen
and good clothes), betrayed their close interest in the concern by
the anxious furtive glance they cast on all new comers. These would be
hanging on the outskirts of a wide circle of people assembled round some
itinerant juggler, opposed, in his turn, by a noisy band of music,
or the classic game of ‘Ring the Bull,’ while ventriloquists holding
dialogues with wooden dolls, and fortune-telling women smothering the
cries of real babies, divided with them, and many more, the general
attention of the company. Drinking-tents were full, glasses began to
clink in carriages, hampers to be unpacked, tempting provisions to be
set forth, knives and forks to rattle, champagne corks to fly, eyes to
brighten that were not dull before, and pickpockets to count their gains
during the last heat. The attention so recently strained on one object
of interest, was now divided among a hundred; and look where you would,
there was a motley assemblage of feasting, laughing, talking, begging,
gambling, and mummery.

Of the gambling-booths there was a plentiful show, flourishing in all
the splendour of carpeted ground, striped hangings, crimson cloth,
pinnacled roofs, geranium pots, and livery servants. There were the
Stranger’s club-house, the Athenaeum club-house, the Hampton club-house,
the St James’s club-house, and half a mile of club-houses to play IN;
and there were ROUGE-ET-NOIR, French hazard, and other games to play AT.
It is into one of these booths that our story takes its way.

Fitted up with three tables for the purposes of play, and crowded with
players and lookers on, it was, although the largest place of the kind
upon the course, intensely hot, notwithstanding that a portion of the
canvas roof was rolled back to admit more air, and there were two doors
for a free passage in and out. Excepting one or two men who, each with a
long roll of half-crowns, chequered with a few stray sovereigns, in
his left hand, staked their money at every roll of the ball with a
business-like sedateness which showed that they were used to it, and had
been playing all day, and most probably all the day before, there was
no very distinctive character about the players, who were chiefly young
men, apparently attracted by curiosity, or staking small sums as part
of the amusement of the day, with no very great interest in winning or
losing. There were two persons present, however, who, as peculiarly good
specimens of a class, deserve a passing notice.

Of these, one was a man of six or eight and fifty, who sat on a chair
near one of the entrances of the booth, with his hands folded on the
top of his stick, and his chin appearing above them. He was a tall, fat,
long-bodied man, buttoned up to the throat in a light green coat, which
made his body look still longer than it was. He wore, besides, drab
breeches and gaiters, a white neckerchief, and a broad-brimmed white
hat. Amid all the buzzing noise of the games, and the perpetual passing
in and out of the people, he seemed perfectly calm and abstracted,
without the smallest particle of excitement in his composition. He
exhibited no indication of weariness, nor, to a casual observer, of
interest either. There he sat, quite still and collected. Sometimes, but
very rarely, he nodded to some passing face, or beckoned to a waiter to
obey a call from one of the tables. The next instant he subsided into
his old state. He might have been some profoundly deaf old gentleman,
who had come in to take a rest, or he might have been patiently waiting
for a friend, without the least consciousness of anybody’s presence, or
fixed in a trance, or under the influence of opium. People turned round
and looked at him; he made no gesture, caught nobody’s eye, let them
pass away, and others come on and be succeeded by others, and took no
notice. When he did move, it seemed wonderful how he could have seen
anything to occasion it. And so, in truth, it was. But there was not a
face that passed in or out, which this man failed to see; not a gesture
at any one of the three tables that was lost upon him; not a word,
spoken by the bankers, but reached his ear; not a winner or loser he
could not have marked. And he was the proprietor of the place.

The other presided over the ROUGE-ET-NOIR table. He was probably some
ten years younger, and was a plump, paunchy, sturdy-looking fellow, with
his under-lip a little pursed, from a habit of counting money inwardly
as he paid it, but with no decidedly bad expression in his face, which
was rather an honest and jolly one than otherwise. He wore no coat,
the weather being hot, and stood behind the table with a huge mound of
crowns and half-crowns before him, and a cash-box for notes. This game
was constantly playing. Perhaps twenty people would be staking at the
same time. This man had to roll the ball, to watch the stakes as they
were laid down, to gather them off the colour which lost, to pay those
who won, to do it all with the utmost dispatch, to roll the ball again,
and to keep this game perpetually alive. He did it all with a rapidity
absolutely marvellous; never hesitating, never making a mistake, never
stopping, and never ceasing to repeat such unconnected phrases as
the following, which, partly from habit, and partly to have something
appropriate and business-like to say, he constantly poured out with the
same monotonous emphasis, and in nearly the same order, all day long:

‘Rooge-a-nore from Paris! Gentlemen, make your game and back your
own opinions--any time while the ball rolls--rooge-a-nore from Paris,
gentlemen, it’s a French game, gentlemen, I brought it over myself, I
did indeed!--Rooge-a-nore from Paris--black wins--black--stop a minute,
sir, and I’ll pay you, directly--two there, half a pound there, three
there--and one there--gentlemen, the ball’s a rolling--any time, sir,
while the ball rolls!--The beauty of this game is, that you can double
your stakes or put down your money, gentlemen, any time while the ball
rolls--black again--black wins--I never saw such a thing--I never did,
in all my life, upon my word I never did; if any gentleman had
been backing the black in the last five minutes he must have won
five-and-forty pound in four rolls of the ball, he must indeed.
Gentlemen, we’ve port, sherry, cigars, and most excellent champagne.
Here, wai-ter, bring a bottle of champagne, and let’s have a dozen or
fifteen cigars here--and let’s be comfortable, gentlemen--and bring some
clean glasses--any time while the ball rolls!--I lost one hundred and
thirty-seven pound yesterday, gentlemen, at one roll of the ball, I
did indeed!--how do you do, sir?’ (recognising some knowing gentleman
without any halt or change of voice, and giving a wink so slight that
it seems an accident), ‘will you take a glass of sherry, sir?--here,
wai-ter! bring a clean glass, and hand the sherry to this gentleman--and
hand it round, will you, waiter?--this is the rooge-a-nore from Paris,
gentlemen--any time while the ball rolls!--gentlemen, make your game,
and back your own opinions--it’s the rooge-a-nore from Paris--quite a
new game, I brought it over myself, I did indeed--gentlemen, the ball’s
a-rolling!’

This officer was busily plying his vocation when half-a-dozen persons
sauntered through the booth, to whom, but without stopping either in his
speech or work, he bowed respectfully; at the same time directing, by
a look, the attention of a man beside him to the tallest figure in the
group, in recognition of whom the proprietor pulled off his hat. This
was Sir Mulberry Hawk, with whom were his friend and pupil, and a small
train of gentlemanly-dressed men, of characters more doubtful than
obscure.

The proprietor, in a low voice, bade Sir Mulberry good-day. Sir
Mulberry, in the same tone, bade the proprietor go to the devil, and
turned to speak with his friends.

There was evidently an irritable consciousness about him that he was an
object of curiosity, on this first occasion of showing himself in public
after the accident that had befallen him; and it was easy to perceive
that he appeared on the race-course, that day, more in the hope of
meeting with a great many people who knew him, and so getting over as
much as possible of the annoyance at once, than with any purpose of
enjoying the sport. There yet remained a slight scar upon his face,
and whenever he was recognised, as he was almost every minute by people
sauntering in and out, he made a restless effort to conceal it with his
glove; showing how keenly he felt the disgrace he had undergone.

‘Ah! Hawk,’ said one very sprucely-dressed personage in a Newmarket
coat, a choice neckerchief, and all other accessories of the most
unexceptionable kind. ‘How d’ye do, old fellow?’

This was a rival trainer of young noblemen and gentlemen, and the person
of all others whom Sir Mulberry most hated and dreaded to meet. They
shook hands with excessive cordiality.

‘And how are you now, old fellow, hey?’

‘Quite well, quite well,’ said Sir Mulberry.

‘That’s right,’ said the other. ‘How d’ye do, Verisopht? He’s a little
pulled down, our friend here. Rather out of condition still, hey?’

It should be observed that the gentleman had very white teeth, and that
when there was no excuse for laughing, he generally finished with the
same monosyllable, which he uttered so as to display them.

‘He’s in very good condition; there’s nothing the matter with him,’ said
the young man carelessly.

‘Upon my soul I’m glad to hear it,’ rejoined the other. ‘Have you just
returned from Brussels?’

‘We only reached town late last night,’ said Lord Frederick. Sir
Mulberry turned away to speak to one of his own party, and feigned not
to hear.

‘Now, upon my life,’ said the friend, affecting to speak in a whisper,
‘it’s an uncommonly bold and game thing in Hawk to show himself so soon.
I say it advisedly; there’s a vast deal of courage in it. You see he has
just rusticated long enough to excite curiosity, and not long enough for
men to have forgotten that deuced unpleasant--by-the-bye--you know the
rights of the affair, of course? Why did you never give those confounded
papers the lie? I seldom read the papers, but I looked in the papers for
that, and may I be--’

‘Look in the papers,’ interrupted Sir Mulberry, turning suddenly round,
‘tomorrow--no, next day, will you?’

‘Upon my life, my dear fellow, I seldom or never read the papers,’ said
the other, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but I will, at your recommendation.
What shall I look for?’

‘Good day,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning abruptly on his heel, and drawing
his pupil with him. Falling, again, into the loitering, careless pace at
which they had entered, they lounged out, arm in arm.

‘I won’t give him a case of murder to read,’ muttered Sir Mulberry with
an oath; ‘but it shall be something very near it if whipcord cuts and
bludgeons bruise.’

His companion said nothing, but there was something in his manner which
galled Sir Mulberry to add, with nearly as much ferocity as if his
friend had been Nicholas himself:

‘I sent Jenkins to old Nickleby before eight o’clock this morning. He’s
a staunch one; he was back with me before the messenger. I had it all
from him in the first five minutes. I know where this hound is to be met
with; time and place both. But there’s no need to talk; tomorrow will
soon be here.’

‘And wha-at’s to be done tomorrow?’ inquired Lord Frederick.

Sir Mulberry Hawk honoured him with an angry glance, but condescended
to return no verbal answer to this inquiry. Both walked sullenly on, as
though their thoughts were busily occupied, until they were quite clear
of the crowd, and almost alone, when Sir Mulberry wheeled round to
return.

‘Stop,’ said his companion, ‘I want to speak to you in earnest. Don’t
turn back. Let us walk here, a few minutes.’

‘What have you to say to me, that you could not say yonder as well as
here?’ returned his Mentor, disengaging his arm.

‘Hawk,’ rejoined the other, ‘tell me; I must know.’

‘MUST know,’ interrupted the other disdainfully. ‘Whew! Go on. If you
must know, of course there’s no escape for me. Must know!’

‘Must ask then,’ returned Lord Frederick, ‘and must press you for a
plain and straightforward answer. Is what you have just said only a
mere whim of the moment, occasioned by your being out of humour and
irritated, or is it your serious intention, and one that you have
actually contemplated?’

‘Why, don’t you remember what passed on the subject one night, when I
was laid up with a broken limb?’ said Sir Mulberry, with a sneer.

‘Perfectly well.’

‘Then take that for an answer, in the devil’s name,’ replied Sir
Mulberry, ‘and ask me for no other.’

Such was the ascendancy he had acquired over his dupe, and such the
latter’s general habit of submission, that, for the moment, the young
man seemed half afraid to pursue the subject. He soon overcame this
feeling, however, if it had restrained him at all, and retorted angrily:

‘If I remember what passed at the time you speak of, I expressed a
strong opinion on this subject, and said that, with my knowledge or
consent, you never should do what you threaten now.’

‘Will you prevent me?’ asked Sir Mulberry, with a laugh.

‘Ye-es, if I can,’ returned the other, promptly.

‘A very proper saving clause, that last,’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘and one
you stand in need of. Oh! look to your own business, and leave me to
look to mine.’

‘This IS mine,’ retorted Lord Frederick. ‘I make it mine; I will make it
mine. It’s mine already. I am more compromised than I should be, as it
is.’

‘Do as you please, and what you please, for yourself,’ said Sir
Mulberry, affecting an easy good-humour. ‘Surely that must content
you! Do nothing for me; that’s all. I advise no man to interfere in
proceedings that I choose to take. I am sure you know me better than
to do so. The fact is, I see, you mean to offer me advice. It is well
meant, I have no doubt, but I reject it. Now, if you please, we will
return to the carriage. I find no entertainment here, but quite the
reverse. If we prolong this conversation, we might quarrel, which would
be no proof of wisdom in either you or me.’

With this rejoinder, and waiting for no further discussion, Sir Mulberry
Hawk yawned, and very leisurely turned back.

There was not a little tact and knowledge of the young lord’s
disposition in this mode of treating him. Sir Mulberry clearly saw that
if his dominion were to last, it must be established now. He knew that
the moment he became violent, the young man would become violent too.
He had, many times, been enabled to strengthen his influence, when
any circumstance had occurred to weaken it, by adopting this cool and
laconic style; and he trusted to it now, with very little doubt of its
entire success.

But while he did this, and wore the most careless and indifferent
deportment that his practised arts enabled him to assume, he inwardly
resolved, not only to visit all the mortification of being compelled to
suppress his feelings, with additional severity upon Nicholas, but also
to make the young lord pay dearly for it, one day, in some shape or
other. So long as he had been a passive instrument in his hands, Sir
Mulberry had regarded him with no other feeling than contempt; but, now
that he presumed to avow opinions in opposition to his, and even to turn
upon him with a lofty tone and an air of superiority, he began to hate
him. Conscious that, in the vilest and most worthless sense of the term,
he was dependent upon the weak young lord, Sir Mulberry could the less
brook humiliation at his hands; and when he began to dislike him he
measured his dislike--as men often do--by the extent of the injuries he
had inflicted upon its object. When it is remembered that Sir Mulberry
Hawk had plundered, duped, deceived, and fooled his pupil in every
possible way, it will not be wondered at, that, beginning to hate him,
he began to hate him cordially.

On the other hand, the young lord having thought--which he very seldom
did about anything--and seriously too, upon the affair with Nicholas,
and the circumstances which led to it, had arrived at a manly and
honest conclusion. Sir Mulberry’s coarse and insulting behaviour on
the occasion in question had produced a deep impression on his mind; a
strong suspicion of his having led him on to pursue Miss Nickleby for
purposes of his own, had been lurking there for some time; he was really
ashamed of his share in the transaction, and deeply mortified by the
misgiving that he had been gulled. He had had sufficient leisure to
reflect upon these things, during their late retirement; and, at times,
when his careless and indolent nature would permit, had availed himself
of the opportunity. Slight circumstances, too, had occurred to increase
his suspicion. It wanted but a very slight circumstance to kindle his
wrath against Sir Mulberry. This his disdainful and insolent tone in
their recent conversation (the only one they had held upon the subject
since the period to which Sir Mulberry referred), effected.

Thus they rejoined their friends: each with causes of dislike against
the other rankling in his breast: and the young man haunted, besides,
with thoughts of the vindictive retaliation which was threatened against
Nicholas, and the determination to prevent it by some strong step, if
possible. But this was not all. Sir Mulberry, conceiving that he had
silenced him effectually, could not suppress his triumph, or forbear
from following up what he conceived to be his advantage. Mr. Pyke was
there, and Mr. Pluck was there, and Colonel Chowser, and other gentlemen
of the same caste, and it was a great point for Sir Mulberry to show
them that he had not lost his influence. At first, the young lord
contented himself with a silent determination to take measures for
withdrawing himself from the connection immediately. By degrees, he grew
more angry, and was exasperated by jests and familiarities which, a few
hours before, would have been a source of amusement to him. This did not
serve him; for, at such bantering or retort as suited the company, he
was no match for Sir Mulberry. Still, no violent rupture took place.
They returned to town; Messrs Pyke and Pluck and other gentlemen
frequently protesting, on the way thither, that Sir Mulberry had never
been in such tiptop spirits in all his life.

They dined together, sumptuously. The wine flowed freely, as indeed
it had done all day. Sir Mulberry drank to recompense himself for his
recent abstinence; the young lord, to drown his indignation; and the
remainder of the party, because the wine was of the best and they had
nothing to pay. It was nearly midnight when they rushed out, wild,
burning with wine, their blood boiling, and their brains on fire, to the
gaming-table.

Here, they encountered another party, mad like themselves. The
excitement of play, hot rooms, and glaring lights was not calculated to
allay the fever of the time. In that giddy whirl of noise and confusion,
the men were delirious. Who thought of money, ruin, or the morrow, in
the savage intoxication of the moment? More wine was called for, glass
after glass was drained, their parched and scalding mouths were cracked
with thirst. Down poured the wine like oil on blazing fire. And still
the riot went on. The debauchery gained its height; glasses were dashed
upon the floor by hands that could not carry them to lips; oaths were
shouted out by lips which could scarcely form the words to vent them
in; drunken losers cursed and roared; some mounted on the tables, waving
bottles above their heads and bidding defiance to the rest; some danced,
some sang, some tore the cards and raved. Tumult and frenzy reigned
supreme; when a noise arose that drowned all others, and two men,
seizing each other by the throat, struggled into the middle of the room.

A dozen voices, until now unheard, called aloud to part them. Those who
had kept themselves cool, to win, and who earned their living in such
scenes, threw themselves upon the combatants, and, forcing them asunder,
dragged them some space apart.

‘Let me go!’ cried Sir Mulberry, in a thick hoarse voice; ‘he struck
me! Do you hear? I say, he struck me. Have I a friend here? Who is this?
Westwood. Do you hear me say he struck me?’

‘I hear, I hear,’ replied one of those who held him. ‘Come away for
tonight!’

‘I will not, by G--,’ he replied. ‘A dozen men about us saw the blow.’

‘Tomorrow will be ample time,’ said the friend.

‘It will not be ample time!’ cried Sir Mulberry. ‘Tonight, at once,
here!’ His passion was so great, that he could not articulate, but stood
clenching his fist, tearing his hair, and stamping upon the ground.

‘What is this, my lord?’ said one of those who surrounded him. ‘Have
blows passed?’

‘ONE blow has,’ was the panting reply. ‘I struck him. I proclaim it
to all here! I struck him, and he knows why. I say, with him, let this
quarrel be adjusted now. Captain Adams,’ said the young lord, looking
hurriedly about him, and addressing one of those who had interposed,
‘let me speak with you, I beg.’

The person addressed stepped forward, and taking the young man’s arm,
they retired together, followed shortly afterwards by Sir Mulberry and
his friend.

It was a profligate haunt of the worst repute, and not a place in which
such an affair was likely to awaken any sympathy for either party, or
to call forth any further remonstrance or interposition. Elsewhere, its
further progress would have been instantly prevented, and time allowed
for sober and cool reflection; but not there. Disturbed in their orgies,
the party broke up; some reeled away with looks of tipsy gravity; others
withdrew noisily discussing what had just occurred; the gentlemen of
honour who lived upon their winnings remarked to each other, as they
went out, that Hawk was a good shot; and those who had been most noisy,
fell fast asleep upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.

Meanwhile, the two seconds, as they may be called now, after a long
conference, each with his principal, met together in another room. Both
utterly heartless, both men upon town, both thoroughly initiated in its
worst vices, both deeply in debt, both fallen from some higher estate,
both addicted to every depravity for which society can find some genteel
name and plead its most depraving conventionalities as an excuse, they
were naturally gentlemen of most unblemished honour themselves, and of
great nicety concerning the honour of other people.

These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful just now; for the affair was
pretty certain to make some noise, and could scarcely fail to enhance
their reputations.

‘This is an awkward affair, Adams,’ said Mr. Westwood, drawing himself
up.

‘Very,’ returned the captain; ‘a blow has been struck, and there is but
one course, OF course.’

‘No apology, I suppose?’ said Mr. Westwood.

‘Not a syllable, sir, from my man, if we talk till doomsday,’ returned
the captain. ‘The original cause of dispute, I understand, was some
girl or other, to whom your principal applied certain terms, which
Lord Frederick, defending the girl, repelled. But this led to a
long recrimination upon a great many sore subjects, charges, and
counter-charges. Sir Mulberry was sarcastic; Lord Frederick was excited,
and struck him in the heat of provocation, and under circumstances of
great aggravation. That blow, unless there is a full retraction on the
part of Sir Mulberry, Lord Frederick is ready to justify.’

‘There is no more to be said,’ returned the other, ‘but to settle the
hour and the place of meeting. It’s a responsibility; but there is a
strong feeling to have it over. Do you object to say at sunrise?’

‘Sharp work,’ replied the captain, referring to his watch; ‘however, as
this seems to have been a long time breeding, and negotiation is only a
waste of words, no.’

‘Something may possibly be said, out of doors, after what passed in the
other room, which renders it desirable that we should be off without
delay, and quite clear of town,’ said Mr. Westwood. ‘What do you say to
one of the meadows opposite Twickenham, by the river-side?’

The captain saw no objection.

‘Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads from Petersham
to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when we arrive there?’ said Mr
Westwood.

To this the captain also assented. After a few other preliminaries,
equally brief, and having settled the road each party should take to
avoid suspicion, they separated.

‘We shall just have comfortable time, my lord,’ said the captain, when
he had communicated the arrangements, ‘to call at my rooms for a case of
pistols, and then jog coolly down. If you will allow me to dismiss your
servant, we’ll take my cab; for yours, perhaps, might be recognised.’

What a contrast, when they reached the street, to the scene they had
just left! It was already daybreak. For the flaring yellow light within,
was substituted the clear, bright, glorious morning; for a hot, close
atmosphere, tainted with the smell of expiring lamps, and reeking with
the steams of riot and dissipation, the free, fresh, wholesome air. But
to the fevered head on which that cool air blew, it seemed to come laden
with remorse for time misspent and countless opportunities neglected.
With throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts
hurried and disordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach, and
shrunk involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul and hideous
thing.

‘Shivering?’ said the captain. ‘You are cold.’

‘Rather.’

‘It does strike cool, coming out of those hot rooms. Wrap that cloak
about you. So, so; now we’re off.’

They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at the captain’s
lodgings, cleared the town, and emerged upon the open road, without
hindrance or molestation.

Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything looked very beautiful; the
young man scarcely seemed to have noticed them before, though he had
passed the same objects a thousand times. There was a peace and serenity
upon them all, strangely at variance with the bewilderment and confusion
of his own half-sobered thoughts, and yet impressive and welcome. He had
no fear upon his mind; but, as he looked about him, he had less anger;
and though all old delusions, relative to his worthless late companion,
were now cleared away, he rather wished he had never known him than
thought of its having come to this.

The past night, the day before, and many other days and nights beside,
all mingled themselves up in one unintelligible and senseless whirl; he
could not separate the transactions of one time from those of another.
Now, the noise of the wheels resolved itself into some wild tune in
which he could recognise scraps of airs he knew; now, there was nothing
in his ears but a stunning and bewildering sound, like rushing water.
But his companion rallied him on being so silent, and they talked and
laughed boisterously. When they stopped, he was a little surprised to
find himself in the act of smoking; but, on reflection, he remembered
when and where he had taken the cigar.

They stopped at the avenue gate and alighted, leaving the carriage to
the care of the servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as well
accustomed to such proceedings as his master. Sir Mulberry and his
friend were already there. All four walked in profound silence up the
aisle of stately elm trees, which, meeting far above their heads, formed
a long green perspective of Gothic arches, terminating, like some old
ruin, in the open sky.

After a pause, and a brief conference between the seconds, they, at
length, turned to the right, and taking a track across a little meadow,
passed Ham House and came into some fields beyond. In one of these, they
stopped. The ground was measured, some usual forms gone through, the two
principals were placed front to front at the distance agreed upon, and
Sir Mulberry turned his face towards his young adversary for the first
time. He was very pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his dress disordered,
and his hair dishevelled. For the face, it expressed nothing but violent
and evil passions. He shaded his eyes with his hand; grazed at his
opponent, steadfastly, for a few moments; and, then taking the weapon
which was tendered to him, bent his eyes upon that, and looked up no
more until the word was given, when he instantly fired.

The two shots were fired, as nearly as possible, at the same instant. In
that instant, the young lord turned his head sharply round, fixed upon
his adversary a ghastly stare, and without a groan or stagger, fell down
dead.

‘He’s gone!’ cried Westwood, who, with the other second, had run up to
the body, and fallen on one knee beside it.

‘His blood on his own head,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘He brought this upon
himself, and forced it upon me.’

‘Captain Adams,’ cried Westwood, hastily, ‘I call you to witness that
this was fairly done. Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. We must leave
this place immediately, push for Brighton, and cross to France with all
speed. This has been a bad business, and may be worse, if we delay
a moment. Adams, consult your own safety, and don’t remain here; the
living before the dead; goodbye!’

With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm, and hurried him
away. Captain Adams--only pausing to convince himself, beyond all
question, of the fatal result--sped off in the same direction, to
concert measures with his servant for removing the body, and securing
his own safety likewise.

So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the hand which he had loaded with
gifts, and clasped a thousand times; by the act of him, but for whom,
and others like him, he might have lived a happy man, and died with
children’s faces round his bed.

The sun came proudly up in all his majesty, the noble river ran its
winding course, the leaves quivered and rustled in the air, the birds
poured their cheerful songs from every tree, the short-lived butterfly
fluttered its little wings; all the light and life of day came on; and,
amidst it all, and pressing down the grass whose every blade bore twenty
tiny lives, lay the dead man, with his stark and rigid face turned
upwards to the sky.



CHAPTER 51

The Project of Mr. Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful
Issue, becomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into
their Confidence


In an old house, dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to have withered,
like himself, and to have grown yellow and shrivelled in hoarding him
from the light of day, as he had in hoarding his money, lived Arthur
Gride. Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare and bony make, and hard
and cold as misers’ hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against the
gloomy walls; attenuated presses, grown lank and lantern-jawed in
guarding the treasures they enclosed, and tottering, as though from
constant fear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark corners, whence
they cast no shadows on the ground, and seemed to hide and cower from
observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs, with long lean hands and
famished face, ticked in cautious whispers; and when it struck the time,
in thin and piping sounds, like an old man’s voice, rattled, as if it
were pinched with hunger.

No fireside couch was there, to invite repose and comfort. Elbow-chairs
there were, but they looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms
suspiciously and timidly, and kept upon their guard. Others, were
fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawn themselves up to their
utmost height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare all comers out
of countenance. Others, again, knocked up against their neighbours, or
leant for support against the wall--somewhat ostentatiously, as if to
call all men to witness that they were not worth the taking. The dark
square lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty
hangings seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among
themselves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledge of the
tempting wares that lurked within the dark and tight-locked closets.

From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry
house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride’s voice,
as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some forgotten song, of
which the burden ran:

     Ta--ran--tan--too,
     Throw the old shoe,
     And may the wedding be lucky!

which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and again,
until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue in
silence, the occupation upon which he was engaged.

This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm-eaten
wardrobe a quantity of frouzy garments, one by one; to subject each to
a careful and minute inspection by holding it up against the light, and
after folding it with great exactness, to lay it on one or other of
two little heaps beside him. He never took two articles of clothing out
together, but always brought them forth, singly, and never failed to
shut the wardrobe door, and turn the key, between each visit to its
shelves.

‘The snuff-coloured suit,’ said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare
coat. ‘Did I look well in snuff-colour? Let me think.’

The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, for he folded
the garment once more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to get down
another, chirping while he did so:

     Young, loving, and fair,
     Oh what happiness there!
     The wedding is sure to be lucky!

‘They always put in “young,”’ said old Arthur, ‘but songs are only
written for the sake of rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor
country-people sang, when I was a little boy. Though stop--young is
quite right too--it means the bride--yes. He, he, he! It means the
bride. Oh dear, that’s good. That’s very good. And true besides, quite
true!’

In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verse again,
with increased expression, and a shake or two here and there. He then
resumed his employment.

‘The bottle-green,’ said old Arthur; ‘the bottle-green was a famous
suit to wear, and I bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker’s, and there
was--he, he, he!--a tarnished shilling in the waistcoat pocket. To think
that the pawnbroker shouldn’t have known there was a shilling in it! I
knew it! I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog
of a pawnbroker! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle-green. The very
day I put it on first, old Lord Mallowford was burnt to death in
his bed, and all the post-obits fell in. I’ll be married in the
bottle-green. Peg. Peg Sliderskew--I’ll wear the bottle-green!’

This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room-door, brought
into the apartment a short, thin, weasen, blear-eyed old woman,
palsy-stricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping her shrivelled face upon
her dirty apron, inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people
commonly speak:

‘Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets
so bad, I never know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it
must be one of you, because nothing else never stirs in the house.’

‘Me, Peg, me,’ said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to
render the reply more intelligible.

‘You, eh?’ returned Peg. ‘And what do YOU want?’

‘I’ll be married in the bottle-green,’ cried Arthur Gride.

‘It’s a deal too good to be married in, master,’ rejoined Peg, after
a short inspection of the suit. ‘Haven’t you got anything worse than
this?’

‘Nothing that’ll do,’ replied old Arthur.

‘Why not do?’ retorted Peg. ‘Why don’t you wear your every-day clothes,
like a man--eh?’

‘They an’t becoming enough, Peg,’ returned her master.

‘Not what enough?’ said Peg.

‘Becoming.’

‘Becoming what?’ said Peg, sharply. ‘Not becoming too old to wear?’

Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper’s deafness, as
he roared in her ear:

‘Not smart enough! I want to look as well as I can.’

‘Look?’ cried Peg. ‘If she’s as handsome as you say she is, she won’t
look much at you, master, take your oath of that; and as to how you look
yourself--pepper-and-salt, bottle-green, sky-blue, or tartan-plaid will
make no difference in you.’

With which consolatory assurance, Peg Sliderskew gathered up the chosen
suit, and folding her skinny arms upon the bundle, stood, mouthing, and
grinning, and blinking her watery eyes, like an uncouth figure in some
monstrous piece of carving.

‘You’re in a funny humour, an’t you, Peg?’ said Arthur, with not the
best possible grace.

‘Why, isn’t it enough to make me?’ rejoined the old woman. ‘I shall,
soon enough, be put out, though, if anybody tries to domineer it over
me: and so I give you notice, master. Nobody shall be put over Peg
Sliderskew’s head, after so many years; you know that, and so I needn’t
tell you! That won’t do for me--no, no, nor for you. Try that once, and
come to ruin--ruin--ruin!’

‘Oh dear, dear, I shall never try it,’ said Arthur Gride, appalled by
the mention of the word, ‘not for the world. It would be very easy to
ruin me; we must be very careful; more saving than ever, with another
mouth to feed. Only we--we mustn’t let her lose her good looks, Peg,
because I like to see ‘em.’

‘Take care you don’t find good looks come expensive,’ returned Peg,
shaking her forefinger.

‘But she can earn money herself, Peg,’ said Arthur Gride, eagerly
watching what effect his communication produced upon the old woman’s
countenance: ‘she can draw, paint, work all manner of pretty things for
ornamenting stools and chairs: slippers, Peg, watch-guards, hair-chains,
and a thousand little dainty trifles that I couldn’t give you half the
names of. Then she can play the piano, (and, what’s more, she’s got
one), and sing like a little bird. She’ll be very cheap to dress and
keep, Peg; don’t you think she will?’

‘If you don’t let her make a fool of you, she may,’ returned Peg.

‘A fool of ME!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Trust your old master not to be
fooled by pretty faces, Peg; no, no, no--nor by ugly ones neither, Mrs
Sliderskew,’ he softly added by way of soliloquy.

‘You’re a saying something you don’t want me to hear,’ said Peg; ‘I know
you are.’

‘Oh dear! the devil’s in this woman,’ muttered Arthur; adding with an
ugly leer, ‘I said I trusted everything to you, Peg. That was all.’

‘You do that, master, and all your cares are over,’ said Peg
approvingly.

‘WHEN I do that, Peg Sliderskew,’ thought Arthur Gride, ‘they will be.’

Although he thought this very distinctly, he durst not move his lips
lest the old woman should detect him. He even seemed half afraid that
she might have read his thoughts; for he leered coaxingly upon her, as
he said aloud:

‘Take up all loose stitches in the bottle-green with the best black
silk. Have a skein of the best, and some new buttons for the coat,
and--this is a good idea, Peg, and one you’ll like, I know--as I have
never given her anything yet, and girls like such attentions, you shall
polish up a sparking necklace that I have got upstairs, and I’ll give
it her upon the wedding morning--clasp it round her charming little neck
myself--and take it away again next day. He, he, he! I’ll lock it up for
her, Peg, and lose it. Who’ll be made the fool of there, I wonder, to
begin with--eh, Peg?’

Mrs. Sliderskew appeared to approve highly of this ingenious scheme, and
expressed her satisfaction by various rackings and twitchings of
her head and body, which by no means enhanced her charms. These she
prolonged until she had hobbled to the door, when she exchanged them
for a sour malignant look, and twisting her under-jaw from side to side,
muttered hearty curses upon the future Mrs. Gride, as she crept slowly
down the stairs, and paused for breath at nearly every one.

‘She’s half a witch, I think,’ said Arthur Gride, when he found himself
again alone. ‘But she’s very frugal, and she’s very deaf. Her living
costs me next to nothing; and it’s no use her listening at keyholes; for
she can’t hear. She’s a charming woman--for the purpose; a most discreet
old housekeeper, and worth her weight in--copper.’

Having extolled the merits of his domestic in these high terms, old
Arthur went back to the burden of his song. The suit destined to grace
his approaching nuptials being now selected, he replaced the others with
no less care than he had displayed in drawing them from the musty nooks
where they had silently reposed for many years.

Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily concluded this operation, and
locked the press; but there was no need for any particular hurry, as the
discreet Peg seldom knew the bell was rung unless she happened to cast
her dim eyes upwards, and to see it shaking against the kitchen ceiling.
After a short delay, however, Peg tottered in, followed by Newman Noggs.

‘Ah! Mr. Noggs!’ cried Arthur Gride, rubbing his hands. ‘My good friend,
Mr. Noggs, what news do you bring for me?’

Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixed eye very
fixed indeed, replied, suiting the action to the word, ‘A letter. From
Mr. Nickleby. Bearer waits.’

‘Won’t you take a--a--’

Newman looked up, and smacked his lips.

‘--A chair?’ said Arthur Gride.

‘No,’ replied Newman. ‘Thankee.’

Arthur opened the letter with trembling hands, and devoured its contents
with the utmost greediness; chuckling rapturously over it, and reading
it several times, before he could take it from before his eyes. So
many times did he peruse and re-peruse it, that Newman considered it
expedient to remind him of his presence.

‘Answer,’ said Newman. ‘Bearer waits.’

‘True,’ replied old Arthur. ‘Yes--yes; I almost forgot, I do declare.’

‘I thought you were forgetting,’ said Newman.

‘Quite right to remind me, Mr. Noggs. Oh, very right indeed,’ said
Arthur. ‘Yes. I’ll write a line. I’m--I’m--rather flurried, Mr. Noggs.
The news is--’

‘Bad?’ interrupted Newman.

‘No, Mr. Noggs, thank you; good, good. The very best of news. Sit down.
I’ll get the pen and ink, and write a line in answer. I’ll not detain
you long. I know you’re a treasure to your master, Mr. Noggs. He speaks
of you in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you’d be astonished. I
may say that I do too, and always did. I always say the same of you.’

‘That’s “Curse Mr. Noggs with all my heart!” then, if you do,’ thought
Newman, as Gride hurried out.

The letter had fallen on the ground. Looking carefully about him for an
instant, Newman, impelled by curiosity to know the result of the design
he had overheard from his office closet, caught it up and rapidly read
as follows:


‘GRIDE.

‘I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day after tomorrow (as
you suggested) for the marriage. There is no objection on his part, and
all days are alike to his daughter. We will go together, and you must be
with me by seven in the morning. I need not tell you to be punctual.

‘Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You have been
there, of late, much oftener than you should. She does not languish for
you, and it might have been dangerous. Restrain your youthful ardour for
eight-and-forty hours, and leave her to the father. You only undo what
he does, and does well.

‘Yours,

‘RALPH NICKLEBY.’


A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter on the same spot
again, pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering away, regained
his seat in a single stride, and looked as vacant and unconscious as
ever mortal looked. Arthur Gride, after peering nervously about him,
spied it on the ground, picked it up, and sitting down to write, glanced
at Newman Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an intensity so
remarkable, that Arthur was quite alarmed.

‘Do you see anything particular, Mr. Noggs?’ said Arthur, trying to
follow the direction of Newman’s eyes--which was an impossibility, and a
thing no man had ever done.

‘Only a cobweb,’ replied Newman.

‘Oh! is that all?’

‘No,’ said Newman. ‘There’s a fly in it.’

‘There are a good many cobwebs here,’ observed Arthur Gride.

‘So there are in our place,’ returned Newman; ‘and flies too.’

Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and
to the great discomposure of Arthur Gride’s nerves, produced a series of
sharp cracks from his finger-joints, resembling the noise of a distant
discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded in finishing his reply
to Ralph’s note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the
eccentric messenger for delivery.

‘That’s it, Mr. Noggs,’ said Gride.

Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when
Gride, whose doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and
said, in a shrill whisper, and with a grin which puckered up his whole
face, and almost obscured his eyes:

‘Will you--will you take a little drop of something--just a taste?’

In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would
not have drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever
made; but to see what he would be at, and to punish him as much as he
could, he accepted the offer immediately.

Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a
shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaint bottles:
some with necks like so many storks, and others with square Dutch-built
bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty bottle of
promising appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.

‘You never tasted this,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s EAU-D’OR--golden water. I
like it on account of its name. It’s a delicious name. Water of gold,
golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a sin to drink it!’

As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the
stopper in a manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its
old place, Newman took up one of the little glasses, and clinked it,
twice or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that he
had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled
it--though not to the brim--and then filled his own.

‘Stop, stop; don’t drink it yet,’ he said, laying his hand on Newman’s;
‘it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste,
which is ve--ry seldom, I like to think of it beforehand, and tease
myself. We’ll drink a toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr. Noggs?’

‘Ah!’ said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. ‘Look sharp.
Bearer waits.’

‘Why, then, I’ll tell you what,’ tittered Arthur, ‘we’ll drink--he, he,
he!--we’ll drink a lady.’

‘THE ladies?’ said Newman.

‘No, no, Mr. Noggs,’ replied Gride, arresting his hand, ‘A lady. You
wonder to hear me say A lady. I know you do, I know you do. Here’s
little Madeline. That’s the toast. Mr. Noggs. Little Madeline!’

‘Madeline!’ said Newman; inwardly adding, ‘and God help her!’

The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed his portion of
the golden water, had a great effect upon the old man, who sat upright
in his chair, and gazed at him, open-mouthed, as if the sight had taken
away his breath. Quite unmoved, however, Newman left him to sip his own
at leisure, or to pour it back again into the bottle, if he chose,
and departed; after greatly outraging the dignity of Peg Sliderskew
by brushing past her, in the passage, without a word of apology or
recognition.

Mr. Gride and his housekeeper, immediately on being left alone, resolved
themselves into a committee of ways and means, and discussed the
arrangements which should be made for the reception of the young bride.
As they were, like some other committees, extremely dull and prolix in
debate, this history may pursue the footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby
combining advantage with necessity; for it would have been necessary
to do so under any circumstances, and necessity has no law, as all the
world knows.

‘You’ve been a long time,’ said Ralph, when Newman returned.

‘HE was a long time,’ replied Newman.

‘Bah!’ cried Ralph impatiently. ‘Give me his note, if he gave you one:
his message, if he didn’t. And don’t go away. I want a word with you,
sir.’

Newman handed in the note, and looked very virtuous and innocent while
his employer broke the seal, and glanced his eye over it.

‘He’ll be sure to come,’ muttered Ralph, as he tore it to pieces; ‘why
of course, I know he’ll be sure to come. What need to say that? Noggs!
Pray, sir, what man was that, with whom I saw you in the street last
night?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Newman.

‘You had better refresh your memory, sir,’ said Ralph, with a
threatening look.

‘I tell you,’ returned Newman boldly, ‘that I don’t know. He came here
twice, and asked for you. You were out. He came again. You packed him
off, yourself. He gave the name of Brooker.’

‘I know he did,’ said Ralph; ‘what then?’

‘What then? Why, then he lurked about and dogged me in the street. He
follows me, night after night, and urges me to bring him face to face
with you; as he says he has been once, and not long ago either. He
wants to see you face to face, he says, and you’ll soon hear him out, he
warrants.’

‘And what say you to that?’ inquired Ralph, looking keenly at his
drudge.

‘That it’s no business of mine, and I won’t. I told him he might catch
you in the street, if that was all he wanted, but no! that wouldn’t do.
You wouldn’t hear a word there, he said. He must have you alone in a
room with the door locked, where he could speak without fear, and you’d
soon change your tone, and hear him patiently.’

‘An audacious dog!’ Ralph muttered.

‘That’s all I know,’ said Newman. ‘I say again, I don’t know what man
he is. I don’t believe he knows himself. You have seen him; perhaps YOU
do.’

‘I think I do,’ replied Ralph.

‘Well,’ retored Newman, sulkily, ‘don’t expect me to know him too;
that’s all. You’ll ask me, next, why I never told you this before. What
would you say, if I was to tell you all that people say of you? What
do you call me when I sometimes do? “Brute, ass!” and snap at me like a
dragon.’

This was true enough; though the question which Newman anticipated, was,
in fact, upon Ralph’s lips at the moment.

‘He is an idle ruffian,’ said Ralph; ‘a vagabond from beyond the sea
where he travelled for his crimes; a felon let loose to run his neck
into the halter; a swindler, who has the audacity to try his schemes on
me who know him well. The next time he tampers with you, hand him over
to the police, for attempting to extort money by lies and threats,--d’ye
hear?--and leave the rest to me. He shall cool his heels in jail a
little time, and I’ll be bound he looks for other folks to fleece, when
he comes out. You mind what I say, do you?’

‘I hear,’ said Newman.

‘Do it then,’ returned Ralph, ‘and I’ll reward you. Now, you may go.’

Newman readily availed himself of the permission, and, shutting himself
up in his little office, remained there, in very serious cogitation,
all day. When he was released at night, he proceeded, with all the
expedition he could use, to the city, and took up his old position
behind the pump, to watch for Nicholas. For Newman Noggs was proud in
his way, and could not bear to appear as his friend, before the brothers
Cheeryble, in the shabby and degraded state to which he was reduced.

He had not occupied this position many minutes, when he was rejoiced to
see Nicholas approaching, and darted out from his ambuscade to meet him.
Nicholas, on his part, was no less pleased to encounter his friend, whom
he had not seen for some time; so, their greeting was a warm one.

‘I was thinking of you, at that moment,’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s right,’ rejoined Newman, ‘and I of you. I couldn’t help coming
up, tonight. I say, I think I am going to find out something.’

‘And what may that be?’ returned Nicholas, smiling at this odd
communication.

‘I don’t know what it may be, I don’t know what it may not be,’ said
Newman; ‘it’s some secret in which your uncle is concerned, but
what, I’ve not yet been able to discover, although I have my strong
suspicions. I’ll not hint ‘em now, in case you should be disappointed.’

‘I disappointed!’ cried Nicholas; ‘am I interested?’

‘I think you are,’ replied Newman. ‘I have a crotchet in my head that it
must be so. I have found out a man, who plainly knows more than he cares
to tell at once. And he has already dropped such hints to me as puzzle
me--I say, as puzzle me,’ said Newman, scratching his red nose into
a state of violent inflammation, and staring at Nicholas with all his
might and main meanwhile.

Admiring what could have wound his friend up to such a pitch of mystery,
Nicholas endeavoured, by a series of questions, to elucidate the cause;
but in vain. Newman could not be drawn into any more explicit statement
than a repetition of the perplexities he had already thrown out, and
a confused oration, showing, How it was necessary to use the utmost
caution; how the lynx-eyed Ralph had already seen him in company with
his unknown correspondent; and how he had baffled the said Ralph by
extreme guardedness of manner and ingenuity of speech; having prepared
himself for such a contingency from the first.

Remembering his companion’s propensity,--of which his nose, indeed,
perpetually warned all beholders like a beacon,--Nicholas had drawn him
into a sequestered tavern. Here, they fell to reviewing the origin and
progress of their acquaintance, as men sometimes do, and tracing out the
little events by which it was most strongly marked, came at last to Miss
Cecilia Bobster.

‘And that reminds me,’ said Newman, ‘that you never told me the young
lady’s real name.’

‘Madeline!’ said Nicholas.

‘Madeline!’ cried Newman. ‘What Madeline? Her other name. Say her other
name.’

‘Bray,’ said Nicholas, in great astonishment.

‘It’s the same!’ cried Newman. ‘Sad story! Can you stand idly by, and
let that unnatural marriage take place without one attempt to save her?’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Nicholas, starting up; ‘marriage! are you
mad?’

‘Are you? Is she? Are you blind, deaf, senseless, dead?’ said Newman.
‘Do you know that within one day, by means of your uncle Ralph, she will
be married to a man as bad as he, and worse, if worse there is? Do you
know that, within one day, she will be sacrificed, as sure as you stand
there alive, to a hoary wretch--a devil born and bred, and grey in
devils’ ways?’

‘Be careful what you say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘For Heaven’s sake be
careful! I am left here alone, and those who could stretch out a hand to
rescue her are far away. What is it that you mean?’

‘I never heard her name,’ said Newman, choking with his energy. ‘Why
didn’t you tell me? How was I to know? We might, at least, have had some
time to think!’

‘What is it that you mean?’ cried Nicholas.

It was not an easy task to arrive at this information; but, after a
great quantity of extraordinary pantomime, which in no way assisted it,
Nicholas, who was almost as wild as Newman Noggs himself, forced the
latter down upon his seat and held him down until he began his tale.

Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm of passions, rushed through
the listener’s heart, as the plot was laid bare. He no sooner understood
it all, than with a face of ashy paleness, and trembling in every limb,
he darted from the house.

‘Stop him!’ cried Newman, bolting out in pursuit. ‘He’ll be doing
something desperate; he’ll murder somebody. Hallo! there, stop him. Stop
thief! stop thief!’



CHAPTER 52

Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, but plucks up his Spirits
again, and determines to attempt it. Domestic Intelligence of the
Kenwigses and Lillyvicks


Finding that Newman was determined to arrest his progress at any hazard,
and apprehensive that some well-intentioned passenger, attracted by the
cry of ‘Stop thief,’ might lay violent hands upon his person, and
place him in a disagreeable predicament from which he might have some
difficulty in extricating himself, Nicholas soon slackened his pace,
and suffered Newman Noggs to come up with him: which he did, in so
breathless a condition, that it seemed impossible he could have held out
for a minute longer.

‘I will go straight to Bray’s,’ said Nicholas. ‘I will see this man.
If there is a feeling of humanity lingering in his breast, a spark of
consideration for his own child, motherless and friendless as she is, I
will awaken it.’

‘You will not,’ replied Newman. ‘You will not, indeed.’

‘Then,’ said Nicholas, pressing onward, ‘I will act upon my first
impulse, and go straight to Ralph Nickleby.’

‘By the time you reach his house he will be in bed,’ said Newman.

‘I’ll drag him from it,’ cried Nicholas.

‘Tut, tut,’ said Noggs. ‘Be yourself.’

‘You are the best of friends to me, Newman,’ rejoined Nicholas after a
pause, and taking his hand as he spoke. ‘I have made head against many
trials; but the misery of another, and such misery, is involved in this
one, that I declare to you I am rendered desperate, and know not how to
act.’

In truth, it did seem a hopeless case. It was impossible to make any use
of such intelligence as Newman Noggs had gleaned, when he lay concealed
in the closet. The mere circumstance of the compact between Ralph
Nickleby and Gride would not invalidate the marriage, or render Bray
averse to it, who, if he did not actually know of the existence of some
such understanding, doubtless suspected it. What had been hinted with
reference to some fraud on Madeline, had been put, with sufficient
obscurity by Arthur Gride, but coming from Newman Noggs, and obscured
still further by the smoke of his pocket-pistol, it became wholly
unintelligible, and involved in utter darkness.

‘There seems no ray of hope,’ said Nicholas.

‘The greater necessity for coolness, for reason, for consideration,
for thought,’ said Newman, pausing at every alternate word, to look
anxiously in his friend’s face. ‘Where are the brothers?’

‘Both absent on urgent business, as they will be for a week to come.’

‘Is there no way of communicating with them? No way of getting one of
them here by tomorrow night?’

‘Impossible!’ said Nicholas, ‘the sea is between us and them. With the
fairest winds that ever blew, to go and return would take three days and
nights.’

‘Their nephew,’ said Newman, ‘their old clerk.’

‘What could either do, that I cannot?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘With
reference to them, especially, I am enjoined to the strictest silence on
this subject. What right have I to betray the confidence reposed in me,
when nothing but a miracle can prevent this sacrifice?’

‘Think,’ urged Newman. ‘Is there no way?’

‘There is none,’ said Nicholas, in utter dejection. ‘Not one. The father
urges, the daughter consents. These demons have her in their toils;
legal right, might, power, money, and every influence are on their side.
How can I hope to save her?’

‘Hope to the last!’ said Newman, clapping him on the back. ‘Always hope;
that’s a dear boy. Never leave off hoping; it don’t answer. Do you mind
me, Nick? It don’t answer. Don’t leave a stone unturned. It’s always
something, to know you’ve done the most you could. But, don’t leave off
hoping, or it’s of no use doing anything. Hope, hope, to the last!’

Nicholas needed encouragement. The suddenness with which intelligence of
the two usurers’ plans had come upon him, the little time which remained
for exertion, the probability, almost amounting to certainty itself,
that a few hours would place Madeline Bray for ever beyond his reach,
consign her to unspeakable misery, and perhaps to an untimely death; all
this quite stunned and overwhelmed him. Every hope connected with her
that he had suffered himself to form, or had entertained unconsciously,
seemed to fall at his feet, withered and dead. Every charm with which
his memory or imagination had surrounded her, presented itself before
him, only to heighten his anguish and add new bitterness to his despair.
Every feeling of sympathy for her forlorn condition, and of admiration
for her heroism and fortitude, aggravated the indignation which shook
him in every limb, and swelled his heart almost to bursting.

But, if Nicholas’s own heart embarrassed him, Newman’s came to his
relief. There was so much earnestness in his remonstrance, and such
sincerity and fervour in his manner, odd and ludicrous as it always was,
that it imparted to Nicholas new firmness, and enabled him to say, after
he had walked on for some little way in silence:

‘You read me a good lesson, Newman, and I will profit by it. One step,
at least, I may take--am bound to take indeed--and to that I will apply
myself tomorrow.’

‘What is that?’ asked Noggs wistfully. ‘Not to threaten Ralph? Not to
see the father?’

‘To see the daughter, Newman,’ replied Nicholas. ‘To do what, after all,
is the utmost that the brothers could do, if they were here, as Heaven
send they were! To reason with her upon this hideous union, to point out
to her all the horrors to which she is hastening; rashly, it may be, and
without due reflection. To entreat her, at least, to pause. She can have
had no counsellor for her good. Perhaps even I may move her so far yet,
though it is the eleventh hour, and she upon the very brink of ruin.’

‘Bravely spoken!’ said Newman. ‘Well done, well done! Yes. Very good.’

‘And I do declare,’ cried Nicholas, with honest enthusiasm, ‘that in
this effort I am influenced by no selfish or personal considerations,
but by pity for her, and detestation and abhorrence of this scheme; and
that I would do the same, were there twenty rivals in the field, and I
the last and least favoured of them all.’

‘You would, I believe,’ said Newman. ‘But where are you hurrying now?’

‘Homewards,’ answered Nicholas. ‘Do you come with me, or I shall say
good-night?’

‘I’ll come a little way, if you will but walk: not run,’ said Noggs.

‘I cannot walk tonight, Newman,’ returned Nicholas, hurriedly. ‘I must
move rapidly, or I could not draw my breath. I’ll tell you what I’ve
said and done tomorrow.’

Without waiting for a reply, he darted off at a rapid pace, and,
plunging into the crowds which thronged the street, was quickly lost to
view.

‘He’s a violent youth at times,’ said Newman, looking after him; ‘and
yet I like him for it. There’s cause enough now, or the deuce is in it.
Hope! I SAID hope, I think! Ralph Nickleby and Gride with their heads
together! And hope for the opposite party! Ho! ho!’

It was with a very melancholy laugh that Newman Noggs concluded this
soliloquy; and it was with a very melancholy shake of the head, and a
very rueful countenance, that he turned about, and went plodding on his
way.

This, under ordinary circumstances, would have been to some small tavern
or dram-shop; that being his way, in more senses than one. But, Newman
was too much interested, and too anxious, to betake himself even to
this resource, and so, with many desponding and dismal reflections, went
straight home.

It had come to pass, that afternoon, that Miss Morleena Kenwigs had
received an invitation to repair next day, per steamer from Westminster
Bridge, unto the Eel-pie Island at Twickenham: there to make merry upon
a cold collation, bottled beer, shrub, and shrimps, and to dance in the
open air to the music of a locomotive band, conveyed thither for the
purpose: the steamer being specially engaged by a dancing-master of
extensive connection for the accommodation of his numerous pupils,
and the pupils displaying their appreciation of the dancing-master’s
services, by purchasing themselves, and inducing their friends to do the
like, divers light-blue tickets, entitling them to join the expedition.
Of these light-blue tickets, one had been presented by an ambitious
neighbour to Miss Morleena Kenwigs, with an invitation to join her
daughters; and Mrs. Kenwigs, rightly deeming that the honour of the
family was involved in Miss Morleena’s making the most splendid
appearance possible on so short a notice, and testifying to the
dancing-master that there were other dancing-masters besides him, and to
all fathers and mothers present that other people’s children could learn
to be genteel besides theirs, had fainted away twice under the magnitude
of her preparations, but, upheld by a determination to sustain the
family name or perish in the attempt, was still hard at work when Newman
Noggs came home.

Now, between the italian-ironing of frills, the flouncing of trousers,
the trimming of frocks, the faintings and the comings-to again,
incidental to the occasion, Mrs. Kenwigs had been so entirely occupied,
that she had not observed, until within half an hour before, that the
flaxen tails of Miss Morleena’s hair were, in a manner, run to seed; and
that, unless she were put under the hands of a skilful hairdresser, she
never could achieve that signal triumph over the daughters of all other
people, anything less than which would be tantamount to defeat. This
discovery drove Mrs. Kenwigs to despair; for the hairdresser lived three
streets and eight dangerous crossings off; Morleena could not be trusted
to go there alone, even if such a proceeding were strictly proper:
of which Mrs. Kenwigs had her doubts; Mr. Kenwigs had not returned from
business; and there was nobody to take her. So, Mrs. Kenwigs first
slapped Miss Kenwigs for being the cause of her vexation, and then shed
tears.

‘You ungrateful child!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘after I have gone through
what I have, this night, for your good.’

‘I can’t help it, ma,’ replied Morleena, also in tears; ‘my hair WILL
grow.’

‘Don’t talk to me, you naughty thing!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘don’t! Even if
I was to trust you by yourself and you were to escape being run over,
I know you’d run in to Laura Chopkins,’ who was the daughter of the
ambitious neighbour, ‘and tell her what you’re going to wear tomorrow,
I know you would. You’ve no proper pride in yourself, and are not to be
trusted out of sight for an instant.’

Deploring the evil-mindedness of her eldest daughter in these terms, Mrs
Kenwigs distilled fresh drops of vexation from her eyes, and declared
that she did believe there never was anybody so tried as she was.
Thereupon, Morleena Kenwigs wept afresh, and they bemoaned themselves
together.

Matters were at this point, as Newman Noggs was heard to limp past the
door on his way upstairs; when Mrs. Kenwigs, gaining new hope from the
sound of his footsteps, hastily removed from her countenance as many
traces of her late emotion as were effaceable on so short a notice: and
presenting herself before him, and representing their dilemma, entreated
that he would escort Morleena to the hairdresser’s shop.

‘I wouldn’t ask you, Mr. Noggs,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘if I didn’t know what
a good, kind-hearted creature you are; no, not for worlds. I am a weak
constitution, Mr. Noggs, but my spirit would no more let me ask a favour
where I thought there was a chance of its being refused, than it would
let me submit to see my children trampled down and trod upon, by envy
and lowness!’

Newman was too good-natured not to have consented, even without this
avowal of confidence on the part of Mrs. Kenwigs. Accordingly, a very few
minutes had elapsed, when he and Miss Morleena were on their way to the
hairdresser’s.

It was not exactly a hairdresser’s; that is to say, people of a coarse
and vulgar turn of mind might have called it a barber’s; for they not
only cut and curled ladies elegantly, and children carefully, but shaved
gentlemen easily. Still, it was a highly genteel establishment--quite
first-rate in fact--and there were displayed in the window, besides
other elegancies, waxen busts of a light lady and a dark gentleman which
were the admiration of the whole neighbourhood. Indeed, some ladies
had gone so far as to assert, that the dark gentleman was actually
a portrait of the spirted young proprietor; and the great similarity
between their head-dresses--both wore very glossy hair, with a narrow
walk straight down the middle, and a profusion of flat circular curls
on both sides--encouraged the idea. The better informed among the sex,
however, made light of this assertion, for however willing they were
(and they were very willing) to do full justice to the handsome face
and figure of the proprietor, they held the countenance of the dark
gentleman in the window to be an exquisite and abstract idea of
masculine beauty, realised sometimes, perhaps, among angels and military
men, but very rarely embodied to gladden the eyes of mortals.

It was to this establishment that Newman Noggs led Miss Kenwigs in
safety. The proprietor, knowing that Miss Kenwigs had three sisters,
each with two flaxen tails, and all good for sixpence apiece, once a
month at least, promptly deserted an old gentleman whom he had just
lathered for shaving, and handing him over to the journeyman, (who was
not very popular among the ladies, by reason of his obesity and middle
age,) waited on the young lady himself.

Just as this change had been effected, there presented himself for
shaving, a big, burly, good-humoured coal-heaver with a pipe in his
mouth, who, drawing his hand across his chin, requested to know when a
shaver would be disengaged.

The journeyman, to whom this question was put, looked doubtfully at
the young proprietor, and the young proprietor looked scornfully at the
coal-heaver: observing at the same time:

‘You won’t get shaved here, my man.’

‘Why not?’ said the coal-heaver.

‘We don’t shave gentlemen in your line,’ remarked the young proprietor.

‘Why, I see you a shaving of a baker, when I was a looking through the
winder, last week,’ said the coal-heaver.

‘It’s necessary to draw the line somewheres, my fine feller,’ replied
the principal. ‘We draw the line there. We can’t go beyond bakers. If we
was to get any lower than bakers, our customers would desert us, and
we might shut up shop. You must try some other establishment, sir. We
couldn’t do it here.’

The applicant stared; grinned at Newman Noggs, who appeared highly
entertained; looked slightly round the shop, as if in depreciation of
the pomatum pots and other articles of stock; took his pipe out of his
mouth and gave a very loud whistle; and then put it in again, and walked
out.

The old gentleman who had just been lathered, and who was sitting in a
melancholy manner with his face turned towards the wall, appeared quite
unconscious of this incident, and to be insensible to everything around
him in the depth of a reverie--a very mournful one, to judge from the
sighs he occasionally vented--in which he was absorbed. Affected by this
example, the proprietor began to clip Miss Kenwigs, the journeyman to
scrape the old gentleman, and Newman Noggs to read last Sunday’s paper,
all three in silence: when Miss Kenwigs uttered a shrill little scream,
and Newman, raising his eyes, saw that it had been elicited by the
circumstance of the old gentleman turning his head, and disclosing the
features of Mr. Lillyvick the collector.

The features of Mr. Lillyvick they were, but strangely altered. If ever
an old gentleman had made a point of appearing in public, shaved close
and clean, that old gentleman was Mr. Lillyvick. If ever a collector had
borne himself like a collector, and assumed, before all men, a solemn
and portentous dignity as if he had the world on his books and it was
all two quarters in arrear, that collector was Mr. Lillyvick. And
now, there he sat, with the remains of a beard at least a week old
encumbering his chin; a soiled and crumpled shirt-frill crouching, as
it were, upon his breast, instead of standing boldly out; a demeanour so
abashed and drooping, so despondent, and expressive of such humiliation,
grief, and shame; that if the souls of forty unsubstantial housekeepers,
all of whom had had their water cut off for non-payment of the rate,
could have been concentrated in one body, that one body could hardly
have expressed such mortification and defeat as were now expressed in
the person of Mr. Lillyvick the collector.

Newman Noggs uttered his name, and Mr. Lillyvick groaned: then coughed to
hide it. But the groan was a full-sized groan, and the cough was but a
wheeze.

‘Is anything the matter?’ said Newman Noggs.

‘Matter, sir!’ cried Mr. Lillyvick. ‘The plug of life is dry, sir, and
but the mud is left.’

This speech--the style of which Newman attributed to Mr. Lillyvick’s
recent association with theatrical characters--not being quite
explanatory, Newman looked as if he were about to ask another question,
when Mr. Lillyvick prevented him by shaking his hand mournfully, and then
waving his own.

‘Let me be shaved!’ said Mr. Lillyvick. ‘It shall be done before
Morleena; it IS Morleena, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Newman.

‘Kenwigses have got a boy, haven’t they?’ inquired the collector.

Again Newman said ‘Yes.’

‘Is it a nice boy?’ demanded the collector.

‘It ain’t a very nasty one,’ returned Newman, rather embarrassed by the
question.

‘Susan Kenwigs used to say,’ observed the collector, ‘that if ever she
had another boy, she hoped it might be like me. Is this one like me, Mr
Noggs?’

This was a puzzling inquiry; but Newman evaded it, by replying to Mr
Lillyvick, that he thought the baby might possibly come like him in
time.

‘I should be glad to have somebody like me, somehow,’ said Mr. Lillyvick,
‘before I die.’

‘You don’t mean to do that, yet awhile?’ said Newman.

Unto which Mr. Lillyvick replied in a solemn voice, ‘Let me be shaved!’
and again consigning himself to the hands of the journeyman, said no
more.

This was remarkable behaviour. So remarkable did it seem to Miss
Morleena, that that young lady, at the imminent hazard of having her ear
sliced off, had not been able to forbear looking round, some score of
times, during the foregoing colloquy. Of her, however, Mr. Lillyvick took
no notice: rather striving (so, at least, it seemed to Newman Noggs) to
evade her observation, and to shrink into himself whenever he attracted
her regards. Newman wondered very much what could have occasioned this
altered behaviour on the part of the collector; but, philosophically
reflecting that he would most likely know, sooner or later, and that
he could perfectly afford to wait, he was very little disturbed by the
singularity of the old gentleman’s deportment.

The cutting and curling being at last concluded, the old gentleman, who
had been some time waiting, rose to go, and, walking out with Newman
and his charge, took Newman’s arm, and proceeded for some time without
making any observation. Newman, who in power of taciturnity was excelled
by few people, made no attempt to break silence; and so they went
on, until they had very nearly reached Miss Morleena’s home, when Mr
Lillyvick said:

‘Were the Kenwigses very much overpowered, Mr. Noggs, by that news?’

‘What news?’ returned Newman.

‘That about--my--being--’

‘Married?’ suggested Newman.

‘Ah!’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, with another groan; this time not even
disguised by a wheeze.

‘It made ma cry when she knew it,’ interposed Miss Morleena, ‘but we
kept it from her for a long time; and pa was very low in his spirits,
but he is better now; and I was very ill, but I am better too.’

‘Would you give your great-uncle Lillyvick a kiss if he was to ask you,
Morleena?’ said the collector, with some hesitation.

‘Yes; uncle Lillyvick, I would,’ returned Miss Morleena, with the energy
of both her parents combined; ‘but not aunt Lillyvick. She’s not an aunt
of mine, and I’ll never call her one.’

Immediately upon the utterance of these words, Mr. Lillyvick caught Miss
Morleena up in his arms, and kissed her; and, being by this time at the
door of the house where Mr. Kenwigs lodged (which, as has been before
mentioned, usually stood wide open), he walked straight up into Mr
Kenwigs’s sitting-room, and put Miss Morleena down in the midst. Mr. and
Mrs. Kenwigs were at supper. At sight of their perjured relative, Mrs
Kenwigs turned faint and pale, and Mr. Kenwigs rose majestically.

‘Kenwigs,’ said the collector, ‘shake hands.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘the time has been, when I was proud to shake
hands with such a man as that man as now surweys me. The time has been,
sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘when a wisit from that man has excited in me and
my family’s boozums sensations both nateral and awakening. But, now, I
look upon that man with emotions totally surpassing everythink, and I
ask myself where is his Honour, where is his straight-for’ardness, and
where is his human natur?’

‘Susan Kenwigs,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, turning humbly to his niece, ‘don’t
you say anything to me?’

‘She is not equal to it, sir,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, striking the table
emphatically. ‘What with the nursing of a healthy babby, and the
reflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints of malt liquor a day is
hardly able to sustain her.’

‘I am glad,’ said the poor collector meekly, ‘that the baby is a healthy
one. I am very glad of that.’

This was touching the Kenwigses on their tenderest point. Mrs. Kenwigs
instantly burst into tears, and Mr. Kenwigs evinced great emotion.

‘My pleasantest feeling, all the time that child was expected,’ said Mr
Kenwigs, mournfully, ‘was a thinking, “If it’s a boy, as I hope it may
be; for I have heard its uncle Lillyvick say again and again he would
prefer our having a boy next, if it’s a boy, what will his uncle
Lillyvick say? What will he like him to be called? Will he be Peter, or
Alexander, or Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will he be?” And now when
I look at him; a precious, unconscious, helpless infant, with no use
in his little arms but to tear his little cap, and no use in his little
legs but to kick his little self--when I see him a lying on his mother’s
lap, cooing and cooing, and, in his innocent state, almost a choking
hisself with his little fist--when I see him such a infant as he is, and
think that that uncle Lillyvick, as was once a-going to be so fond of
him, has withdrawed himself away, such a feeling of wengeance comes over
me as no language can depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe was
a telling me to hate him.’

This affecting picture moved Mrs. Kenwigs deeply. After several imperfect
words, which vainly attempted to struggle to the surface, but were
drowned and washed away by the strong tide of her tears, she spake.

‘Uncle,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘to think that you should have turned your
back upon me and my dear children, and upon Kenwigs which is the author
of their being--you who was once so kind and affectionate, and who, if
anybody had told us such a thing of, we should have withered with scorn
like lightning--you that little Lillyvick, our first and earliest boy,
was named after at the very altar! Oh gracious!’

‘Was it money that we cared for?’ said Mr. Kenwigs. ‘Was it property that
we ever thought of?’

‘No,’ cried Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘I scorn it.’

‘So do I,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘and always did.’

‘My feelings have been lancerated,’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘my heart has been
torn asunder with anguish, I have been thrown back in my confinement,
my unoffending infant has been rendered uncomfortable and fractious,
Morleena has pined herself away to nothing; all this I forget and
forgive, and with you, uncle, I never can quarrel. But never ask me to
receive HER, never do it, uncle. For I will not, I will not, I won’t, I
won’t, I won’t!’

‘Susan, my dear,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, ‘consider your child.’

‘Yes,’ shrieked Mrs. Kenwigs, ‘I will consider my child! I will consider
my child! My own child, that no uncles can deprive me of; my own hated,
despised, deserted, cut-off little child.’ And, here, the emotions of
Mrs. Kenwigs became so violent, that Mr. Kenwigs was fain to administer
hartshorn internally, and vinegar externally, and to destroy a staylace,
four petticoat strings, and several small buttons.

Newman had been a silent spectator of this scene; for Mr. Lillyvick had
signed to him not to withdraw, and Mr. Kenwigs had further solicited
his presence by a nod of invitation. When Mrs. Kenwigs had been, in some
degree, restored, and Newman, as a person possessed of some influence
with her, had remonstrated and begged her to compose herself, Mr
Lillyvick said in a faltering voice:

‘I never shall ask anybody here to receive my--I needn’t mention the
word; you know what I mean. Kenwigs and Susan, yesterday was a week she
eloped with a half-pay captain!’

Mr. and Mrs. Kenwigs started together.

‘Eloped with a half-pay captain,’ repeated Mr. Lillyvick, ‘basely and
falsely eloped with a half-pay captain. With a bottle-nosed captain that
any man might have considered himself safe from. It was in this room,’
said Mr. Lillyvick, looking sternly round, ‘that I first see Henrietta
Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off, for ever.’

This declaration completely changed the whole posture of affairs.
Mrs. Kenwigs threw herself upon the old gentleman’s neck, bitterly
reproaching herself for her late harshness, and exclaiming, if she had
suffered, what must his sufferings have been! Mr. Kenwigs grasped
his hand, and vowed eternal friendship and remorse. Mrs. Kenwigs was
horror-stricken to think that she should ever have nourished in her
bosom such a snake, adder, viper, serpent, and base crocodile as
Henrietta Petowker. Mr. Kenwigs argued that she must have been bad indeed
not to have improved by so long a contemplation of Mrs. Kenwigs’s virtue.
Mrs. Kenwigs remembered that Mr. Kenwigs had often said that he was
not quite satisfied of the propriety of Miss Petowker’s conduct, and
wondered how it was that she could have been blinded by such a wretch.
Mr. Kenwigs remembered that he had had his suspicions, but did not wonder
why Mrs. Kenwigs had not had hers, as she was all chastity, purity, and
truth, and Henrietta all baseness, falsehood, and deceit. And Mr. and
Mrs. Kenwigs both said, with strong feelings and tears of sympathy, that
everything happened for the best; and conjured the good collector not to
give way to unavailing grief, but to seek consolation in the society
of those affectionate relations whose arms and hearts were ever open to
him.

‘Out of affection and regard for you, Susan and Kenwigs,’ said Mr
Lillyvick, ‘and not out of revenge and spite against her, for she is
below it, I shall, tomorrow morning, settle upon your children, and make
payable to the survivors of them when they come of age of marry, that
money that I once meant to leave ‘em in my will. The deed shall be
executed tomorrow, and Mr. Noggs shall be one of the witnesses. He hears
me promise this, and he shall see it done.’

Overpowered by this noble and generous offer, Mr. Kenwigs, Mrs. Kenwigs,
and Miss Morleena Kenwigs, all began to sob together; and the noise of
their sobbing, communicating itself to the next room, where the children
lay a-bed, and causing them to cry too, Mr. Kenwigs rushed wildly in,
and bringing them out in his arms, by two and two, tumbled them down in
their nightcaps and gowns at the feet of Mr. Lillyvick, and called upon
them to thank and bless him.

‘And now,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, when a heart-rending scene had ensued and
the children were cleared away again, ‘give me some supper. This took
place twenty mile from town. I came up this morning, and have being
lingering about all day, without being able to make up my mind to come
and see you. I humoured her in everything, she had her own way, she
did just as she pleased, and now she has done this. There was twelve
teaspoons and twenty-four pound in sovereigns--I missed them first--it’s
a trial--I feel I shall never be able to knock a double knock again,
when I go my rounds--don’t say anything more about it, please--the
spoons were worth--never mind--never mind!’

With such muttered outpourings as these, the old gentleman shed a few
tears; but, they got him into the elbow-chair, and prevailed upon him,
without much pressing, to make a hearty supper, and by the time he had
finished his first pipe, and disposed of half-a-dozen glasses out of a
crown bowl of punch, ordered by Mr. Kenwigs, in celebration of his return
to the bosom of his family, he seemed, though still very humble, quite
resigned to his fate, and rather relieved than otherwise by the flight
of his wife.

‘When I see that man,’ said Mr. Kenwigs, with one hand round Mrs
Kenwigs’s waist: his other hand supporting his pipe (which made him wink
and cough very much, for he was no smoker): and his eyes on Morleena,
who sat upon her uncle’s knee, ‘when I see that man as mingling, once
again, in the spear which he adorns, and see his affections deweloping
themselves in legitimate sitiwations, I feel that his nature is as
elewated and expanded, as his standing afore society as a public
character is unimpeached, and the woices of my infant children purvided
for in life, seem to whisper to me softly, “This is an ewent at which
Evins itself looks down!”’



CHAPTER 53

Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr. Ralph
Nickleby and Mr. Arthur Gride


With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose to which extreme
circumstances so often give birth, acting upon far less excitable and
more sluggish temperaments than that which was the lot of Madeline
Bray’s admirer, Nicholas started, at dawn of day, from the restless
couch which no sleep had visited on the previous night, and prepared
to make that last appeal, by whose slight and fragile thread her only
remaining hope of escape depended.

Although, to restless and ardent minds, morning may be the fitting
season for exertion and activity, it is not always at that time that
hope is strongest or the spirit most sanguine and buoyant. In trying
and doubtful positions, youth, custom, a steady contemplation of
the difficulties which surround us, and a familiarity with them,
imperceptibly diminish our apprehensions and beget comparative
indifference, if not a vague and reckless confidence in some relief,
the means or nature of which we care not to foresee. But when we come,
fresh, upon such things in the morning, with that dark and silent gap
between us and yesterday; with every link in the brittle chain of
hope, to rivet afresh; our hot enthusiasm subdued, and cool calm reason
substituted in its stead; doubt and misgiving revive. As the traveller
sees farthest by day, and becomes aware of rugged mountains and
trackless plains which the friendly darkness had shrouded from his sight
and mind together, so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of human life
sees, with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount, some new
height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which, last
night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light which gilds
all nature with its cheerful beams, seems but to shine upon the weary
obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.

So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to a situation
like his, he softly left the house, and, feeling as though to remain in
bed were to lose most precious time, and to be up and stirring were
in some way to promote the end he had in view, wandered into London;
perfectly well knowing that for hours to come he could not obtain speech
with Madeline, and could do nothing but wish the intervening time away.

And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly looked round on
the gradually increasing bustle and preparation for the day, everything
appeared to yield him some new occasion for despondency. Last night, the
sacrifice of a young, affectionate, and beautiful creature, to such
a wretch, and in such a cause, had seemed a thing too monstrous to
succeed; and the warmer he grew, the more confident he felt that some
interposition must save her from his clutches. But now, when he thought
how regularly things went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying
round; how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived tottering
on; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts were poor and
sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses, and how many of
those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each day and laid them down each
night, and lived and died, father and son, mother and child, race upon
race, and generation upon generation, without a home to shelter them or
the energies of one single man directed to their aid; how, in seeking,
not a luxurious and splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched
and inadequate subsistence, there were women and children in that one
town, divided into classes, numbered and estimated as regularly as the
noble families and folks of great degree, and reared from infancy to
drive most criminal and dreadful trades; how ignorance was punished and
never taught; how jail-doors gaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands
urged towards them by circumstances darkly curtaining their very
cradles’ heads, and but for which they might have earned their honest
bread and lived in peace; how many died in soul, and had no chance of
life; how many who could scarcely go astray, be they vicious as they
would, turned haughtily from the crushed and stricken wretch who could
scarce do otherwise, and who would have been a greater wonder had he
or she done well, than even they had they done ill; how much injustice,
misery, and wrong, there was, and yet how the world rolled on, from year
to year, alike careless and indifferent, and no man seeking to remedy or
redress it; when he thought of all this, and selected from the mass the
one slight case on which his thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that
there was little ground for hope, and little reason why it should not
form an atom in the huge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one
small and unimportant unit to swell the great amount.

But youth is not prone to contemplate the darkest side of a picture
it can shift at will. By dint of reflecting on what he had to do, and
reviving the train of thought which night had interrupted, Nicholas
gradually summoned up his utmost energy, and when the morning was
sufficiently advanced for his purpose, had no thought but that of using
it to the best advantage. A hasty breakfast taken, and such affairs of
business as required prompt attention disposed of, he directed his steps
to the residence of Madeline Bray: whither he lost no time in arriving.

It had occurred to him that, very possibly, the young lady might be
denied, although to him she never had been; and he was still pondering
upon the surest method of obtaining access to her in that case,
when, coming to the door of the house, he found it had been left
ajar--probably by the last person who had gone out. The occasion was
not one upon which to observe the nicest ceremony; therefore, availing
himself of this advantage, Nicholas walked gently upstairs and knocked
at the door of the room into which he had been accustomed to be shown.
Receiving permission to enter, from some person on the other side, he
opened the door and walked in.

Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone. It was nearly three
weeks since he had seen her last, but there was a change in the lovely
girl before him which told Nicholas, in startling terms, how much mental
suffering had been compressed into that short time. There are no words
which can express, nothing with which can be compared, the perfect
pallor, the clear transparent whiteness, of the beautiful face which
turned towards him when he entered. Her hair was a rich deep brown,
but shading that face, and straying upon a neck that rivalled it in
whiteness, it seemed by the strong contrast raven black. Something of
wildness and restlessness there was in the dark eye, but there was the
same patient look, the same expression of gentle mournfulness which he
well remembered, and no trace of a single tear. Most beautiful--more
beautiful, perhaps, than ever--there was something in her face which
quite unmanned him, and appeared far more touching than the wildest
agony of grief. It was not merely calm and composed, but fixed and
rigid, as though the violent effort which had summoned that composure
beneath her father’s eye, while it mastered all other thoughts, had
prevented even the momentary expression they had communicated to the
features from subsiding, and had fastened it there, as an evidence of
its triumph.

The father sat opposite to her; not looking directly in her face, but
glancing at her, as he talked with a gay air which ill disguised
the anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials were not on their
accustomed table, nor were any of the other tokens of her usual
occupations to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas had always
seen filled with fresh flowers were empty, or supplied only with a few
withered stalks and leaves. The bird was silent. The cloth that covered
his cage at night was not removed. His mistress had forgotten him.

There are times when, the mind being painfully alive to receive
impressions, a great deal may be noted at a glance. This was one, for
Nicholas had but glanced round him when he was recognised by Mr. Bray,
who said impatiently:

‘Now, sir, what do you want? Name your errand here, quickly, if you
please, for my daughter and I are busily engaged with other and more
important matters than those you come about. Come, sir, address yourself
to your business at once.’

Nicholas could very well discern that the irritability and impatience of
this speech were assumed, and that Bray, in his heart, was rejoiced at
any interruption which promised to engage the attention of his daughter.
He bent his eyes involuntarily upon the father as he spoke, and marked
his uneasiness; for he coloured and turned his head away.

The device, however, so far as it was a device for causing Madeline
to interfere, was successful. She rose, and advancing towards Nicholas
paused half-way, and stretched out her hand as expecting a letter.

‘Madeline,’ said her father impatiently, ‘my love, what are you doing?’

‘Miss Bray expects an inclosure perhaps,’ said Nicholas, speaking very
distinctly, and with an emphasis she could scarcely misunderstand. ‘My
employer is absent from England, or I should have brought a letter with
me. I hope she will give me time--a little time. I ask a very little
time.’

‘If that is all you come about, sir,’ said Mr. Bray, ‘you may make
yourself easy on that head. Madeline, my dear, I didn’t know this person
was in your debt?’

‘A--a trifle, I believe,’ returned Madeline, faintly.

‘I suppose you think now,’ said Bray, wheeling his chair round and
confronting Nicholas, ‘that, but for such pitiful sums as you bring
here, because my daughter has chosen to employ her time as she has, we
should starve?’

‘I have not thought about it,’ returned Nicholas.

‘You have not thought about it!’ sneered the invalid. ‘You know you HAVE
thought about it, and have thought that, and think so every time you
come here. Do you suppose, young man, that I don’t know what little
purse-proud tradesmen are, when, through some fortunate circumstances,
they get the upper hand for a brief day--or think they get the upper
hand--of a gentleman?’

‘My business,’ said Nicholas respectfully, ‘is with a lady.’

‘With a gentleman’s daughter, sir,’ returned the sick man, ‘and the
pettifogging spirit is the same. But perhaps you bring ORDERS, eh? Have
you any fresh ORDERS for my daughter, sir?’

Nicholas understood the tone of triumph in which this interrogatory was
put; but remembering the necessity of supporting his assumed character,
produced a scrap of paper purporting to contain a list of some subjects
for drawings which his employer desired to have executed; and with which
he had prepared himself in case of any such contingency.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Bray. ‘These are the orders, are they?’

‘Since you insist upon the term, sir, yes,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Then you may tell your master,’ said Bray, tossing the paper back
again, with an exulting smile, ‘that my daughter, Miss Madeline Bray,
condescends to employ herself no longer in such labours as these; that
she is not at his beck and call, as he supposes her to be; that we don’t
live upon his money, as he flatters himself we do; that he may give
whatever he owes us, to the first beggar that passes his shop, or add it
to his own profits next time he calculates them; and that he may go to
the devil for me. That’s my acknowledgment of his orders, sir!’

‘And this is the independence of a man who sells his daughter as he has
sold that weeping girl!’ thought Nicholas.

The father was too much absorbed with his own exultation to mark the
look of scorn which, for an instant, Nicholas could not have suppressed
had he been upon the rack. ‘There,’ he continued, after a short
silence, ‘you have your message and can retire--unless you have any
further--ha!--any further orders.’

‘I have none,’ said Nicholas; ‘nor, in the consideration of the station
you once held, have I used that or any other word which, however
harmless in itself, could be supposed to imply authority on my part or
dependence on yours. I have no orders, but I have fears--fears that I
will express, chafe as you may--fears that you may be consigning that
young lady to something worse than supporting you by the labour of her
hands, had she worked herself dead. These are my fears, and these fears
I found upon your own demeanour. Your conscience will tell you, sir,
whether I construe it well or not.’

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ cried Madeline, interposing in alarm between them.
‘Remember, sir, he is ill.’

‘Ill!’ cried the invalid, gasping and catching for breath. ‘Ill! Ill! I
am bearded and bullied by a shop-boy, and she beseeches him to pity me
and remember I am ill!’

He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so violent that for a few
moments Nicholas was alarmed for his life; but finding that he began to
recover, he withdrew, after signifying by a gesture to the young lady
that he had something important to communicate, and would wait for her
outside the room. He could hear that the sick man came gradually, but
slowly, to himself, and that without any reference to what had just
occurred, as though he had no distinct recollection of it as yet, he
requested to be left alone.

‘Oh!’ thought Nicholas, ‘that this slender chance might not be lost,
and that I might prevail, if it were but for one week’s time and
reconsideration!’

‘You are charged with some commission to me, sir,’ said Madeline,
presenting herself in great agitation. ‘Do not press it now, I beg and
pray you. The day after tomorrow; come here then.’

‘It will be too late--too late for what I have to say,’ rejoined
Nicholas, ‘and you will not be here. Oh, madam, if you have but one
thought of him who sent me here, but one last lingering care for your
own peace of mind and heart, I do for God’s sake urge you to give me a
hearing.’

She attempted to pass him, but Nicholas gently detained her.

‘A hearing,’ said Nicholas. ‘I ask you but to hear me: not me alone, but
him for whom I speak, who is far away and does not know your danger. In
the name of Heaven hear me!’

The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and red with weeping, stood
by; and to her Nicholas appealed in such passionate terms that she
opened a side-door, and, supporting her mistress into an adjoining room,
beckoned Nicholas to follow them.

‘Leave me, sir, pray,’ said the young lady.

‘I cannot, will not leave you thus,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I have a duty
to discharge; and, either here, or in the room from which we have just
now come, at whatever risk or hazard to Mr. Bray, I must beseech you to
contemplate again the fearful course to which you have been impelled.’

‘What course is this you speak of, and impelled by whom, sir?’ demanded
the young lady, with an effort to speak proudly.

‘I speak of this marriage,’ returned Nicholas, ‘of this marriage, fixed
for tomorrow, by one who never faltered in a bad purpose, or lent his
aid to any good design; of this marriage, the history of which is known
to me, better, far better, than it is to you. I know what web is wound
about you. I know what men they are from whom these schemes have come.
You are betrayed and sold for money; for gold, whose every coin is
rusted with tears, if not red with the blood of ruined men, who have
fallen desperately by their own mad hands.’

‘You say you have a duty to discharge,’ said Madeline, ‘and so have I.
And with the help of Heaven I will perform it.’

‘Say rather with the help of devils,’ replied Nicholas, ‘with the help
of men, one of them your destined husband, who are--’

‘I must not hear this,’ cried the young lady, striving to repress a
shudder, occasioned, as it seemed, even by this slight allusion to
Arthur Gride. ‘This evil, if evil it be, has been of my own seeking. I
am impelled to this course by no one, but follow it of my own free will.
You see I am not constrained or forced. Report this,’ said Madeline,
‘to my dear friend and benefactor, and, taking with you my prayers and
thanks for him and for yourself, leave me for ever!’

‘Not until I have besought you, with all the earnestness and fervour by
which I am animated,’ cried Nicholas, ‘to postpone this marriage for one
short week. Not until I have besought you to think more deeply than you
can have done, influenced as you are, upon the step you are about to
take. Although you cannot be fully conscious of the villainy of this man
to whom you are about to give your hand, some of his deeds you know. You
have heard him speak, and have looked upon his face. Reflect, reflect,
before it is too late, on the mockery of plighting to him at the altar,
faith in which your heart can have no share--of uttering solemn words,
against which nature and reason must rebel--of the degradation of
yourself in your own esteem, which must ensue, and must be aggravated
every day, as his detested character opens upon you more and more.
Shrink from the loathsome companionship of this wretch as you would from
corruption and disease. Suffer toil and labour if you will, but shun
him, shun him, and be happy. For, believe me, I speak the truth; the
most abject poverty, the most wretched condition of human life, with a
pure and upright mind, would be happiness to that which you must undergo
as the wife of such a man as this!’

Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the young lady buried her face in
her hands, and gave her tears free way. In a voice at first inarticulate
with emotion, but gradually recovering strength as she proceeded, she
answered him:

‘I will not disguise from you, sir--though perhaps I ought--that I have
undergone great pain of mind, and have been nearly broken-hearted since
I saw you last. I do NOT love this gentleman. The difference between our
ages, tastes, and habits, forbids it. This he knows, and knowing, still
offers me his hand. By accepting it, and by that step alone, I can
release my father who is dying in this place; prolong his life, perhaps,
for many years; restore him to comfort--I may almost call it affluence;
and relieve a generous man from the burden of assisting one, by whom,
I grieve to say, his noble heart is little understood. Do not think so
poorly of me as to believe that I feign a love I do not feel. Do not
report so ill of me, for THAT I could not bear. If I cannot, in reason
or in nature, love the man who pays this price for my poor hand, I can
discharge the duties of a wife: I can be all he seeks in me, and will.
He is content to take me as I am. I have passed my word, and should
rejoice, not weep, that it is so. I do. The interest you take in one so
friendless and forlorn as I, the delicacy with which you have discharged
your trust, the faith you have kept with me, have my warmest thanks:
and, while I make this last feeble acknowledgment, move me to tears,
as you see. But I do not repent, nor am I unhappy. I am happy in the
prospect of all I can achieve so easily. I shall be more so when I look
back upon it, and all is done, I know.’

‘Your tears fall faster as you talk of happiness,’ said Nicholas, ‘and
you shun the contemplation of that dark future which must be laden
with so much misery to you. Defer this marriage for a week. For but one
week!’

‘He was talking, when you came upon us just now, with such smiles as I
remember to have seen of old, and have not seen for many and many a day,
of the freedom that was to come tomorrow,’ said Madeline, with momentary
firmness, ‘of the welcome change, the fresh air: all the new scenes and
objects that would bring fresh life to his exhausted frame. His eye grew
bright, and his face lightened at the thought. I will not defer it for
an hour.’

‘These are but tricks and wiles to urge you on,’ cried Nicholas.

‘I’ll hear no more,’ said Madeline, hurriedly; ‘I have heard too
much--more than I should--already. What I have said to you, sir, I have
said as to that dear friend to whom I trust in you honourably to repeat
it. Some time hence, when I am more composed and reconciled to my new
mode of life, if I should live so long, I will write to him. Meantime,
all holy angels shower blessings on his head, and prosper and preserve
him.’

She was hurrying past Nicholas, when he threw himself before her, and
implored her to think, but once again, upon the fate to which she was
precipitately hastening.

‘There is no retreat,’ said Nicholas, in an agony of supplication; ‘no
withdrawing! All regret will be unavailing, and deep and bitter it must
be. What can I say, that will induce you to pause at this last moment?
What can I do to save you?’

‘Nothing,’ she incoherently replied. ‘This is the hardest trial I have
had. Have mercy on me, sir, I beseech, and do not pierce my heart with
such appeals as these. I--I hear him calling. I--I--must not, will not,
remain here for another instant.’

‘If this were a plot,’ said Nicholas, with the same violent rapidity
with which she spoke, ‘a plot, not yet laid bare by me, but which, with
time, I might unravel; if you were (not knowing it) entitled to fortune
of your own, which, being recovered, would do all that this marriage can
accomplish, would you not retract?’

‘No, no, no! It is impossible; it is a child’s tale. Time would bring
his death. He is calling again!’

‘It may be the last time we shall ever meet on earth,’ said Nicholas,
‘it may be better for me that we should never meet more.’

‘For both, for both,’ replied Madeline, not heeding what she said. ‘The
time will come when to recall the memory of this one interview might
drive me mad. Be sure to tell them, that you left me calm and happy. And
God be with you, sir, and my grateful heart and blessing!’

She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the house, thought of the
hurried scene which had just closed upon him, as if it were the phantom
of some wild, unquiet dream. The day wore on; at night, having been
enabled in some measure to collect his thoughts, he issued forth again.

That night, being the last of Arthur Gride’s bachelorship, found him in
tiptop spirits and great glee. The bottle-green suit had been brushed,
ready for the morrow. Peg Sliderskew had rendered the accounts of her
past housekeeping; the eighteen-pence had been rigidly accounted for
(she was never trusted with a larger sum at once, and the accounts were
not usually balanced more than twice a day); every preparation had
been made for the coming festival; and Arthur might have sat down and
contemplated his approaching happiness, but that he preferred sitting
down and contemplating the entries in a dirty old vellum-book with rusty
clasps.

‘Well-a-day!’ he chuckled, as sinking on his knees before a strong
chest screwed down to the floor, he thrust in his arm nearly up to the
shoulder, and slowly drew forth this greasy volume. ‘Well-a-day now,
this is all my library, but it’s one of the most entertaining books that
were ever written! It’s a delightful book, and all true and real--that’s
the best of it--true as the Bank of England, and real as its gold and
silver. Written by Arthur Gride. He, he, he! None of your storybook
writers will ever make as good a book as this, I warrant me. It’s
composed for private circulation, for my own particular reading, and
nobody else’s. He, he, he!’

Muttering this soliloquy, Arthur carried his precious volume to the
table, and, adjusting it upon a dusty desk, put on his spectacles, and
began to pore among the leaves.

‘It’s a large sum to Mr. Nickleby,’ he said, in a dolorous voice.
‘Debt to be paid in full, nine hundred and seventy-five, four, three.
Additional sum as per bond, five hundred pound. One thousand, four
hundred and seventy-five pounds, four shillings, and threepence,
tomorrow at twelve o’clock. On the other side, though, there’s the PER
CONTRA, by means of this pretty chick. But, again, there’s the question
whether I mightn’t have brought all this about, myself. “Faint heart
never won fair lady.” Why was my heart so faint? Why didn’t I boldly
open it to Bray myself, and save one thousand four hundred and
seventy-five, four, three?’

These reflections depressed the old usurer so much, as to wring a feeble
groan or two from his breast, and cause him to declare, with uplifted
hands, that he would die in a workhouse. Remembering on further
cogitation, however, that under any circumstances he must have paid, or
handsomely compounded for, Ralph’s debt, and being by no means confident
that he would have succeeded had he undertaken his enterprise alone, he
regained his equanimity, and chattered and mowed over more satisfactory
items, until the entrance of Peg Sliderskew interrupted him.

‘Aha, Peg!’ said Arthur, ‘what is it? What is it now, Peg?’

‘It’s the fowl,’ replied Peg, holding up a plate containing a little, a
very little one. Quite a phenomenon of a fowl. So very small and skinny.

‘A beautiful bird!’ said Arthur, after inquiring the price, and finding
it proportionate to the size. ‘With a rasher of ham, and an egg made
into sauce, and potatoes, and greens, and an apple pudding, Peg, and a
little bit of cheese, we shall have a dinner for an emperor. There’ll
only be she and me--and you, Peg, when we’ve done.’

‘Don’t you complain of the expense afterwards,’ said Mrs. Sliderskew,
sulkily.

‘I am afraid we must live expensively for the first week,’ returned
Arthur, with a groan, ‘and then we must make up for it. I won’t eat more
than I can help, and I know you love your old master too much to eat
more than YOU can help, don’t you, Peg?’

‘Don’t I what?’ said Peg.

‘Love your old master too much--’

‘No, not a bit too much,’ said Peg.

‘Oh, dear, I wish the devil had this woman!’ cried Arthur: ‘love him too
much to eat more than you can help at his expense.’

‘At his what?’ said Peg.

‘Oh dear! she can never hear the most important word, and hears all the
others!’ whined Gride. ‘At his expense--you catamaran!’

The last-mentioned tribute to the charms of Mrs. Sliderskew being uttered
in a whisper, that lady assented to the general proposition by a harsh
growl, which was accompanied by a ring at the street-door.

‘There’s the bell,’ said Arthur.

‘Ay, ay; I know that,’ rejoined Peg.

‘Then why don’t you go?’ bawled Arthur.

‘Go where?’ retorted Peg. ‘I ain’t doing any harm here, am I?’

Arthur Gride in reply repeated the word ‘bell’ as loud as he could roar;
and, his meaning being rendered further intelligible to Mrs. Sliderskew’s
dull sense of hearing by pantomime expressive of ringing at a
street-door, Peg hobbled out, after sharply demanding why he hadn’t said
there was a ring before, instead of talking about all manner of things
that had nothing to do with it, and keeping her half-pint of beer
waiting on the steps.

‘There’s a change come over you, Mrs. Peg,’ said Arthur, following her
out with his eyes. ‘What it means I don’t quite know; but, if it lasts,
we shan’t agree together long I see. You are turning crazy, I think. If
you are, you must take yourself off, Mrs. Peg--or be taken off. All’s one
to me.’ Turning over the leaves of his book as he muttered this, he soon
lighted upon something which attracted his attention, and forgot Peg
Sliderskew and everything else in the engrossing interest of its pages.

The room had no other light than that which it derived from a dim and
dirt-clogged lamp, whose lazy wick, being still further obscured by a
dark shade, cast its feeble rays over a very little space, and left all
beyond in heavy shadow. This lamp the money-lender had drawn so close to
him, that there was only room between it and himself for the book over
which he bent; and as he sat, with his elbows on the desk, and his sharp
cheek-bones resting on his hands, it only served to bring out his ugly
features in strong relief, together with the little table at which he
sat, and to shroud all the rest of the chamber in a deep sullen gloom.
Raising his eyes, and looking vacantly into this gloom as he made some
mental calculation, Arthur Gride suddenly met the fixed gaze of a man.

‘Thieves! thieves!’ shrieked the usurer, starting up and folding his
book to his breast. ‘Robbers! Murder!’

‘What is the matter?’ said the form, advancing.

‘Keep off!’ cried the trembling wretch. ‘Is it a man or a--a--’

‘For what do you take me, if not for a man?’ was the inquiry.

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Arthur Gride, shading his eyes with his hand, ‘it is a
man, and not a spirit. It is a man. Robbers! robbers!’

‘For what are these cries raised? Unless indeed you know me, and have
some purpose in your brain?’ said the stranger, coming close up to him.
‘I am no thief.’

‘What then, and how come you here?’ cried Gride, somewhat reassured, but
still retreating from his visitor: ‘what is your name, and what do you
want?’

‘My name you need not know,’ was the reply. ‘I came here, because I was
shown the way by your servant. I have addressed you twice or thrice, but
you were too profoundly engaged with your book to hear me, and I have
been silently waiting until you should be less abstracted. What I want
I will tell you, when you can summon up courage enough to hear and
understand me.’

Arthur Gride, venturing to regard his visitor more attentively, and
perceiving that he was a young man of good mien and bearing, returned to
his seat, and muttering that there were bad characters about, and
that this, with former attempts upon his house, had made him nervous,
requested his visitor to sit down. This, however, he declined.

‘Good God! I don’t stand up to have you at an advantage,’ said Nicholas
(for Nicholas it was), as he observed a gesture of alarm on the part of
Gride. ‘Listen to me. You are to be married tomorrow morning.’

‘N--n--no,’ rejoined Gride. ‘Who said I was? How do you know that?’

‘No matter how,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I know it. The young lady who is
to give you her hand hates and despises you. Her blood runs cold at the
mention of your name; the vulture and the lamb, the rat and the dove,
could not be worse matched than you and she. You see I know her.’

Gride looked at him as if he were petrified with astonishment, but did
not speak; perhaps lacking the power.

‘You and another man, Ralph Nickleby by name, have hatched this plot
between you,’ pursued Nicholas. ‘You pay him for his share in bringing
about this sale of Madeline Bray. You do. A lie is trembling on your
lips, I see.’

He paused; but, Arthur making no reply, resumed again.

‘You pay yourself by defrauding her. How or by what means--for I scorn
to sully her cause by falsehood or deceit--I do not know; at present I
do not know, but I am not alone or single-handed in this business. If
the energy of man can compass the discovery of your fraud and treachery
before your death; if wealth, revenge, and just hatred, can hunt and
track you through your windings; you will yet be called to a dear
account for this. We are on the scent already; judge you, who know what
we do not, when we shall have you down!’

He paused again, and still Arthur Gride glared upon him in silence.

‘If you were a man to whom I could appeal with any hope of touching
his compassion or humanity,’ said Nicholas, ‘I would urge upon you to
remember the helplessness, the innocence, the youth, of this lady; her
worth and beauty, her filial excellence, and last, and more than all,
as concerning you more nearly, the appeal she has made to your mercy and
your manly feeling. But, I take the only ground that can be taken with
men like you, and ask what money will buy you off. Remember the danger
to which you are exposed. You see I know enough to know much more with
very little help. Bate some expected gain for the risk you save, and say
what is your price.’

Old Arthur Gride moved his lips, but they only formed an ugly smile and
were motionless again.

‘You think,’ said Nicholas, ‘that the price would not be paid. Miss Bray
has wealthy friends who would coin their very hearts to save her in such
a strait as this. Name your price, defer these nuptials for but a few
days, and see whether those I speak of, shrink from the payment. Do you
hear me?’

When Nicholas began, Arthur Gride’s impression was, that Ralph Nickleby
had betrayed him; but, as he proceeded, he felt convinced that however
he had come by the knowledge he possessed, the part he acted was a
genuine one, and that with Ralph he had no concern. All he seemed to
know, for certain, was, that he, Gride, paid Ralph’s debt; but that,
to anybody who knew the circumstances of Bray’s detention--even to Bray
himself, on Ralph’s own statement--must be perfectly notorious. As to
the fraud on Madeline herself, his visitor knew so little about its
nature or extent, that it might be a lucky guess, or a hap-hazard
accusation. Whether or no, he had clearly no key to the mystery, and
could not hurt him who kept it close within his own breast. The
allusion to friends, and the offer of money, Gride held to be mere empty
vapouring, for purposes of delay. ‘And even if money were to be had,’
thought Arthur Gride, as he glanced at Nicholas, and trembled with
passion at his boldness and audacity, ‘I’d have that dainty chick for my
wife, and cheat YOU of her, young smooth-face!’

Long habit of weighing and noting well what clients said, and nicely
balancing chances in his mind and calculating odds to their faces,
without the least appearance of being so engaged, had rendered Gride
quick in forming conclusions, and arriving, from puzzling, intricate,
and often contradictory premises, at very cunning deductions. Hence
it was that, as Nicholas went on, he followed him closely with his own
constructions, and, when he ceased to speak, was as well prepared as if
he had deliberated for a fortnight.

‘I hear you,’ he cried, starting from his seat, casting back the
fastenings of the window-shutters, and throwing up the sash. ‘Help here!
Help! Help!’

‘What are you doing?’ said Nicholas, seizing him by the arm.

‘I’ll cry robbers, thieves, murder, alarm the neighbourhood, struggle
with you, let loose some blood, and swear you came to rob me, if
you don’t quit my house,’ replied Gride, drawing in his head with a
frightful grin, ‘I will!’

‘Wretch!’ cried Nicholas.

‘YOU’LL bring your threats here, will you?’ said Gride, whom jealousy
of Nicholas and a sense of his own triumph had converted into a perfect
fiend. ‘You, the disappointed lover? Oh dear! He! he! he! But you shan’t
have her, nor she you. She’s my wife, my doting little wife. Do you
think she’ll miss you? Do you think she’ll weep? I shall like to see her
weep, I shan’t mind it. She looks prettier in tears.’

‘Villain!’ said Nicholas, choking with his rage.

‘One minute more,’ cried Arthur Gride, ‘and I’ll rouse the street with
such screams, as, if they were raised by anybody else, should wake me
even in the arms of pretty Madeline.’

‘You hound!’ said Nicholas. ‘If you were but a younger man--’

‘Oh yes!’ sneered Arthur Gride, ‘If I was but a younger man it wouldn’t
be so bad; but for me, so old and ugly! To be jilted by little Madeline
for me!’

‘Hear me,’ said Nicholas, ‘and be thankful I have enough command over
myself not to fling you into the street, which no aid could prevent my
doing if I once grappled with you. I have been no lover of this lady’s.
No contract or engagement, no word of love, has ever passed between us.
She does not even know my name.’

‘I’ll ask it for all that. I’ll beg it of her with kisses,’ said Arthur
Gride. ‘Yes, and she’ll tell me, and pay them back, and we’ll laugh
together, and hug ourselves, and be very merry, when we think of the
poor youth that wanted to have her, but couldn’t because she was bespoke
by me!’

This taunt brought such an expression into the face of Nicholas, that
Arthur Gride plainly apprehended it to be the forerunner of his putting
his threat of throwing him into the street in immediate execution; for
he thrust his head out of the window, and holding tight on with both
hands, raised a pretty brisk alarm. Not thinking it necessary to abide
the issue of the noise, Nicholas gave vent to an indignant defiance,
and stalked from the room and from the house. Arthur Gride watched him
across the street, and then, drawing in his head, fastened the window as
before, and sat down to take breath.

‘If she ever turns pettish or ill-humoured, I’ll taunt her with that
spark,’ he said, when he had recovered. ‘She’ll little think I know
about him; and, if I manage it well, I can break her spirit by this
means and have her under my thumb. I’m glad nobody came. I didn’t call
too loud. The audacity to enter my house, and open upon me! But I shall
have a very good triumph tomorrow, and he’ll be gnawing his fingers off:
perhaps drown himself or cut his throat! I shouldn’t wonder! That would
make it quite complete, that would: quite.’

When he had become restored to his usual condition by these and other
comments on his approaching triumph, Arthur Gride put away his book,
and, having locked the chest with great caution, descended into the
kitchen to warn Peg Sliderskew to bed, and scold her for having afforded
such ready admission to a stranger.

The unconscious Peg, however, not being able to comprehend the offence
of which she had been guilty, he summoned her to hold the light, while
he made a tour of the fastenings, and secured the street-door with his
own hands.

‘Top bolt,’ muttered Arthur, fastening as he spoke, ‘bottom bolt, chain,
bar, double lock, and key out to put under my pillow! So, if any more
rejected admirers come, they may come through the keyhole. And now I’ll
go to sleep till half-past five, when I must get up to be married, Peg!’

With that, he jocularly tapped Mrs. Sliderskew under the chin, and
appeared, for the moment, inclined to celebrate the close of his
bachelor days by imprinting a kiss on her shrivelled lips. Thinking
better of it, however, he gave her chin another tap, in lieu of that
warmer familiarity, and stole away to bed.



CHAPTER 54

The Crisis of the Project and its Result


There are not many men who lie abed too late, or oversleep themselves,
on their wedding morning. A legend there is of somebody remarkable for
absence of mind, who opened his eyes upon the day which was to give him
a young wife, and forgetting all about the matter, rated his servants
for providing him with such fine clothes as had been prepared for the
festival. There is also a legend of a young gentleman, who, not having
before his eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such cases made
and provided, conceived a passion for his grandmother. Both cases are of
a singular and special kind and it is very doubtful whether either
can be considered as a precedent likely to be extensively followed by
succeeding generations.

Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his marriage garments of
bottle-green, a full hour before Mrs. Sliderskew, shaking off her
more heavy slumbers, knocked at his chamber door; and he had hobbled
downstairs in full array and smacked his lips over a scanty taste of his
favourite cordial, ere that delicate piece of antiquity enlightened the
kitchen with her presence.

‘Faugh!’ said Peg, grubbing, in the discharge of her domestic functions,
among a scanty heap of ashes in the rusty grate. ‘Wedding indeed! A
precious wedding! He wants somebody better than his old Peg to take care
of him, does he? And what has he said to me, many and many a time, to
keep me content with short food, small wages, and little fire? “My will,
Peg! my will!” says he: “I’m a bachelor--no friends--no relations, Peg.”
 Lies! And now he’s to bring home a new mistress, a baby-faced chit of a
girl! If he wanted a wife, the fool, why couldn’t he have one suitable
to his age, and that knew his ways? She won’t come in MY way, he says.
No, that she won’t, but you little think why, Arthur boy!’

While Mrs. Sliderskew, influenced possibly by some lingering feelings
of disappointment and personal slight, occasioned by her old master’s
preference for another, was giving loose to these grumblings below
stairs, Arthur Gride was cogitating in the parlour upon what had taken
place last night.

‘I can’t think how he can have picked up what he knows,’ said Arthur,
‘unless I have committed myself--let something drop at Bray’s, for
instance--which has been overheard. Perhaps I may. I shouldn’t be
surprised if that was it. Mr. Nickleby was often angry at my talking to
him before we got outside the door. I mustn’t tell him that part of
the business, or he’ll put me out of sorts, and make me nervous for the
day.’

Ralph was universally looked up to, and recognised among his fellows as
a superior genius, but upon Arthur Gride his stern unyielding character
and consummate art had made so deep an impression, that he was actually
afraid of him. Cringing and cowardly to the core by nature, Arthur Gride
humbled himself in the dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when they
had not this stake in common, would have licked his shoes and crawled
upon the ground before him rather than venture to return him word
for word, or retort upon him in any other spirit than one of the most
slavish and abject sycophancy.

To Ralph Nickleby’s, Arthur Gride now betook himself according to
appointment; and to Ralph Nickleby he related how, last night, some
young blustering blade, whom he had never seen, forced his way into his
house, and tried to frighten him from the proposed nuptials. Told, in
short, what Nicholas had said and done, with the slight reservation upon
which he had determined.

‘Well, and what then?’ said Ralph.

‘Oh! nothing more,’ rejoined Gride.

‘He tried to frighten you,’ said Ralph, ‘and you WERE frightened I
suppose; is that it?’

‘I frightened HIM by crying thieves and murder,’ replied Gride. ‘Once
I was in earnest, I tell you that, for I had more than half a mind to
swear he uttered threats, and demanded my life or my money.’

‘Oho!’ said Ralph, eyeing him askew. ‘Jealous too!’

‘Dear now, see that!’ cried Arthur, rubbing his hands and affecting to
laugh.

‘Why do you make those grimaces, man?’ said Ralph; ‘you ARE jealous--and
with good cause I think.’

‘No, no, no; not with good cause, hey? You don’t think with good cause,
do you?’ cried Arthur, faltering. ‘Do you though, hey?’

‘Why, how stands the fact?’ returned Ralph. ‘Here is an old man about
to be forced in marriage upon a girl; and to this old man there comes a
handsome young fellow--you said he was handsome, didn’t you?’

‘No!’ snarled Arthur Gride.

‘Oh!’ rejoined Ralph, ‘I thought you did. Well! Handsome or not
handsome, to this old man there comes a young fellow who casts all
manner of fierce defiances in his teeth--gums I should rather say--and
tells him in plain terms that his mistress hates him. What does he do
that for? Philanthropy’s sake?’

‘Not for love of the lady,’ replied Gride, ‘for he said that no word of
love--his very words--had ever passed between ‘em.’

‘He said!’ repeated Ralph, contemptuously. ‘But I like him for one
thing, and that is, his giving you this fair warning to keep your--what
is it?--Tit-tit or dainty chick--which?--under lock and key. Be careful,
Gride, be careful. It’s a triumph, too, to tear her away from a gallant
young rival: a great triumph for an old man! It only remains to keep her
safe when you have her--that’s all.’

‘What a man it is!’ cried Arthur Gride, affecting, in the extremity of
his torture, to be highly amused. And then he added, anxiously, ‘Yes; to
keep her safe, that’s all. And that isn’t much, is it?’

‘Much!’ said Ralph, with a sneer. ‘Why, everybody knows what easy things
to understand and to control, women are. But come, it’s very nearly time
for you to be made happy. You’ll pay the bond now, I suppose, to save us
trouble afterwards.’

‘Oh what a man you are!’ croaked Arthur.

‘Why not?’ said Ralph. ‘Nobody will pay you interest for the money, I
suppose, between this and twelve o’clock; will they?’

‘But nobody would pay you interest for it either, you know,’ returned
Arthur, leering at Ralph with all the cunning and slyness he could throw
into his face.

‘Besides which,’ said Ralph, suffering his lip to curl into a smile,
‘you haven’t the money about you, and you weren’t prepared for this, or
you’d have brought it with you; and there’s nobody you’d so much like to
accommodate as me. I see. We trust each other in about an equal degree.
Are you ready?’

Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and nod, and chatter, during this
last speech of Ralph’s, answered in the affirmative; and, producing from
his hat a couple of large white favours, pinned one on his breast, and
with considerable difficulty induced his friend to do the like. Thus
accoutred, they got into a hired coach which Ralph had in waiting, and
drove to the residence of the fair and most wretched bride.

Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradually failed him more and more
as they approached nearer and nearer to the house, was utterly dismayed
and cowed by the mournful silence which pervaded it. The face of the
poor servant girl, the only person they saw, was disfigured with tears
and want of sleep. There was nobody to receive or welcome them; and they
stole upstairs into the usual sitting-room, more like two burglars than
the bridegroom and his friend.

‘One would think,’ said Ralph, speaking, in spite of himself, in a low
and subdued voice, ‘that there was a funeral going on here, and not a
wedding.’

‘He, he!’ tittered his friend, ‘you are so--so very funny!’

‘I need be,’ remarked Ralph, drily, ‘for this is rather dull and
chilling. Look a little brisker, man, and not so hangdog like!’

‘Yes, yes, I will,’ said Gride. ‘But--but--you don’t think she’s coming
just yet, do you?’

‘Why, I suppose she’ll not come till she is obliged,’ returned Ralph,
looking at his watch, ‘and she has a good half-hour to spare yet. Curb
your impatience.’

‘I--I--am not impatient,’ stammered Arthur. ‘I wouldn’t be hard with
her for the world. Oh dear, dear, not on any account. Let her take her
time--her own time. Her time shall be ours by all means.’

While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend a keen look, which showed
that he perfectly understood the reason of this great consideration and
regard, a footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Bray himself came into
the room on tiptoe, and holding up his hand with a cautious gesture, as
if there were some sick person near, who must not be disturbed.

‘Hush!’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She was very ill last night. I thought
she would have broken her heart. She is dressed, and crying bitterly in
her own room; but she’s better, and quite quiet. That’s everything!’

‘She is ready, is she?’ said Ralph.

‘Quite ready,’ returned the father.

‘And not likely to delay us by any young-lady weaknesses--fainting, or
so forth?’ said Ralph.

‘She may be safely trusted now,’ returned Bray. ‘I have been talking to
her this morning. Here! Come a little this way.’

He drew Ralph Nickleby to the further end of the room, and pointed
towards Gride, who sat huddled together in a corner, fumbling nervously
with the buttons of his coat, and exhibiting a face, of which every
skulking and base expression was sharpened and aggravated to the utmost
by his anxiety and trepidation.

‘Look at that man,’ whispered Bray, emphatically. ‘This seems a cruel
thing, after all.’

‘What seems a cruel thing?’ inquired Ralph, with as much stolidity of
face, as if he really were in utter ignorance of the other’s meaning.

‘This marriage,’ answered Bray. ‘Don’t ask me what. You know as well as
I do.’

Ralph shrugged his shoulders, in silent deprecation of Bray’s
impatience, and elevated his eyebrows, and pursed his lips, as men do
when they are prepared with a sufficient answer to some remark, but wait
for a more favourable opportunity of advancing it, or think it scarcely
worth while to answer their adversary at all.

‘Look at him. Does it not seem cruel?’ said Bray.

‘No!’ replied Ralph, boldly.

‘I say it does,’ retorted Bray, with a show of much irritation. ‘It is a
cruel thing, by all that’s bad and treacherous!’

When men are about to commit, or to sanction the commission of some
injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity for the object
either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feel themselves, at
the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immensely superior to those
who express no pity at all. This is a kind of upholding of faith above
works, and is very comfortable. To do Ralph Nickleby justice, he seldom
practised this sort of dissimulation; but he understood those who
did, and therefore suffered Bray to say, again and again, with great
vehemence, that they were jointly doing a very cruel thing, before he
again offered to interpose a word.

‘You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old chip it is,’ returned
Ralph, when the other was at length silent. ‘If he were younger, it
might be cruel, but as it is--harkee, Mr. Bray, he’ll die soon, and leave
her a rich young widow! Miss Madeline consults your tastes this time;
let her consult her own next.’

‘True, true,’ said Bray, biting his nails, and plainly very ill at ease.
‘I couldn’t do anything better for her than advise her to accept these
proposals, could I? Now, I ask you, Nickleby, as a man of the world;
could I?’

‘Surely not,’ answered Ralph. ‘I tell you what, sir; there are a hundred
fathers, within a circuit of five miles from this place; well off; good,
rich, substantial men; who would gladly give their daughters, and their
own ears with them, to that very man yonder, ape and mummy as he looks.’

‘So there are!’ exclaimed Bray, eagerly catching at anything which
seemed a justification of himself. ‘And so I told her, both last night
and today.’

‘You told her truth,’ said Ralph, ‘and did well to do so; though I
must say, at the same time, that if I had a daughter, and my freedom,
pleasure, nay, my very health and life, depended on her taking a husband
whom I pointed out, I should hope it would not be necessary to advance
any other arguments to induce her to consent to my wishes.’

Bray looked at Ralph as if to see whether he spoke in earnest, and
having nodded twice or thrice in unqualified assent to what had fallen
from him, said:

‘I must go upstairs for a few minutes, to finish dressing. When I come
down, I’ll bring Madeline with me. Do you know, I had a very strange
dream last night, which I have not remembered till this instant. I
dreamt that it was this morning, and you and I had been talking as we
have been this minute; that I went upstairs, for the very purpose
for which I am going now; and that as I stretched out my hand to take
Madeline’s, and lead her down, the floor sunk with me, and after falling
from such an indescribable and tremendous height as the imagination
scarcely conceives, except in dreams, I alighted in a grave.’

‘And you awoke, and found you were lying on your back, or with your head
hanging over the bedside, or suffering some pain from indigestion?’ said
Ralph. ‘Pshaw, Mr. Bray! Do as I do (you will have the opportunity, now
that a constant round of pleasure and enjoyment opens upon you), and,
occupying yourself a little more by day, have no time to think of what
you dream by night.’

Ralph followed him, with a steady look, to the door; and, turning to the
bridegroom, when they were again alone, said,

‘Mark my words, Gride, you won’t have to pay HIS annuity very long. You
have the devil’s luck in bargains, always. If he is not booked to make
the long voyage before many months are past and gone, I wear an orange
for a head!’

To this prophecy, so agreeable to his ears, Arthur returned no answer
than a cackle of great delight. Ralph, throwing himself into a chair,
they both sat waiting in profound silence. Ralph was thinking, with a
sneer upon his lips, on the altered manner of Bray that day, and
how soon their fellowship in a bad design had lowered his pride and
established a familiarity between them, when his attentive ear caught
the rustling of a female dress upon the stairs, and the footstep of a
man.

‘Wake up,’ he said, stamping his foot impatiently upon the ground, ‘and
be something like life, man, will you? They are here. Urge those dry old
bones of yours this way. Quick, man, quick!’

Gride shambled forward, and stood, leering and bowing, close by Ralph’s
side, when the door opened and there entered in haste--not Bray and his
daughter, but Nicholas and his sister Kate.

If some tremendous apparition from the world of shadows had suddenly
presented itself before him, Ralph Nickleby could not have been more
thunder-stricken than he was by this surprise. His hands fell powerless
by his side, he reeled back; and with open mouth, and a face of
ashy paleness, stood gazing at them in speechless rage: his eyes so
prominent, and his face so convulsed and changed by the passions which
raged within him, that it would have been difficult to recognise in him
the same stern, composed, hard-featured man he had been not a minute
ago.

‘The man that came to me last night,’ whispered Gride, plucking at his
elbow. ‘The man that came to me last night!’

‘I see,’ muttered Ralph, ‘I know! I might have guessed as much before.
Across my every path, at every turn, go where I will, do what I may, he
comes!’

The absence of all colour from the face; the dilated nostril; the
quivering of the lips which, though set firmly against each other, would
not be still; showed what emotions were struggling for the mastery
with Nicholas. But he kept them down, and gently pressing Kate’s arm
to reassure her, stood erect and undaunted, front to front with his
unworthy relative.

As the brother and sister stood side by side, with a gallant bearing
which became them well, a close likeness between them was apparent,
which many, had they only seen them apart, might have failed to remark.
The air, carriage, and very look and expression of the brother were all
reflected in the sister, but softened and refined to the nicest limit
of feminine delicacy and attraction. More striking still was some
indefinable resemblance, in the face of Ralph, to both. While they had
never looked more handsome, nor he more ugly; while they had never held
themselves more proudly, nor he shrunk half so low; there never had been
a time when this resemblance was so perceptible, or when all the worst
characteristics of a face rendered coarse and harsh by evil thoughts
were half so manifest as now.

‘Away!’ was the first word he could utter as he literally gnashed his
teeth. ‘Away! What brings you here? Liar, scoundrel, dastard, thief!’

‘I come here,’ said Nicholas in a low deep voice, ‘to save your victim
if I can. Liar and scoundrel you are, in every action of your life;
theft is your trade; and double dastard you must be, or you were not
here today. Hard words will not move me, nor would hard blows. Here I
stand, and will, till I have done my errand.’

‘Girl!’ said Ralph, ‘retire! We can use force to him, but I would not
hurt you if I could help it. Retire, you weak and silly wench, and leave
this dog to be dealt with as he deserves.’

‘I will not retire,’ cried Kate, with flashing eyes and the red blood
mantling in her cheeks. ‘You will do him no hurt that he will not repay.
You may use force with me; I think you will, for I AM a girl, and that
would well become you. But if I have a girl’s weakness, I have a woman’s
heart, and it is not you who in a cause like this can turn that from its
purpose.’

‘And what may your purpose be, most lofty lady?’ said Ralph.

‘To offer to the unhappy subject of your treachery, at this last
moment,’ replied Nicholas, ‘a refuge and a home. If the near prospect
of such a husband as you have provided will not prevail upon her, I hope
she may be moved by the prayers and entreaties of one of her own sex.
At all events they shall be tried. I myself, avowing to her father from
whom I come and by whom I am commissioned, will render it an act of
greater baseness, meanness, and cruelty in him if he still dares to
force this marriage on. Here I wait to see him and his daughter. For
this I came and brought my sister even into your presence. Our purpose
is not to see or speak with you; therefore to you we stoop to say no
more.’

‘Indeed!’ said Ralph. ‘You persist in remaining here, ma’am, do you?’

His niece’s bosom heaved with the indignant excitement into which he had
lashed her, but she gave him no reply.

‘Now, Gride, see here,’ said Ralph. ‘This fellow--I grieve to say my
brother’s son: a reprobate and profligate, stained with every mean
and selfish crime--this fellow, coming here today to disturb a solemn
ceremony, and knowing that the consequence of his presenting himself in
another man’s house at such a time, and persisting in remaining there,
must be his being kicked into the streets and dragged through them like
the vagabond he is--this fellow, mark you, brings with him his sister
as a protection, thinking we would not expose a silly girl to the
degradation and indignity which is no novelty to him; and, even after
I have warned her of what must ensue, he still keeps her by him, as
you see, and clings to her apron-strings like a cowardly boy to his
mother’s. Is not this a pretty fellow to talk as big as you have heard
him now?’

‘And as I heard him last night,’ said Arthur Gride; ‘as I heard him last
night when he sneaked into my house, and--he! he! he!--very soon sneaked
out again, when I nearly frightened him to death. And HE wanting to
marry Miss Madeline too! Oh dear! Is there anything else he’d like?
Anything else we can do for him, besides giving her up? Would he like
his debts paid and his house furnished, and a few bank notes for shaving
paper if he shaves at all? He! he! he!’

‘You will remain, girl, will you?’ said Ralph, turning upon Kate again,
‘to be hauled downstairs like a drunken drab, as I swear you shall if
you stop here? No answer! Thank your brother for what follows. Gride,
call down Bray--and not his daughter. Let them keep her above.’

‘If you value your head,’ said Nicholas, taking up a position before the
door, and speaking in the same low voice in which he had spoken before,
and with no more outward passion than he had before displayed; ‘stay
where you are!’

‘Mind me, and not him, and call down Bray,’ said Ralph.

‘Mind yourself rather than either of us, and stay where you are!’ said
Nicholas.

‘Will you call down Bray?’ cried Ralph.

‘Remember that you come near me at your peril,’ said Nicholas.

Gride hesitated. Ralph being, by this time, as furious as a baffled
tiger, made for the door, and, attempting to pass Kate, clasped her arm
roughly with his hand. Nicholas, with his eyes darting fire, seized him
by the collar. At that moment, a heavy body fell with great violence
on the floor above, and, in an instant afterwards, was heard a most
appalling and terrific scream.

They all stood still, and gazed upon each other. Scream succeeded
scream; a heavy pattering of feet succeeded; and many shrill voices
clamouring together were heard to cry, ‘He is dead!’

‘Stand off!’ cried Nicholas, letting loose all the passion he had
restrained till now; ‘if this is what I scarcely dare to hope it is, you
are caught, villains, in your own toils.’

He burst from the room, and, darting upstairs to the quarter from whence
the noise proceeded, forced his way through a crowd of persons who quite
filled a small bed-chamber, and found Bray lying on the floor quite
dead; his daughter clinging to the body.

‘How did this happen?’ he cried, looking wildly about him.

Several voices answered together, that he had been observed, through
the half-opened door, reclining in a strange and uneasy position upon a
chair; that he had been spoken to several times, and not answering, was
supposed to be asleep, until some person going in and shaking him by the
arm, he fell heavily to the ground and was discovered to be dead.

‘Who is the owner of this house?’ said Nicholas, hastily.

An elderly woman was pointed out to him; and to her he said, as he knelt
down and gently unwound Madeline’s arms from the lifeless mass round
which they were entwined: ‘I represent this lady’s nearest friends, as
her servant here knows, and must remove her from this dreadful scene.
This is my sister to whose charge you confide her. My name and address
are upon that card, and you shall receive from me all necessary
directions for the arrangements that must be made. Stand aside, every
one of you, and give me room and air for God’s sake!’

The people fell back, scarce wondering more at what had just occurred,
than at the excitement and impetuosity of him who spoke. Nicholas,
taking the insensible girl in his arms, bore her from the chamber and
downstairs into the room he had just quitted, followed by his sister and
the faithful servant, whom he charged to procure a coach directly, while
he and Kate bent over their beautiful charge and endeavoured, but in
vain, to restore her to animation. The girl performed her office with
such expedition, that in a very few minutes the coach was ready.

Ralph Nickleby and Gride, stunned and paralysed by the awful event
which had so suddenly overthrown their schemes (it would not otherwise,
perhaps, have made much impression on them), and carried away by the
extraordinary energy and precipitation of Nicholas, which bore down
all before him, looked on at these proceedings like men in a dream
or trance. It was not until every preparation was made for Madeline’s
immediate removal that Ralph broke silence by declaring she should not
be taken away.

‘Who says so?’ cried Nicholas, rising from his knee and confronting
them, but still retaining Madeline’s lifeless hand in his.

‘I!’ answered Ralph, hoarsely.

‘Hush, hush!’ cried the terrified Gride, catching him by the arm again.
‘Hear what he says.’

‘Ay!’ said Nicholas, extending his disengaged hand in the air, ‘hear
what he says. That both your debts are paid in the one great debt of
nature. That the bond, due today at twelve, is now waste paper. That
your contemplated fraud shall be discovered yet. That your schemes are
known to man, and overthrown by Heaven. Wretches, that he defies you
both to do your worst.’

‘This man,’ said Ralph, in a voice scarcely intelligible, ‘this man
claims his wife, and he shall have her.’

‘That man claims what is not his, and he should not have her if he were
fifty men, with fifty more to back him,’ said Nicholas.

‘Who shall prevent him?’

‘I will.’

‘By what right I should like to know,’ said Ralph. ‘By what right I
ask?’

‘By this right. That, knowing what I do, you dare not tempt me further,’
said Nicholas, ‘and by this better right; that those I serve, and with
whom you would have done me base wrong and injury, are her nearest and
her dearest friends. In their name I bear her hence. Give way!’

‘One word!’ cried Ralph, foaming at the mouth.

‘Not one,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I will not hear of one--save this. Look to
yourself, and heed this warning that I give you! Your day is past, and
night is comin’ on.’

‘My curse, my bitter, deadly curse, upon you, boy!’

‘Whence will curses come at your command? Or what avails a curse or
blessing from a man like you? I tell you, that misfortune and discovery
are thickening about your head; that the structures you have raised,
through all your ill-spent life, are crumbling into dust; that your path
is beset with spies; that this very day, ten thousand pounds of your
hoarded wealth have gone in one great crash!’

‘’Tis false!’ cried Ralph, shrinking back.

‘’Tis true, and you shall find it so. I have no more words to waste.
Stand from the door. Kate, do you go first. Lay not a hand on her, or on
that woman, or on me, or so much a brush their garments as they pass you
by!--You let them pass, and he blocks the door again!’

Arthur Gride happened to be in the doorway, but whether intentionally
or from confusion was not quite apparent. Nicholas swung him away, with
such violence as to cause him to spin round the room until he was caught
by a sharp angle of the wall, and there knocked down; and then taking
his beautiful burden in his arms rushed out. No one cared to stop him,
if any were so disposed. Making his way through a mob of people, whom a
report of the circumstances had attracted round the house, and carrying
Madeline, in his excitement, as easily as if she were an infant, he
reached the coach in which Kate and the girl were already waiting, and,
confiding his charge to them, jumped up beside the coachman and bade him
drive away.



CHAPTER 55

Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows


Although Mrs. Nickleby had been made acquainted by her son and daughter
with every circumstance of Madeline Bray’s history which was known to
them; although the responsible situation in which Nicholas stood had
been carefully explained to her, and she had been prepared, even for
the possible contingency of having to receive the young lady in her
own house, improbable as such a result had appeared only a few minutes
before it came about, still, Mrs. Nickleby, from the moment when this
confidence was first reposed in her, late on the previous evening, had
remained in an unsatisfactory and profoundly mystified state, from which
no explanations or arguments could relieve her, and which every fresh
soliloquy and reflection only aggravated more and more.

‘Bless my heart, Kate!’ so the good lady argued; ‘if the Mr. Cheerybles
don’t want this young lady to be married, why don’t they file a bill
against the Lord Chancellor, make her a Chancery ward, and shut her
up in the Fleet prison for safety?--I have read of such things in the
newspapers a hundred times. Or, if they are so very fond of her as
Nicholas says they are, why don’t they marry her themselves--one of them
I mean? And even supposing they don’t want her to be married, and don’t
want to marry her themselves, why in the name of wonder should Nicholas
go about the world, forbidding people’s banns?’

‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said Kate, gently.

‘Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you’re very polite!’ replied Mrs
Nickleby. ‘I have been married myself I hope, and I have seen other
people married. Not understand, indeed!’

‘I know you have had great experience, dear mama,’ said Kate; ‘I mean
that perhaps you don’t quite understand all the circumstances in this
instance. We have stated them awkwardly, I dare say.’

‘That I dare say you have,’ retorted her mother, briskly. ‘That’s very
likely. I am not to be held accountable for that; though, at the same
time, as the circumstances speak for themselves, I shall take the
liberty, my love, of saying that I do understand them, and perfectly
well too; whatever you and Nicholas may choose to think to the contrary.
Why is such a great fuss made because this Miss Magdalen is going to
marry somebody who is older than herself? Your poor papa was older than
I was, four years and a half older. Jane Dibabs--the Dibabses lived in
the beautiful little thatched white house one story high, covered all
over with ivy and creeping plants, with an exquisite little porch with
twining honysuckles and all sorts of things: where the earwigs used
to fall into one’s tea on a summer evening, and always fell upon their
backs and kicked dreadfully, and where the frogs used to get into the
rushlight shades when one stopped all night, and sit up and look through
the little holes like Christians--Jane Dibabs, SHE married a man who was
a great deal older than herself, and WOULD marry him, notwithstanding
all that could be said to the contrary, and she was so fond of him that
nothing was ever equal to it. There was no fuss made about Jane Dibabs,
and her husband was a most honourable and excellent man, and everybody
spoke well of him. Then why should there by any fuss about this
Magdalen?’

‘Her husband is much older; he is not her own choice; his character is
the very reverse of that which you have just described. Don’t you see a
broad destinction between the two cases?’ said Kate.

To this, Mrs. Nickleby only replied that she durst say she was very
stupid, indeed she had no doubt she was, for her own children almost as
much as told her so, every day of her life; to be sure she was a little
older than they, and perhaps some foolish people might think she ought
reasonably to know best. However, no doubt she was wrong; of course she
was; she always was, she couldn’t be right, she couldn’t be expected
to be; so she had better not expose herself any more; and to all Kate’s
conciliations and concessions for an hour ensuing, the good lady gave no
other replies than Oh, certainly, why did they ask HER?, HER opinion
was of no consequence, it didn’t matter what SHE said, with many other
rejoinders of the same class.

In this frame of mind (expressed, when she had become too resigned
for speech, by nods of the head, upliftings of the eyes, and little
beginnings of groans, converted, as they attracted attention, into short
coughs), Mrs. Nickleby remained until Nicholas and Kate returned with the
object of their solicitude; when, having by this time asserted her own
importance, and becoming besides interested in the trials of one
so young and beautiful, she not only displayed the utmost zeal and
solicitude, but took great credit to herself for recommending the course
of procedure which her son had adopted: frequently declaring, with an
expressive look, that it was very fortunate things were AS they were:
and hinting, that but for great encouragement and wisdom on her own
part, they never could have been brought to that pass.

Not to strain the question whether Mrs. Nickleby had or had not any great
hand in bringing matters about, it is unquestionable that she had strong
ground for exultation. The brothers, on their return, bestowed such
commendations on Nicholas for the part he had taken, and evinced so
much joy at the altered state of events and the recovery of their young
friend from trials so great and dangers so threatening, that, as she
more than once informed her daughter, she now considered the fortunes of
the family ‘as good as’ made. Mr. Charles Cheeryble, indeed, Mrs. Nickleby
positively asserted, had, in the first transports of his surprise and
delight, ‘as good as’ said so. Without precisely explaining what this
qualification meant, she subsided, whenever she mentioned the subject,
into such a mysterious and important state, and had such visions of
wealth and dignity in perspective, that (vague and clouded though they
were) she was, at such times, almost as happy as if she had really been
permanently provided for, on a scale of great splendour.

The sudden and terrible shock she had received, combined with the great
affliction and anxiety of mind which she had, for a long time, endured,
proved too much for Madeline’s strength. Recovering from the state of
stupefaction into which the sudden death of her father happily plunged
her, she only exchanged that condition for one of dangerous and active
illness. When the delicate physical powers which have been sustained
by an unnatural strain upon the mental energies and a resolute
determination not to yield, at last give way, their degree of
prostration is usually proportionate to the strength of the effort which
has previously upheld them. Thus it was that the illness which fell
on Madeline was of no slight or temporary nature, but one which, for a
time, threatened her reason, and--scarcely worse--her life itself.

Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe and dangerous, could
be insensible to the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as gentle,
tender, earnest Kate? On whom could the sweet soft voice, the light
step, the delicate hand, the quiet, cheerful, noiseless discharge of
those thousand little offices of kindness and relief which we feel so
deeply when we are ill, and forget so lightly when we are well--on whom
could they make so deep an impression as on a young heart stored with
every pure and true affection that women cherish; almost a stranger to
the endearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt them from
itself; and rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly susceptible of
the sympathy so long unknown and so long sought in vain? What wonder
that days became as years in knitting them together! What wonder,
if with every hour of returning health, there came some stronger and
sweeter recognition of the praises which Kate, when they recalled old
scenes--they seemed old now, and to have been acted years ago--would
lavish on her brother! Where would have been the wonder, even, if those
praises had found a quick response in the breast of Madeline, and if,
with the image of Nicholas so constantly recurring in the features of
his sister that she could scarcely separate the two, she had sometimes
found it equally difficult to assign to each the feelings they had first
inspired, and had imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to Nicholas,
some of that warmer feeling which she had assigned to Kate?

‘My dear,’ Mrs. Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an
elaborate caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid
rather more than the entry of a horse-soldier at full gallop; ‘how do
you find yourself tonight? I hope you are better.’

‘Almost well, mama,’ Kate would reply, laying down her work, and taking
Madeline’s hand in hers.

‘Kate!’ Mrs. Nickleby would say, reprovingly, ‘don’t talk so loud’ (the
worthy lady herself talking in a whisper that would have made the blood
of the stoutest man run cold in his veins).

Kate would take this reproof very quietly, and Mrs. Nickleby, making
every board creak and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily about,
would add:

‘My son Nicholas has just come home, and I have come, according to
custom, my dear, to know, from your own lips, exactly how you are; for
he won’t take my account, and never will.’

‘He is later than usual to-night,’ perhaps Madeline would reply. ‘Nearly
half an hour.’

‘Well, I never saw such people in all my life as you are, for time, up
here!’ Mrs. Nickleby would exclaim in great astonishment; ‘I declare I
never did! I had not the least idea that Nicholas was after his time,
not the smallest. Mr. Nickleby used to say--your poor papa, I am speaking
of, Kate my dear--used to say, that appetite was the best clock in the
world, but you have no appetite, my dear Miss Bray, I wish you had, and
upon my word I really think you ought to take something that would give
you one. I am sure I don’t know, but I have heard that two or three
dozen native lobsters give an appetite, though that comes to the same
thing after all, for I suppose you must have an appetite before you can
take ‘em. If I said lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it’s all
the same, though really how you came to know about Nicholas--’

‘We happened to be just talking about him, mama; that was it.’

‘You never seem to me to be talking about anything else, Kate, and upon
my word I am quite surprised at your being so very thoughtless. You
can find subjects enough to talk about sometimes, and when you know how
important it is to keep up Miss Bray’s spirits, and interest her, and
all that, it really is quite extraordinary to me what can induce you to
keep on prose, prose, prose, din, din, din, everlastingly, upon the same
theme. You are a very kind nurse, Kate, and a very good one, and I know
you mean very well; but I will say this--that if it wasn’t for me, I
really don’t know what would become of Miss Bray’s spirits, and so I
tell the doctor every day. He says he wonders how I sustain my own, and
I am sure I very often wonder myself how I can contrive to keep up as I
do. Of course it’s an exertion, but still, when I know how much
depends upon me in this house, I am obliged to make it. There’s nothing
praiseworthy in that, but it’s necessary, and I do it.’

With that, Mrs. Nickleby would draw up a chair, and for some
three-quarters of an hour run through a great variety of distracting
topics in the most distracting manner possible; tearing herself away,
at length, on the plea that she must now go and amuse Nicholas while
he took his supper. After a preliminary raising of his spirits with the
information that she considered the patient decidedly worse, she would
further cheer him up by relating how dull, listless, and low-spirited
Miss Bray was, because Kate foolishly talked about nothing else but him
and family matters. When she had made Nicholas thoroughly comfortable
with these and other inspiriting remarks, she would discourse at length
on the arduous duties she had performed that day; and, sometimes, be
moved to tears in wondering how, if anything were to happen to herself,
the family would ever get on without her.

At other times, when Nicholas came home at night, he would be
accompanied by Mr. Frank Cheeryble, who was commissioned by the brothers
to inquire how Madeline was that evening. On such occasions (and they
were of very frequent occurrence), Mrs. Nickleby deemed it of particular
importance that she should have her wits about her; for, from certain
signs and tokens which had attracted her attention, she shrewdly
suspected that Mr. Frank, interested as his uncles were in Madeline, came
quite as much to see Kate as to inquire after her; the more especially
as the brothers were in constant communication with the medical man,
came backwards and forwards very frequently themselves, and received a
full report from Nicholas every morning. These were proud times for Mrs
Nickleby; never was anybody half so discreet and sage as she, or half
so mysterious withal; and never were there such cunning generalship, and
such unfathomable designs, as she brought to bear upon Mr. Frank, with
the view of ascertaining whether her suspicions were well founded:
and if so, of tantalising him into taking her into his confidence and
throwing himself upon her merciful consideration. Extensive was the
artillery, heavy and light, which Mrs. Nickleby brought into play for the
furtherance of these great schemes; various and opposite the means which
she employed to bring about the end she had in view. At one time, she
was all cordiality and ease; at another, all stiffness and frigidity.
Now, she would seem to open her whole heart to her unhappy victim; the
next time they met, she would receive him with the most distant and
studious reserve, as if a new light had broken in upon her, and,
guessing his intentions, she had resolved to check them in the bud; as
if she felt it her bounden duty to act with Spartan firmness, and at
once and for ever to discourage hopes which never could be realised.
At other times, when Nicholas was not there to overhear, and Kate was
upstairs busily tending her sick friend, the worthy lady would throw out
dark hints of an intention to send her daughter to France for three or
four years, or to Scotland for the improvement of her health impaired by
her late fatigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere that threatened
a long and tedious separation. Nay, she even went so far as to hint,
obscurely, at an attachment entertained for her daughter by the son of
an old neighbour of theirs, one Horatio Peltirogus (a young gentleman
who might have been, at that time, four years old, or thereabouts),
and to represent it, indeed, as almost a settled thing between the
families--only waiting for her daughter’s final decision, to come off
with the sanction of the church, and to the unspeakable happiness and
content of all parties.

It was in the full pride and glory of having sprung this last mine one
night with extraordinary success, that Mrs. Nickleby took the opportunity
of being left alone with her son before retiring to rest, to sound him
on the subject which so occupied her thoughts: not doubting that they
could have but one opinion respecting it. To this end, she approached
the question with divers laudatory and appropriate remarks touching the
general amiability of Mr. Frank Cheeryble.

‘You are quite right, mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘quite right. He is a fine
fellow.’

‘Good-looking, too,’ said Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Decidedly good-looking,’ answered Nicholas.

‘What may you call his nose, now, my dear?’ pursued Mrs. Nickleby,
wishing to interest Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.

‘Call it?’ repeated Nicholas.

‘Ah!’ returned his mother, ‘what style of nose? What order of
architecture, if one may say so. I am not very learned in noses. Do you
call it a Roman or a Grecian?’

‘Upon my word, mother,’ said Nicholas, laughing, ‘as well as I remember,
I should call it a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. But I have no
very strong recollection on the subject. If it will afford you any
gratification, I’ll observe it more closely, and let you know.’

‘I wish you would, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, with an earnest look.

‘Very well,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I will.’

Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book he had been reading, when
the dialogue had gone thus far. Mrs. Nickleby, after stopping a little
for consideration, resumed.

‘He is very much attached to you, Nicholas, my dear.’

Nicholas laughingly said, as he closed his book, that he was glad to
hear it, and observed that his mother seemed deep in their new friend’s
confidence already.

‘Hem!’ said Mrs. Nickleby. ‘I don’t know about that, my dear, but I think
it is very necessary that somebody should be in his confidence; highly
necessary.’

Elated by a look of curiosity from her son, and the consciousness of
possessing a great secret, all to herself, Mrs. Nickleby went on with
great animation:

‘I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can have failed to notice it, is,
to me, quite extraordinary; though I don’t know why I should say that,
either, because, of course, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent,
there is a great deal in this sort of thing, especially in this early
stage, which, however clear it may be to females, can scarcely be
expected to be so evident to men. I don’t say that I have any particular
penetration in such matters. I may have; those about me should know
best about that, and perhaps do know. Upon that point I shall express no
opinion, it wouldn’t become me to do so, it’s quite out of the question,
quite.’

Nicholas snuffed the candles, put his hands in his pockets, and, leaning
back in his chair, assumed a look of patient suffering and melancholy
resignation.

‘I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,’ resumed his mother, ‘to tell
you what I know: not only because you have a right to know it too, and
to know everything that happens in this family, but because you have it
in your power to promote and assist the thing very much; and there is
no doubt that the sooner one can come to a clear understanding on such
subjects, it is always better, every way. There are a great many things
you might do; such as taking a walk in the garden sometimes, or sitting
upstairs in your own room for a little while, or making believe to fall
asleep occasionally, or pretending that you recollected some business,
and going out for an hour or so, and taking Mr. Smike with you. These
seem very slight things, and I dare say you will be amused at my making
them of so much importance; at the same time, my dear, I can assure you
(and you’ll find this out, Nicholas, for yourself one of these days,
if you ever fall in love with anybody; as I trust and hope you will,
provided she is respectable and well conducted, and of course you’d
never dream of falling in love with anybody who was not), I say, I can
assure you that a great deal more depends upon these little things than
you would suppose possible. If your poor papa was alive, he would tell
you how much depended on the parties being left alone. Of course, you
are not to go out of the room as if you meant it and did it on purpose,
but as if it was quite an accident, and to come back again in the same
way. If you cough in the passage before you open the door, or whistle
carelessly, or hum a tune, or something of that sort, to let them know
you’re coming, it’s always better; because, of course, though it’s not
only natural but perfectly correct and proper under the circumstances,
still it is very confusing if you interrupt young people when they
are--when they are sitting on the sofa, and--and all that sort of thing:
which is very nonsensical, perhaps, but still they will do it.’

The profound astonishment with which her son regarded her during this
long address, gradually increasing as it approached its climax in no
way discomposed Mrs. Nickleby, but rather exalted her opinion of her own
cleverness; therefore, merely stopping to remark, with much complacency,
that she had fully expected him to be surprised, she entered on a vast
quantity of circumstantial evidence of a particularly incoherent and
perplexing kind; the upshot of which was, to establish, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that Mr. Frank Cheeryble had fallen desperately in
love with Kate.

‘With whom?’ cried Nicholas.

Mrs. Nickleby repeated, with Kate.

‘What! OUR Kate! My sister!’

‘Lord, Nicholas!’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘whose Kate should it be, if
not ours; or what should I care about it, or take any interest in it
for, if it was anybody but your sister?’

‘Dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘surely it can’t be!’

‘Very good, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby, with great confidence. ‘Wait
and see.’

Nicholas had never, until that moment, bestowed a thought upon
the remote possibility of such an occurrence as that which was now
communicated to him; for, besides that he had been much from home of
late and closely occupied with other matters, his own jealous fears had
prompted the suspicion that some secret interest in Madeline, akin to
that which he felt himself, occasioned those visits of Frank Cheeryble
which had recently become so frequent. Even now, although he knew that
the observation of an anxious mother was much more likely to be correct
in such a case than his own, and although she reminded him of many
little circumstances which, taken together, were certainly susceptible
of the construction she triumphantly put upon them, he was not quite
convinced but that they arose from mere good-natured thoughtless
gallantry, which would have dictated the same conduct towards any
other girl who was young and pleasing. At all events, he hoped so, and
therefore tried to believe it.

‘I am very much disturbed by what you tell me,’ said Nicholas, after a
little reflection, ‘though I yet hope you may be mistaken.’

‘I don’t understand why you should hope so,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘I
confess; but you may depend upon it I am not.’

‘What of Kate?’ inquired Nicholas.

‘Why that, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘is just the point upon
which I am not yet satisfied. During this sickness, she has been
constantly at Madeline’s bedside--never were two people so fond of each
other as they have grown--and to tell you the truth, Nicholas, I have
rather kept her away now and then, because I think it’s a good plan, and
urges a young man on. He doesn’t get too sure, you know.’

She said this with such a mingling of high delight and
self-congratulation, that it was inexpressibly painful to Nicholas to
dash her hopes; but he felt that there was only one honourable course
before him, and that he was bound to take it.

‘Dear mother,’ he said kindly, ‘don’t you see that if there were really
any serious inclination on the part of Mr. Frank towards Kate, and we
suffered ourselves for a moment to encourage it, we should be acting a
most dishonourable and ungrateful part? I ask you if you don’t see it,
but I need not say that I know you don’t, or you would have been more
strictly on your guard. Let me explain my meaning to you. Remember how
poor we are.’

Mrs. Nickleby shook her head, and said, through her tears, that poverty
was not a crime.

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and for that reason poverty should engender an
honest pride, that it may not lead and tempt us to unworthy actions, and
that we may preserve the self-respect which a hewer of wood and drawer
of water may maintain, and does better in maintaining than a monarch in
preserving his. Think what we owe to these two brothers: remember what
they have done, and what they do every day for us with a generosity
and delicacy for which the devotion of our whole lives would be a most
imperfect and inadequate return. What kind of return would that be which
would be comprised in our permitting their nephew, their only relative,
whom they regard as a son, and for whom it would be mere childishness to
suppose they have not formed plans suitably adapted to the education he
has had, and the fortune he will inherit--in our permitting him to marry
a portionless girl: so closely connected with us, that the irresistible
inference must be, that he was entrapped by a plot; that it was a
deliberate scheme, and a speculation amongst us three? Bring the matter
clearly before yourself, mother. Now, how would you feel, if they were
married, and the brothers, coming here on one of those kind errands
which bring them here so often, you had to break out to them the truth?
Would you be at ease, and feel that you had played an open part?’

Poor Mrs. Nickleby, crying more and more, murmured that of course Mr
Frank would ask the consent of his uncles first.

‘Why, to be sure, that would place HIM in a better situation with them,’
said Nicholas, ‘but we should still be open to the same suspicions; the
distance between us would still be as great; the advantages to be gained
would still be as manifest as now. We may be reckoning without our host
in all this,’ he added more cheerfully, ‘and I trust, and almost believe
we are. If it be otherwise, I have that confidence in Kate that I know
she will feel as I do--and in you, dear mother, to be assured that after
a little consideration you will do the same.’

After many more representations and entreaties, Nicholas obtained a
promise from Mrs. Nickleby that she would try all she could to think
as he did; and that if Mr. Frank persevered in his attentions she would
endeavour to discourage them, or, at the least, would render him no
countenance or assistance. He determined to forbear mentioning the
subject to Kate until he was quite convinced that there existed a real
necessity for his doing so; and resolved to assure himself, as well
as he could by close personal observation, of the exact position of
affairs. This was a very wise resolution, but he was prevented from
putting it in practice by a new source of anxiety and uneasiness.

Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and exhausted that he could
scarcely move from room to room without assistance; and so worn and
emaciated, that it was painful to look upon him. Nicholas was warned,
by the same medical authority to whom he had at first appealed, that the
last chance and hope of his life depended on his being instantly removed
from London. That part of Devonshire in which Nicholas had been
himself bred was named as the most favourable spot; but this advice was
cautiously coupled with the information, that whoever accompanied
him thither must be prepared for the worst; for every token of rapid
consumption had appeared, and he might never return alive.

The kind brothers, who were acquainted with the poor creature’s sad
history, dispatched old Tim to be present at this consultation. That
same morning, Nicholas was summoned by brother Charles into his private
room, and thus addressed:

‘My dear sir, no time must be lost. This lad shall not die, if such
human means as we can use can save his life; neither shall he die alone,
and in a strange place. Remove him tomorrow morning, see that he has
every comfort that his situation requires, and don’t leave him; don’t
leave him, my dear sir, until you know that there is no longer any
immediate danger. It would be hard, indeed, to part you now. No, no, no!
Tim shall wait upon you tonight, sir; Tim shall wait upon you tonight
with a parting word or two. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, Mr. Nickleby
waits to shake hands and say goodbye; Mr. Nickleby won’t be long gone;
this poor chap will soon get better, very soon get better; and then
he’ll find out some nice homely country-people to leave him with, and
will go backwards and forwards sometimes--backwards and forwards you
know, Ned. And there’s no cause to be downhearted, for he’ll very soon
get better, very soon. Won’t he, won’t he, Ned?’

What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he brought with him that night, needs
not to be told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeble companion began
their journey.

And who but one--and that one he who, but for those who crowded
round him then, had never met a look of kindness, or known a word
of pity--could tell what agony of mind, what blighted thoughts, what
unavailing sorrow, were involved in that sad parting?

‘See,’ cried Nicholas eagerly, as he looked from the coach window, ‘they
are at the corner of the lane still! And now there’s Kate, poor
Kate, whom you said you couldn’t bear to say goodbye to, waving her
handkerchief. Don’t go without one gesture of farewell to Kate!’

‘I cannot make it!’ cried his trembling companion, falling back in his
seat and covering his eyes. ‘Do you see her now? Is she there still?’

‘Yes, yes!’ said Nicholas earnestly. ‘There! She waves her hand again! I
have answered it for you--and now they are out of sight. Do not give way
so bitterly, dear friend, don’t. You will meet them all again.’

He whom he thus encouraged, raised his withered hands and clasped them
fervently together.

‘In heaven. I humbly pray to God in heaven.’

It sounded like the prayer of a broken heart.



CHAPTER 56

Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, hatches a
Scheme of Retaliation which Accident suggests to him, and takes into his
Counsels a tried Auxiliary


The course which these adventures shape out for themselves, and
imperatively call upon the historian to observe, now demands that they
should revert to the point they attained previously to the commencement
of the last chapter, when Ralph Nickleby and Arthur Gride were left
together in the house where death had so suddenly reared his dark and
heavy banner.

With clenched hands, and teeth ground together so firm and tight that
no locking of the jaws could have fixed and riveted them more securely,
Ralph stood, for some minutes, in the attitude in which he had last
addressed his nephew: breathing heavily, but as rigid and motionless
in other respects as if he had been a brazen statue. After a time, he
began, by slow degrees, as a man rousing himself from heavy slumber, to
relax. For a moment he shook his clasped fist towards the door by which
Nicholas had disappeared; and then thrusting it into his breast, as
if to repress by force even this show of passion, turned round and
confronted the less hardy usurer, who had not yet risen from the ground.

The cowering wretch, who still shook in every limb, and whose few grey
hairs trembled and quivered on his head with abject dismay, tottered to
his feet as he met Ralph’s eye, and, shielding his face with both hands,
protested, while he crept towards the door, that it was no fault of his.

‘Who said it was, man?’ returned Ralph, in a suppressed voice. ‘Who said
it was?’

‘You looked as if you thought I was to blame,’ said Gride, timidly.

‘Pshaw!’ Ralph muttered, forcing a laugh. ‘I blame him for not living an
hour longer. One hour longer would have been long enough. I blame no one
else.’

‘N--n--no one else?’ said Gride.

‘Not for this mischance,’ replied Ralph. ‘I have an old score to clear
with that young fellow who has carried off your mistress; but that has
nothing to do with his blustering just now, for we should soon have been
quit of him, but for this cursed accident.’

There was something so unnatural in the calmness with which Ralph
Nickleby spoke, when coupled with his face, the expression of the
features, to which every nerve and muscle, as it twitched and throbbed
with a spasm whose workings no effort could conceal, gave, every
instant, some new and frightful aspect--there was something so unnatural
and ghastly in the contrast between his harsh, slow, steady voice (only
altered by a certain halting of the breath which made him pause between
almost every word like a drunken man bent upon speaking plainly),
and these evidences of the most intense and violent passion, and the
struggle he made to keep them under; that if the dead body which lay
above had stood, instead of him, before the cowering Gride, it could
scarcely have presented a spectacle which would have terrified him more.

‘The coach,’ said Ralph after a time, during which he had struggled like
some strong man against a fit. ‘We came in a coach. Is it waiting?’

Gride gladly availed himself of the pretext for going to the window to
see. Ralph, keeping his face steadily the other way, tore at his shirt
with the hand which he had thrust into his breast, and muttered in a
hoarse whisper:

‘Ten thousand pounds! He said ten thousand! The precise sum paid in but
yesterday for the two mortgages, and which would have gone out again, at
heavy interest, tomorrow. If that house has failed, and he the first to
bring the news!--Is the coach there?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gride, startled by the fierce tone of the inquiry.
‘It’s here. Dear, dear, what a fiery man you are!’

‘Come here,’ said Ralph, beckoning to him. ‘We mustn’t make a show of
being disturbed. We’ll go down arm in arm.’

‘But you pinch me black and blue,’ urged Gride.

Ralph let him go impatiently, and descending the stairs with his usual
firm and heavy tread, got into the coach. Arthur Gride followed. After
looking doubtfully at Ralph when the man asked where he was to drive,
and finding that he remained silent, and expressed no wish upon the
subject, Arthur mentioned his own house, and thither they proceeded.

On their way, Ralph sat in the furthest corner with folded arms, and
uttered not a word. With his chin sunk upon his breast, and his downcast
eyes quite hidden by the contraction of his knotted brows, he might
have been asleep for any sign of consciousness he gave until the coach
stopped, when he raised his head, and glancing through the window,
inquired what place that was.

‘My house,’ answered the disconsolate Gride, affected perhaps by its
loneliness. ‘Oh dear! my house.’

‘True,’ said Ralph ‘I have not observed the way we came. I should like a
glass of water. You have that in the house, I suppose?’

‘You shall have a glass of--of anything you like,’ answered Gride, with
a groan. ‘It’s no use knocking, coachman. Ring the bell!’

The man rang, and rang, and rang again; then, knocked until the street
re-echoed with the sounds; then, listened at the keyhole of the door.
Nobody came. The house was silent as the grave.

‘How’s this?’ said Ralph impatiently.

‘Peg is so very deaf,’ answered Gride with a look of anxiety and alarm.
‘Oh dear! Ring again, coachman. She SEES the bell.’

Again the man rang and knocked, and knocked and rang again. Some of the
neighbours threw up their windows, and called across the street to each
other that old Gride’s housekeeper must have dropped down dead. Others
collected round the coach, and gave vent to various surmises; some held
that she had fallen asleep; some, that she had burnt herself to death;
some, that she had got drunk; and one very fat man that she had seen
something to eat which had frightened her so much (not being used to
it) that she had fallen into a fit. This last suggestion particularly
delighted the bystanders, who cheered it rather uproariously, and were,
with some difficulty, deterred from dropping down the area and breaking
open the kitchen door to ascertain the fact. Nor was this all. Rumours
having gone abroad that Arthur was to be married that morning, very
particular inquiries were made after the bride, who was held by the
majority to be disguised in the person of Mr. Ralph Nickleby, which gave
rise to much jocose indignation at the public appearance of a bride in
boots and pantaloons, and called forth a great many hoots and groans.
At length, the two money-lenders obtained shelter in a house next door,
and, being accommodated with a ladder, clambered over the wall of the
back-yard--which was not a high one--and descended in safety on the
other side.

‘I am almost afraid to go in, I declare,’ said Arthur, turning to Ralph
when they were alone. ‘Suppose she should be murdered. Lying with her
brains knocked out by a poker, eh?’

‘Suppose she were,’ said Ralph. ‘I tell you, I wish such things were
more common than they are, and more easily done. You may stare and
shiver. I do!’

He applied himself to a pump in the yard; and, having taken a deep
draught of water and flung a quantity on his head and face, regained his
accustomed manner and led the way into the house: Gride following close
at his heels.

It was the same dark place as ever: every room dismal and silent as it
was wont to be, and every ghostly article of furniture in its customary
place. The iron heart of the grim old clock, undisturbed by all the
noise without, still beat heavily within its dusty case; the tottering
presses slunk from the sight, as usual, in their melancholy corners;
the echoes of footsteps returned the same dreary sound; the long-legged
spider paused in his nimble run, and, scared by the sight of men in that
his dull domain, hung motionless on the wall, counterfeiting death until
they should have passed him by.

From cellar to garret went the two usurers, opening every creaking door
and looking into every deserted room. But no Peg was there. At
last, they sat them down in the apartment which Arthur Gride usually
inhabited, to rest after their search.

‘The hag is out, on some preparation for your wedding festivities, I
suppose,’ said Ralph, preparing to depart. ‘See here! I destroy the
bond; we shall never need it now.’

Gride, who had been peering narrowly about the room, fell, at that
moment, upon his knees before a large chest, and uttered a terrible
yell.

‘How now?’ said Ralph, looking sternly round.

‘Robbed! robbed!’ screamed Arthur Gride.

‘Robbed! of money?’

‘No, no, no. Worse! far worse!’

‘Of what then?’ demanded Ralph.

‘Worse than money, worse than money!’ cried the old man, casting the
papers out of the chest, like some beast tearing up the earth. ‘She had
better have stolen money--all my money--I haven’t much! She had better
have made me a beggar than have done this!’

‘Done what?’ said Ralph. ‘Done what, you devil’s dotard?’

Still Gride made no answer, but tore and scratched among the papers, and
yelled and screeched like a fiend in torment.

‘There is something missing, you say,’ said Ralph, shaking him furiously
by the collar. ‘What is it?’

‘Papers, deeds. I am a ruined man. Lost, lost! I am robbed, I am ruined!
She saw me reading it--reading it of late--I did very often--She watched
me, saw me put it in the box that fitted into this, the box is gone, she
has stolen it. Damnation seize her, she has robbed me!’

‘Of WHAT?’ cried Ralph, on whom a sudden light appeared to break, for
his eyes flashed and his frame trembled with agitation as he clutched
Gride by his bony arm. ‘Of what?’

‘She don’t know what it is; she can’t read!’ shrieked Gride, not heeding
the inquiry. ‘There’s only one way in which money can be made of it, and
that is by taking it to her. Somebody will read it for her, and tell her
what to do. She and her accomplice will get money for it and be let off
besides; they’ll make a merit of it--say they found it--knew it--and be
evidence against me. The only person it will fall upon is me, me, me!’

‘Patience!’ said Ralph, clutching him still tighter and eyeing him with
a sidelong look, so fixed and eager as sufficiently to denote that he
had some hidden purpose in what he was about to say. ‘Hear reason.
She can’t have been gone long. I’ll call the police. Do you but give
information of what she has stolen, and they’ll lay hands upon her,
trust me. Here! Help!’

‘No, no, no!’ screamed the old man, putting his hand on Ralph’s mouth.
‘I can’t, I daren’t.’

‘Help! help!’ cried Ralph.

‘No, no, no!’ shrieked the other, stamping on the ground with the energy
of a madman. ‘I tell you no. I daren’t, I daren’t!’

‘Daren’t make this robbery public?’ said Ralph.

‘No!’ rejoined Gride, wringing his hands. ‘Hush! Hush! Not a word of
this; not a word must be said. I am undone. Whichever way I turn, I am
undone. I am betrayed. I shall be given up. I shall die in Newgate!’

With frantic exclamations such as these, and with many others in which
fear, grief, and rage, were strangely blended, the panic-stricken wretch
gradually subdued his first loud outcry, until it had softened down into
a low despairing moan, chequered now and then by a howl, as, going over
such papers as were left in the chest, he discovered some new loss.
With very little excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left him, and,
greatly disappointing the loiterers outside the house by telling them
there was nothing the matter, got into the coach, and was driven to his
own home.

A letter lay on his table. He let it lie there for some time, as if he
had not the courage to open it, but at length did so and turned deadly
pale.

‘The worst has happened,’ he said; ‘the house has failed. I see. The
rumour was abroad in the city last night, and reached the ears of those
merchants. Well, well!’

He strode violently up and down the room and stopped again.

‘Ten thousand pounds! And only lying there for a day--for one day! How
many anxious years, how many pinching days and sleepless nights, before
I scraped together that ten thousand pounds!--Ten thousand pounds! How
many proud painted dames would have fawned and smiled, and how many
spendthrift blockheads done me lip-service to my face and cursed me in
their hearts, while I turned that ten thousand pounds into twenty! While
I ground, and pinched, and used these needy borrowers for my pleasure
and profit, what smooth-tongued speeches, and courteous looks, and civil
letters, they would have given me! The cant of the lying world is,
that men like me compass our riches by dissimulation and treachery:
by fawning, cringing, and stooping. Why, how many lies, what mean and
abject evasions, what humbled behaviour from upstarts who, but for my
money, would spurn me aside as they do their betters every day, would
that ten thousand pounds have brought me in! Grant that I had doubled
it--made cent. per cent.--for every sovereign told another--there would
not be one piece of money in all the heap which wouldn’t represent ten
thousand mean and paltry lies, told, not by the money-lender, oh no!
but by the money-borrowers, your liberal, thoughtless, generous, dashing
folks, who wouldn’t be so mean as save a sixpence for the world!’

Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of the bitterness of his
regrets in the bitterness of these other thoughts, Ralph continued to
pace the room. There was less and less of resolution in his manner as
his mind gradually reverted to his loss; at length, dropping into his
elbow-chair and grasping its sides so firmly that they creaked again, he
said:

‘The time has been when nothing could have moved me like the loss of
this great sum. Nothing. For births, deaths, marriages, and all
the events which are of interest to most men, have (unless they are
connected with gain or loss of money) no interest for me. But now, I
swear, I mix up with the loss, his triumph in telling it. If he had
brought it about,--I almost feel as if he had,--I couldn’t hate him
more. Let me but retaliate upon him, by degrees, however slow--let me
but begin to get the better of him, let me but turn the scale--and I can
bear it.’

His meditations were long and deep. They terminated in his dispatching
a letter by Newman, addressed to Mr. Squeers at the Saracen’s Head, with
instructions to inquire whether he had arrived in town, and, if so, to
wait an answer. Newman brought back the information that Mr. Squeers had
come by mail that morning, and had received the letter in bed; but
that he sent his duty, and word that he would get up and wait upon Mr
Nickleby directly.

The interval between the delivery of this message, and the arrival of Mr
Squeers, was very short; but, before he came, Ralph had suppressed every
sign of emotion, and once more regained the hard, immovable, inflexible
manner which was habitual to him, and to which, perhaps, was ascribable
no small part of the influence which, over many men of no very strong
prejudices on the score of morality, he could exert, almost at will.

‘Well, Mr. Squeers,’ he said, welcoming that worthy with his accustomed
smile, of which a sharp look and a thoughtful frown were part and
parcel: ‘how do YOU do?’

‘Why, sir,’ said Mr. Squeers, ‘I’m pretty well. So’s the family, and so’s
the boys, except for a sort of rash as is a running through the school,
and rather puts ‘em off their feed. But it’s a ill wind as blows no good
to nobody; that’s what I always say when them lads has a wisitation. A
wisitation, sir, is the lot of mortality. Mortality itself, sir, is a
wisitation. The world is chock full of wisitations; and if a boy repines
at a wisitation and makes you uncomfortable with his noise, he must have
his head punched. That’s going according to the Scripter, that is.’

‘Mr. Squeers,’ said Ralph, drily.

‘Sir.’

‘We’ll avoid these precious morsels of morality if you please, and talk
of business.’

‘With all my heart, sir,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and first let me say--’

‘First let ME say, if you please.--Noggs!’

Newman presented himself when the summons had been twice or thrice
repeated, and asked if his master called.

‘I did. Go to your dinner. And go at once. Do you hear?’

‘It an’t time,’ said Newman, doggedly.

‘My time is yours, and I say it is,’ returned Ralph.

‘You alter it every day,’ said Newman. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘You don’t keep many cooks, and can easily apologise to them for the
trouble,’ retorted Ralph. ‘Begone, sir!’

Ralph not only issued this order in his most peremptory manner, but,
under pretence of fetching some papers from the little office, saw
it obeyed, and, when Newman had left the house, chained the door, to
prevent the possibility of his returning secretly, by means of his
latch-key.

‘I have reason to suspect that fellow,’ said Ralph, when he returned
to his own office. ‘Therefore, until I have thought of the shortest and
least troublesome way of ruining him, I hold it best to keep him at a
distance.’

‘It wouldn’t take much to ruin him, I should think,’ said Squeers, with
a grin.

‘Perhaps not,’ answered Ralph. ‘Nor to ruin a great many people whom I
know. You were going to say--?’

Ralph’s summary and matter-of-course way of holding up this example,
and throwing out the hint that followed it, had evidently an effect (as
doubtless it was designed to have) upon Mr. Squeers, who said, after a
little hesitation and in a much more subdued tone:

‘Why, what I was a-going to say, sir, is, that this here business
regarding of that ungrateful and hard-hearted chap, Snawley senior,
puts me out of my way, and occasions a inconveniency quite unparalleled,
besides, as I may say, making, for whole weeks together, Mrs. Squeers a
perfect widder. It’s a pleasure to me to act with you, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Ralph, drily.

‘Yes, I say of course,’ resumed Mr. Squeers, rubbing his knees, ‘but at
the same time, when one comes, as I do now, better than two hundred
and fifty mile to take a afferdavid, it does put a man out a good deal,
letting alone the risk.’

‘And where may the risk be, Mr. Squeers?’ said Ralph.

‘I said, letting alone the risk,’ replied Squeers, evasively.

‘And I said, where was the risk?’

‘I wasn’t complaining, you know, Mr. Nickleby,’ pleaded Squeers. ‘Upon my
word I never see such a--’

‘I ask you where is the risk?’ repeated Ralph, emphatically.

‘Where the risk?’ returned Squeers, rubbing his knees still harder.
‘Why, it an’t necessary to mention. Certain subjects is best awoided.
Oh, you know what risk I mean.’

‘How often have I told you,’ said Ralph, ‘and how often am I to tell
you, that you run no risk? What have you sworn, or what are you asked to
swear, but that at such and such a time a boy was left with you in the
name of Smike; that he was at your school for a given number of years,
was lost under such and such circumstances, is now found, and has been
identified by you in such and such keeping? This is all true; is it
not?’

‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, ‘that’s all true.’

‘Well, then,’ said Ralph, ‘what risk do you run? Who swears to a lie but
Snawley; a man whom I have paid much less than I have you?’

‘He certainly did it cheap, did Snawley,’ observed Squeers.

‘He did it cheap!’ retorted Ralph, testily; ‘yes, and he did it well,
and carries it off with a hypocritical face and a sanctified air, but
you! Risk! What do you mean by risk? The certificates are all genuine,
Snawley HAD another son, he HAS been married twice, his first wife IS
dead, none but her ghost could tell that she didn’t write that letter,
none but Snawley himself can tell that this is not his son, and that his
son is food for worms! The only perjury is Snawley’s, and I fancy he is
pretty well used to it. Where’s your risk?’

‘Why, you know,’ said Squeers, fidgeting in his chair, ‘if you come to
that, I might say where’s yours?’

‘You might say where’s mine!’ returned Ralph; ‘you may say where’s mine.
I don’t appear in the business, neither do you. All Snawley’s interest
is to stick well to the story he has told; and all his risk is, to
depart from it in the least. Talk of YOUR risk in the conspiracy!’

‘I say,’ remonstrated Squeers, looking uneasily round: ‘don’t call it
that! Just as a favour, don’t.’

‘Call it what you like,’ said Ralph, irritably, ‘but attend to me. This
tale was originally fabricated as a means of annoyance against one who
hurt your trade and half cudgelled you to death, and to enable you to
obtain repossession of a half-dead drudge, whom you wished to regain,
because, while you wreaked your vengeance on him for his share in the
business, you knew that the knowledge that he was again in your power
would be the best punishment you could inflict upon your enemy. Is that
so, Mr. Squeers?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Squeers, almost overpowered by the determination
which Ralph displayed to make everything tell against him, and by his
stern unyielding manner, ‘in a measure it was.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Ralph.

‘Why, in a measure means,’ returned Squeers, ‘as it may be, that it
wasn’t all on my account, because you had some old grudge to satisfy,
too.’

‘If I had not had,’ said Ralph, in no way abashed by the reminder, ‘do
you think I should have helped you?’

‘Why no, I don’t suppose you would,’ Squeers replied. ‘I only wanted
that point to be all square and straight between us.’

‘How can it ever be otherwise?’ retorted Ralph. ‘Except that the account
is against me, for I spend money to gratify my hatred, and you pocket
it, and gratify yours at the same time. You are, at least, as avaricious
as you are revengeful. So am I. Which is best off? You, who win money
and revenge, at the same time and by the same process, and who are, at
all events, sure of money, if not of revenge; or I, who am only sure of
spending money in any case, and can but win bare revenge at last?’

As Mr. Squeers could only answer this proposition by shrugs and smiles,
Ralph bade him be silent, and thankful that he was so well off; and
then, fixing his eyes steadily upon him, proceeded to say:

First, that Nicholas had thwarted him in a plan he had formed for the
disposal in marriage of a certain young lady, and had, in the confusion
attendant on her father’s sudden death, secured that lady himself, and
borne her off in triumph.

Secondly, that by some will or settlement--certainly by some instrument
in writing, which must contain the young lady’s name, and could be,
therefore, easily selected from others, if access to the place where it
was deposited were once secured--she was entitled to property which,
if the existence of this deed ever became known to her, would make her
husband (and Ralph represented that Nicholas was certain to marry her) a
rich and prosperous man, and most formidable enemy.

Thirdly, that this deed had been, with others, stolen from one who had
himself obtained or concealed it fraudulently, and who feared to take
any steps for its recovery; and that he (Ralph) knew the thief.

To all this Mr. Squeers listened, with greedy ears that devoured every
syllable, and with his one eye and his mouth wide open: marvelling for
what special reason he was honoured with so much of Ralph’s confidence,
and to what it all tended.

‘Now,’ said Ralph, leaning forward, and placing his hand on Squeers’s
arm, ‘hear the design which I have conceived, and which I must--I say,
must, if I can ripen it--have carried into execution. No advantage can
be reaped from this deed, whatever it is, save by the girl herself, or
her husband; and the possession of this deed by one or other of them
is indispensable to any advantage being gained. THAT I have discovered
beyond the possibility of doubt. I want that deed brought here, that
I may give the man who brings it fifty pounds in gold, and burn it to
ashes before his face.’

Mr. Squeers, after following with his eye the action of Ralph’s hand
towards the fire-place as if he were at that moment consuming the paper,
drew a long breath, and said:

‘Yes; but who’s to bring it?’

‘Nobody, perhaps, for much is to be done before it can be got at,’ said
Ralph. ‘But if anybody--you!’

Mr. Squeers’s first tokens of consternation, and his flat relinquishment
of the task, would have staggered most men, if they had not immediately
occasioned an utter abandonment of the proposition. On Ralph they
produced not the slightest effect. Resuming, when the schoolmaster had
quite talked himself out of breath, as coolly as if he had never been
interrupted, Ralph proceeded to expatiate on such features of the case
as he deemed it most advisable to lay the greatest stress on.

These were, the age, decrepitude, and weakness of Mrs. Sliderskew; the
great improbability of her having any accomplice or even acquaintance:
taking into account her secluded habits, and her long residence in such
a house as Gride’s; the strong reason there was to suppose that the
robbery was not the result of a concerted plan: otherwise she would have
watched an opportunity of carrying off a sum of money; the difficulty
she would be placed in when she began to think on what she had done, and
found herself encumbered with documents of whose nature she was utterly
ignorant; and the comparative ease with which somebody, with a full
knowledge of her position, obtaining access to her, and working on her
fears, if necessary, might worm himself into her confidence and obtain,
under one pretence or another, free possession of the deed. To these
were added such considerations as the constant residence of Mr. Squeers
at a long distance from London, which rendered his association with Mrs
Sliderskew a mere masquerading frolic, in which nobody was likely to
recognise him, either at the time or afterwards; the impossibility of
Ralph’s undertaking the task himself, he being already known to her by
sight; and various comments on the uncommon tact and experience of Mr
Squeers: which would make his overreaching one old woman a mere matter
of child’s play and amusement. In addition to these influences and
persuasions, Ralph drew, with his utmost skill and power, a vivid
picture of the defeat which Nicholas would sustain, should they
succeed, in linking himself to a beggar, where he expected to wed an
heiress--glanced at the immeasurable importance it must be to a man
situated as Squeers, to preserve such a friend as himself--dwelt on a
long train of benefits, conferred since their first acquaintance, when
he had reported favourably of his treatment of a sickly boy who had died
under his hands (and whose death was very convenient to Ralph and his
clients, but this he did NOT say), and finally hinted that the fifty
pounds might be increased to seventy-five, or, in the event of very
great success, even to a hundred.

These arguments at length concluded, Mr. Squeers crossed his legs,
uncrossed them, scratched his head, rubbed his eye, examined the palms
of his hands, and bit his nails, and after exhibiting many other signs
of restlessness and indecision, asked ‘whether one hundred pound was the
highest that Mr. Nickleby could go.’ Being answered in the affirmative,
he became restless again, and, after some thought, and an unsuccessful
inquiry ‘whether he couldn’t go another fifty,’ said he supposed he must
try and do the most he could for a friend: which was always his maxim,
and therefore he undertook the job.

‘But how are you to get at the woman?’ he said; ‘that’s what it is as
puzzles me.’

‘I may not get at her at all,’ replied Ralph, ‘but I’ll try. I have
hunted people in this city, before now, who have been better hid than
she; and I know quarters in which a guinea or two, carefully spent, will
often solve darker riddles than this. Ay, and keep them close too, if
need be! I hear my man ringing at the door. We may as well part. You had
better not come to and fro, but wait till you hear from me.’

‘Good!’ returned Squeers. ‘I say! If you shouldn’t find her out, you’ll
pay expenses at the Saracen, and something for loss of time?’

‘Well,’ said Ralph, testily; ‘yes! You have nothing more to say?’

Squeers shaking his head, Ralph accompanied him to the streetdoor, and
audibly wondering, for the edification of Newman, why it was fastened
as if it were night, let him in and Squeers out, and returned to his own
room.

‘Now!’ he muttered, ‘come what come may, for the present I am firm and
unshaken. Let me but retrieve this one small portion of my loss and
disgrace; let me but defeat him in this one hope, dear to his heart as
I know it must be; let me but do this; and it shall be the first link in
such a chain which I will wind about him, as never man forged yet.’



CHAPTER 57

How Ralph Nickleby’s Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he prospered
with it


It was a dark, wet, gloomy night in autumn, when in an upper room of a
mean house situated in an obscure street, or rather court, near Lambeth,
there sat, all alone, a one-eyed man grotesquely habited, either
for lack of better garments or for purposes of disguise, in a loose
greatcoat, with arms half as long again as his own, and a capacity of
breadth and length which would have admitted of his winding himself
in it, head and all, with the utmost ease, and without any risk of
straining the old and greasy material of which it was composed.

So attired, and in a place so far removed from his usual haunts and
occupations, and so very poor and wretched in its character, perhaps Mrs
Squeers herself would have had some difficulty in recognising her lord:
quickened though her natural sagacity doubtless would have been by the
affectionate yearnings and impulses of a tender wife. But Mrs. Squeers’s
lord it was; and in a tolerably disconsolate mood Mrs. Squeers’s lord
appeared to be, as, helping himself from a black bottle which stood on
the table beside him, he cast round the chamber a look, in which very
slight regard for the objects within view was plainly mingled with some
regretful and impatient recollection of distant scenes and persons.

There were, certainly, no particular attractions, either in the room
over which the glance of Mr. Squeers so discontentedly wandered, or in
the narrow street into which it might have penetrated, if he had thought
fit to approach the window. The attic chamber in which he sat was
bare and mean; the bedstead, and such few other articles of necessary
furniture as it contained, were of the commonest description, in a most
crazy state, and of a most uninviting appearance. The street was muddy,
dirty, and deserted. Having but one outlet, it was traversed by few but
the inhabitants at any time; and the night being one of those on which
most people are glad to be within doors, it now presented no other signs
of life than the dull glimmering of poor candles from the dirty windows,
and few sounds but the pattering of the rain, and occasionally the heavy
closing of some creaking door.

Mr. Squeers continued to look disconsolately about him, and to listen
to these noises in profound silence, broken only by the rustling of his
large coat, as he now and then moved his arm to raise his glass to
his lips. Mr. Squeers continued to do this for some time, until the
increasing gloom warned him to snuff the candle. Seeming to be slightly
roused by this exertion, he raised his eye to the ceiling, and fixing it
upon some uncouth and fantastic figures, traced upon it by the wet and
damp which had penetrated through the roof, broke into the following
soliloquy:

‘Well, this is a pretty go, is this here! An uncommon pretty go! Here
have I been, a matter of how many weeks--hard upon six--a follering up
this here blessed old dowager petty larcenerer,’--Mr. Squeers delivered
himself of this epithet with great difficulty and effort,--‘and
Dotheboys Hall a-running itself regularly to seed the while! That’s the
worst of ever being in with a owdacious chap like that old Nickleby. You
never know when he’s done with you, and if you’re in for a penny, you’re
in for a pound.’

This remark, perhaps, reminded Mr. Squeers that he was in for a hundred
pound at any rate. His countenance relaxed, and he raised his glass to
his mouth with an air of greater enjoyment of its contents than he had
before evinced.

‘I never see,’ soliloquised Mr. Squeers in continuation, ‘I never see
nor come across such a file as that old Nickleby. Never! He’s out of
everybody’s depth, he is. He’s what you may call a rasper, is Nickleby.
To see how sly and cunning he grubbed on, day after day, a-worming and
plodding and tracing and turning and twining of hisself about, till he
found out where this precious Mrs. Peg was hid, and cleared the ground
for me to work upon. Creeping and crawling and gliding, like a ugly,
old, bright-eyed, stagnation-blooded adder! Ah! He’d have made a good
‘un in our line, but it would have been too limited for him; his genius
would have busted all bonds, and coming over every obstacle, broke down
all before it, till it erected itself into a monneyment of--Well, I’ll
think of the rest, and say it when conwenient.’

Making a halt in his reflections at this place, Mr. Squeers again put his
glass to his lips, and drawing a dirty letter from his pocket, proceeded
to con over its contents with the air of a man who had read it very
often, and now refreshed his memory rather in the absence of better
amusement than for any specific information.

‘The pigs is well,’ said Mr. Squeers, ‘the cows is well, and the boys is
bobbish. Young Sprouter has been a-winking, has he? I’ll wink him when
I get back. “Cobbey would persist in sniffing while he was a-eating his
dinner, and said that the beef was so strong it made him.”--Very good,
Cobbey, we’ll see if we can’t make you sniff a little without beef.
“Pitcher was took with another fever,”--of course he was--“and being
fetched by his friends, died the day after he got home,”--of course he
did, and out of aggravation; it’s part of a deep-laid system. There an’t
another chap in the school but that boy as would have died exactly at
the end of the quarter: taking it out of me to the very last, and then
carrying his spite to the utmost extremity. “The juniorest Palmer said
he wished he was in Heaven.” I really don’t know, I do NOT know what’s
to be done with that young fellow; he’s always a-wishing something
horrid. He said once, he wished he was a donkey, because then he
wouldn’t have a father as didn’t love him! Pretty wicious that for a
child of six!’

Mr. Squeers was so much moved by the contemplation of this hardened
nature in one so young, that he angrily put up the letter, and sought,
in a new train of ideas, a subject of consolation.

‘It’s a long time to have been a-lingering in London,’ he said; ‘and
this is a precious hole to come and live in, even if it has been only
for a week or so. Still, one hundred pound is five boys, and five boys
takes a whole year to pay one hundred pounds, and there’s their keep to
be substracted, besides. There’s nothing lost, neither, by one’s being
here; because the boys’ money comes in just the same as if I was at
home, and Mrs. Squeers she keeps them in order. There’ll be some lost
time to make up, of course. There’ll be an arrear of flogging as’ll have
to be gone through: still, a couple of days makes that all right, and
one don’t mind a little extra work for one hundred pound. It’s pretty
nigh the time to wait upon the old woman. From what she said last night,
I suspect that if I’m to succeed at all, I shall succeed tonight; so
I’ll have half a glass more, to wish myself success, and put myself in
spirits. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, your health!’

Leering with his one eye as if the lady to whom he drank had been
actually present, Mr. Squeers--in his enthusiasm, no doubt--poured out
a full glass, and emptied it; and as the liquor was raw spirits, and he
had applied himself to the same bottle more than once already, it is not
surprising that he found himself, by this time, in an extremely cheerful
state, and quite enough excited for his purpose.

What this purpose was soon appeared; for, after a few turns about the
room to steady himself, he took the bottle under his arm and the glass
in his hand, and blowing out the candle as if he purposed being gone
some time, stole out upon the staircase, and creeping softly to a door
opposite his own, tapped gently at it.

‘But what’s the use of tapping?’ he said, ‘She’ll never hear. I suppose
she isn’t doing anything very particular; and if she is, it don’t much
matter, that I see.’

With this brief preface, Mr. Squeers applied his hand to the latch of the
door, and thrusting his head into a garret far more deplorable than
that he had just left, and seeing that there was nobody there but an old
woman, who was bending over a wretched fire (for although the weather
was still warm, the evening was chilly), walked in, and tapped her on
the shoulder.

‘Well, my Slider,’ said Mr. Squeers, jocularly.

‘Is that you?’ inquired Peg.

‘Ah! it’s me, and me’s the first person singular, nominative case,
agreeing with the verb “it’s”, and governed by Squeers understood, as a
acorn, a hour; but when the h is sounded, the a only is to be used, as
a and, a art, a ighway,’ replied Mr. Squeers, quoting at random from the
grammar. ‘At least, if it isn’t, you don’t know any better, and if it
is, I’ve done it accidentally.’

Delivering this reply in his accustomed tone of voice, in which of
course it was inaudible to Peg, Mr. Squeers drew a stool to the fire, and
placing himself over against her, and the bottle and glass on the floor
between them, roared out again, very loud,

‘Well, my Slider!’

‘I hear you,’ said Peg, receiving him very graciously.

‘I’ve come according to promise,’ roared Squeers.

‘So they used to say in that part of the country I come from,’ observed
Peg, complacently, ‘but I think oil’s better.’

‘Better than what?’ roared Squeers, adding some rather strong language
in an undertone.

‘No,’ said Peg, ‘of course not.’

‘I never saw such a monster as you are!’ muttered Squeers, looking as
amiable as he possibly could the while; for Peg’s eye was upon him,
and she was chuckling fearfully, as though in delight at having made a
choice repartee, ‘Do you see this? This is a bottle.’

‘I see it,’ answered Peg.

‘Well, and do you see THIS?’ bawled Squeers. ‘This is a glass.’ Peg saw
that too.

‘See here, then,’ said Squeers, accompanying his remarks with
appropriate action, ‘I fill the glass from the bottle, and I say “Your
health, Slider,” and empty it; then I rinse it genteelly with a little
drop, which I’m forced to throw into the fire--hallo! we shall have the
chimbley alight next--fill it again, and hand it over to you.’

‘YOUR health,’ said Peg.

‘She understands that, anyways,’ muttered Squeers, watching Mrs
Sliderskew as she dispatched her portion, and choked and gasped in a
most awful manner after so doing. ‘Now then, let’s have a talk. How’s
the rheumatics?’

Mrs. Sliderskew, with much blinking and chuckling, and with looks
expressive of her strong admiration of Mr. Squeers, his person, manners,
and conversation, replied that the rheumatics were better.

‘What’s the reason,’ said Mr. Squeers, deriving fresh facetiousness from
the bottle; ‘what’s the reason of rheumatics? What do they mean? What do
people have’em for--eh?’

Mrs. Sliderskew didn’t know, but suggested that it was possibly because
they couldn’t help it.

‘Measles, rheumatics, hooping-cough, fevers, agers, and lumbagers,’ said
Mr. Squeers, ‘is all philosophy together; that’s what it is. The heavenly
bodies is philosophy, and the earthly bodies is philosophy. If there’s a
screw loose in a heavenly body, that’s philosophy; and if there’s
screw loose in a earthly body, that’s philosophy too; or it may be that
sometimes there’s a little metaphysics in it, but that’s not often.
Philosophy’s the chap for me. If a parent asks a question in the
classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, gravely, “Why, sir,
in the first place, are you a philosopher?”--“No, Mr. Squeers,” he says,
“I an’t.” “Then, sir,” says I, “I am sorry for you, for I shan’t be
able to explain it.” Naturally, the parent goes away and wishes he was a
philosopher, and, equally naturally, thinks I’m one.’

Saying this, and a great deal more, with tipsy profundity and a
serio-comic air, and keeping his eye all the time on Mrs. Sliderskew, who
was unable to hear one word, Mr. Squeers concluded by helping himself and
passing the bottle: to which Peg did becoming reverence.

‘That’s the time of day!’ said Mr. Squeers. ‘You look twenty pound ten
better than you did.’

Again Mrs. Sliderskew chuckled, but modesty forbade her assenting
verbally to the compliment.

‘Twenty pound ten better,’ repeated Mr. Squeers, ‘than you did that day
when I first introduced myself. Don’t you know?’

‘Ah!’ said Peg, shaking her head, ‘but you frightened me that day.’

‘Did I?’ said Squeers; ‘well, it was rather a startling thing for a
stranger to come and recommend himself by saying that he knew all about
you, and what your name was, and why you were living so quiet here, and
what you had boned, and who you boned it from, wasn’t it?’

Peg nodded her head in strong assent.

‘But I know everything that happens in that way, you see,’ continued
Squeers. ‘Nothing takes place, of that kind, that I an’t up to
entirely. I’m a sort of a lawyer, Slider, of first-rate standing, and
understanding too; I’m the intimate friend and confidential adwiser
of pretty nigh every man, woman, and child that gets themselves into
difficulties by being too nimble with their fingers, I’m--’

Mr. Squeers’s catalogue of his own merits and accomplishments, which
was partly the result of a concerted plan between himself and Ralph
Nickleby, and flowed, in part, from the black bottle, was here
interrupted by Mrs. Sliderskew.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ she cried, folding her arms and wagging her head; ‘and so
he wasn’t married after all, wasn’t he. Not married after all?’

‘No,’ replied Squeers, ‘that he wasn’t!’

‘And a young lover come and carried off the bride, eh?’ said Peg.

‘From under his very nose,’ replied Squeers; ‘and I’m told the young
chap cut up rough besides, and broke the winders, and forced him to
swaller his wedding favour which nearly choked him.’

‘Tell me all about it again,’ cried Peg, with a malicious relish of her
old master’s defeat, which made her natural hideousness something quite
fearful; ‘let’s hear it all again, beginning at the beginning now, as
if you’d never told me. Let’s have it every word--now--now--beginning at
the very first, you know, when he went to the house that morning!’

Mr. Squeers, plying Mrs. Sliderskew freely with the liquor, and sustaining
himself under the exertion of speaking so loud by frequent applications
to it himself, complied with this request by describing the discomfiture
of Arthur Gride, with such improvements on the truth as happened to
occur to him, and the ingenious invention and application of which
had been very instrumental in recommending him to her notice in the
beginning of their acquaintance. Mrs. Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of
delight, rolling her head about, drawing up her skinny shoulders, and
wrinkling her cadaverous face into so many and such complicated forms of
ugliness, as awakened the unbounded astonishment and disgust even of Mr
Squeers.

‘He’s a treacherous old goat,’ said Peg, ‘and cozened me with cunning
tricks and lying promises, but never mind. I’m even with him. I’m even
with him.’

‘More than even, Slider,’ returned Squeers; ‘you’d have been even with
him if he’d got married; but with the disappointment besides, you’re
a long way ahead. Out of sight, Slider, quite out of sight. And that
reminds me,’ he added, handing her the glass, ‘if you want me to give
you my opinion of them deeds, and tell you what you’d better keep and
what you’d better burn, why, now’s your time, Slider.’

‘There an’t no hurry for that,’ said Peg, with several knowing looks and
winks.

‘Oh! very well!’ observed Squeers, ‘it don’t matter to me; you asked
me, you know. I shouldn’t charge you nothing, being a friend. You’re the
best judge of course. But you’re a bold woman, Slider.’

‘How do you mean, bold?’ said Peg.

‘Why, I only mean that if it was me, I wouldn’t keep papers as might
hang me, littering about when they might be turned into money--them as
wasn’t useful made away with, and them as was, laid by somewheres, safe;
that’s all,’ returned Squeers; ‘but everybody’s the best judge of their
own affairs. All I say is, Slider, I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Come,’ said Peg, ‘then you shall see ‘em.’

‘I don’t want to see ‘em,’ replied Squeers, affecting to be out of
humour; ‘don’t talk as if it was a treat. Show ‘em to somebody else, and
take their advice.’

Mr. Squeers would, very likely, have carried on the farce of being
offended a little longer, if Mrs. Sliderskew, in her anxiety to restore
herself to her former high position in his good graces, had not become
so extremely affectionate that he stood at some risk of being smothered
by her caresses. Repressing, with as good a grace as possible, these
little familiarities--for which, there is reason to believe, the black
bottle was at least as much to blame as any constitutional infirmity on
the part of Mrs. Sliderskew--he protested that he had only been joking:
and, in proof of his unimpaired good-humour, that he was ready to
examine the deeds at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any
satisfaction or relief of mind to his fair friend.

‘And now you’re up, my Slider,’ bawled Squeers, as she rose to fetch
them, ‘bolt the door.’

Peg trotted to the door, and after fumbling at the bolt, crept to the
other end of the room, and from beneath the coals which filled the
bottom of the cupboard, drew forth a small deal box. Having placed this
on the floor at Squeers’s feet, she brought, from under the pillow of
her bed, a small key, with which she signed to that gentleman to open
it. Mr. Squeers, who had eagerly followed her every motion, lost no time
in obeying this hint: and, throwing back the lid, gazed with rapture on
the documents which lay within.

‘Now you see,’ said Peg, kneeling down on the floor beside him, and
staying his impatient hand; ‘what’s of no use we’ll burn; what we can
get any money by, we’ll keep; and if there’s any we could get him into
trouble by, and fret and waste away his heart to shreds, those we’ll
take particular care of; for that’s what I want to do, and what I hoped
to do when I left him.’

‘I thought,’ said Squeers, ‘that you didn’t bear him any particular
good-will. But, I say, why didn’t you take some money besides?’

‘Some what?’ asked Peg.

‘Some money,’ roared Squeers. ‘I do believe the woman hears me, and
wants to make me break a wessel, so that she may have the pleasure of
nursing me. Some money, Slider, money!’

‘Why, what a man you are to ask!’ cried Peg, with some contempt. ‘If I
had taken money from Arthur Gride, he’d have scoured the whole earth to
find me--aye, and he’d have smelt it out, and raked it up, somehow, if
I had buried it at the bottom of the deepest well in England. No, no!
I knew better than that. I took what I thought his secrets were hid in:
and them he couldn’t afford to make public, let’em be worth ever so much
money. He’s an old dog; a sly, old, cunning, thankless dog! He first
starved, and then tricked me; and if I could I’d kill him.’

‘All right, and very laudable,’ said Squeers. ‘But, first and foremost,
Slider, burn the box. You should never keep things as may lead to
discovery. Always mind that. So while you pull it to pieces (which you
can easily do, for it’s very old and rickety) and burn it in little
bits, I’ll look over the papers and tell you what they are.’

Peg, expressing her acquiescence in this arrangement, Mr. Squeers turned
the box bottom upwards, and tumbling the contents upon the floor, handed
it to her; the destruction of the box being an extemporary device for
engaging her attention, in case it should prove desirable to distract it
from his own proceedings.

‘There!’ said Squeers; ‘you poke the pieces between the bars, and make
up a good fire, and I’ll read the while. Let me see, let me see.’ And
taking the candle down beside him, Mr. Squeers, with great eagerness
and a cunning grin overspreading his face, entered upon his task of
examination.

If the old woman had not been very deaf, she must have heard, when she
last went to the door, the breathing of two persons close behind it: and
if those two persons had been unacquainted with her infirmity, they must
probably have chosen that moment either for presenting themselves or
taking to flight. But, knowing with whom they had to deal, they remained
quite still, and now, not only appeared unobserved at the door--which
was not bolted, for the bolt had no hasp--but warily, and with noiseless
footsteps, advanced into the room.

As they stole farther and farther in by slight and scarcely perceptible
degrees, and with such caution that they scarcely seemed to breathe, the
old hag and Squeers little dreaming of any such invasion, and utterly
unconscious of there being any soul near but themselves, were busily
occupied with their tasks. The old woman, with her wrinkled face close
to the bars of the stove, puffing at the dull embers which had not yet
caught the wood; Squeers stooping down to the candle, which brought out
the full ugliness of his face, as the light of the fire did that of his
companion; both intently engaged, and wearing faces of exultation which
contrasted strongly with the anxious looks of those behind, who took
advantage of the slightest sound to cover their advance, and, almost
before they had moved an inch, and all was silent, stopped again. This,
with the large bare room, damp walls, and flickering doubtful light,
combined to form a scene which the most careless and indifferent
spectator (could any have been present) could scarcely have failed to
derive some interest from, and would not readily have forgotten.

Of the stealthy comers, Frank Cheeryble was one, and Newman Noggs
the other. Newman had caught up, by the rusty nozzle, an old pair of
bellows, which were just undergoing a flourish in the air preparatory
to a descent upon the head of Mr. Squeers, when Frank, with an earnest
gesture, stayed his arm, and, taking another step in advance, came so
close behind the schoolmaster that, by leaning slightly forward, he
could plainly distinguish the writing which he held up to his eye.

Mr. Squeers, not being remarkably erudite, appeared to be considerably
puzzled by this first prize, which was in an engrossing hand, and not
very legible except to a practised eye. Having tried it by reading from
left to right, and from right to left, and finding it equally clear both
ways, he turned it upside down with no better success.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ chuckled Peg, who, on her knees before the fire, was
feeding it with fragments of the box, and grinning in most devilish
exultation. ‘What’s that writing about, eh?’

‘Nothing particular,’ replied Squeers, tossing it towards her. ‘It’s
only an old lease, as well as I can make out. Throw it in the fire.’

Mrs. Sliderskew complied, and inquired what the next one was.

‘This,’ said Squeers, ‘is a bundle of overdue acceptances and renewed
bills of six or eight young gentlemen, but they’re all MPs, so it’s of
no use to anybody. Throw it in the fire!’ Peg did as she was bidden, and
waited for the next.

‘This,’ said Squeers, ‘seems to be some deed of sale of the right of
presentation to the rectory of Purechurch, in the valley of Cashup. Take
care of that, Slider, literally for God’s sake. It’ll fetch its price at
the Auction Mart.’

‘What’s the next?’ inquired Peg.

‘Why, this,’ said Squeers, ‘seems, from the two letters that’s with it,
to be a bond from a curate down in the country, to pay half a year’s
wages of forty pound for borrowing twenty. Take care of that, for if he
don’t pay it, his bishop will very soon be down upon him. We know what
the camel and the needle’s eye means; no man as can’t live upon his
income, whatever it is, must expect to go to heaven at any price. It’s
very odd; I don’t see anything like it yet.’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Peg.

‘Nothing,’ replied Squeers, ‘only I’m looking for--’

Newman raised the bellows again. Once more, Frank, by a rapid motion of
his arm, unaccompanied by any noise, checked him in his purpose.

‘Here you are,’ said Squeers, ‘bonds--take care of them. Warrant of
attorney--take care of that. Two cognovits--take care of them. Lease and
release--burn that. Ah! “Madeline Bray--come of age or marry--the said
Madeline”--here, burn THAT!’

Eagerly throwing towards the old woman a parchment that he caught up for
the purpose, Squeers, as she turned her head, thrust into the breast of
his large coat, the deed in which these words had caught his eye, and
burst into a shout of triumph.

‘I’ve got it!’ said Squeers. ‘I’ve got it! Hurrah! The plan was a good
one, though the chance was desperate, and the day’s our own at last!’

Peg demanded what he laughed at, but no answer was returned. Newman’s
arm could no longer be restrained; the bellows, descending heavily and
with unerring aim on the very centre of Mr. Squeers’s head, felled him to
the floor, and stretched him on it flat and senseless.



CHAPTER 58

In which one Scene of this History is closed


Dividing the distance into two days’ journey, in order that his charge
might sustain the less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far,
Nicholas, at the end of the second day from their leaving home, found
himself within a very few miles of the spot where the happiest years
of his life had been passed, and which, while it filled his mind with
pleasant and peaceful thoughts, brought back many painful and vivid
recollections of the circumstances in which he and his had wandered
forth from their old home, cast upon the rough world and the mercy of
strangers.

It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days,
and wanderings among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usually
awaken in the most insensible minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas,
and render him more than usually mindful of his drooping friend. By
night and day, at all times and seasons: always watchful, attentive, and
solicitous, and never varying in the discharge of his self-imposed duty
to one so friendless and helpless as he whose sands of life were now
fast running out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever at his side. He
never left him. To encourage and animate him, administer to his wants,
support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant
and unceasing occupation.

They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by
meadows where Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of
merry schoolfellows; and here they took up their rest.

At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances
at a time, with no other support or aid than that which Nicholas could
afford him. At this time, nothing appeared to interest him so much as
visiting those places which had been most familiar to his friend in
bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its
indulgence beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed
to afford him matter for thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholas
made such spots the scenes of their daily rambles: driving him from
place to place in a little pony-chair, and supporting him on his arm
while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the
sunlight to take long parting looks of those which were most quiet and
beautiful.

It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost
unconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point out some
tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at the young birds in
their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little Kate,
who stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging
him higher still by the intensity of her admiration. There was the
old house too, which they would pass every day, looking up at the tiny
window through which the sun used to stream in and wake him on the
summer mornings--they were all summer mornings then--and climbing up
the garden-wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush
which had come, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had
planted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where the brother
and sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and the green
fields and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not
a lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish
event was not entwined, and back it came upon the mind--as events of
childhood do--nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some
slight distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and
distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or
severest sorrows of a year ago.

One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his
father’s grave. ‘Even here,’ said Nicholas softly, ‘we used to loiter
before we knew what death was, and when we little thought whose ashes
would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit down to rest
and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of
fruitless search, they found her, fast asleep, under that tree which
shades my father’s grave. He was very fond of her, and said when he took
her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he died he would wish
to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his
wish was not forgotten.’

Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside
his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying
his hand in his, prayed, as the tears coursed down his face, that he
would make him one solemn promise.

‘What is that?’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘If I can redeem it, or hope to
do so, you know I will.’

‘I am sure you will,’ was the reply. ‘Promise me that when I die, I
shall be buried near--as near as they can make my grave--to the tree we
saw today.’

Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were
solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as
if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the hand was pressed
more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest, and slowly
loosed his hold.

In a fortnight’s time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice,
Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the
chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits of fainting, which, in
his weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old couch in the house,
which was his favourite resting-place by day; and when the sun shone,
and the weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little
orchard which was close at hand, and his charge being well wrapped
up and carried out to it, they used to sit there sometimes for hours
together.

It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which
Nicholas, at the time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an
imagination affected by disease; but which he had, afterwards, too good
reason to know was of real and actual occurrence.

He had brought Smike out in his arms--poor fellow! a child might have
carried him then--to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had
taken his seat beside it. He had been watching the whole of the night
before, and being greatly fatigued both in mind and body, gradually fell
asleep.

He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened by
a scream, and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person
suddenly roused, saw, to his great astonishment, that his charge had
struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almost starting from
their sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and in a fit of
trembling which quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.

‘Good Heaven, what is this?’ said Nicholas, bending over him. ‘Be calm;
you have been dreaming.’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Smike, clinging to him. ‘Hold me tight. Don’t let me
go. There, there. Behind the tree!’

Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind
the chair from which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothing
there.

‘This is nothing but your fancy,’ he said, as he strove to compose him;
‘nothing else, indeed.’

‘I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,’ was the answer. ‘Oh! say
you’ll keep me with you. Swear you won’t leave me for an instant!’

‘Do I ever leave you?’ returned Nicholas. ‘Lie down again--there! You
see I’m here. Now, tell me; what was it?’

‘Do you remember,’ said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfully
round, ‘do you remember my telling you of the man who first took me to
the school?’

‘Yes, surely.’

‘I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree--that one with the thick
trunk--and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!’

‘Only reflect for one moment,’ said Nicholas; ‘granting, for an instant,
that it’s likely he is alive and wandering about a lonely place like
this, so far removed from the public road, do you think that at this
distance of time you could possibly know that man again?’

‘Anywhere--in any dress,’ returned Smike; ‘but, just now, he stood
leaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you I
remembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorly dressed--I think
his clothes were ragged--but directly I saw him, the wet night, his face
when he left me, the parlour I was left in, and the people that were
there, all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, he
looked frightened; for he started, and shrunk away. I have thought of
him by day, and dreamt of him by night. He looked in my sleep, when I
was quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as he
did just now.’

Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could think
of, to convince the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived
him, and that this close resemblance between the creation of his dreams
and the man he supposed he had seen was but a proof of it; but all in
vain. When he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the
care of the people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict
inquiry whether any stranger had been seen, and searched himself
behind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land immediately
adjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a man
to lie concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in his
original conjecture, he applied himself to calming the fears of Smike,
which, after some time, he partially succeeded in doing, though not in
removing the impression upon his mind; for he still declared, again and
again, in the most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seen
what he had described, and that nothing could ever remove his conviction
of its reality.

And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the
partner of his poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world
was closing fast. There was little pain, little uneasiness, but there
was no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn and wasted
to the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be
heard to speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him
down to die.

On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the
soft sweet air crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a
sound was heard but the gentle rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in
his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time was nearly come.
So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to
listen for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself
that life was still there, and that he had not fallen into that deep
slumber from which on earth there is no waking.

While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face
there came a placid smile.

‘That’s well!’ said Nicholas. ‘The sleep has done you good.’

‘I have had such pleasant dreams,’ was the answer. ‘Such pleasant, happy
dreams!’

‘Of what?’ said Nicholas.

The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck,
made answer, ‘I shall soon be there!’

After a short silence, he spoke again.

‘I am not afraid to die,’ he said. ‘I am quite contented. I almost think
that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wish to do
so, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again--so very often
lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly--that I can even
bear to part from you.’

The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the
arm which accompanied these latter words, showed how they filled the
speaker’s heart; nor were there wanting indications of how deeply they
had touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.

‘You say well,’ returned Nicholas at length, ‘and comfort me very much,
dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if you can.’

‘I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you.
You would not blame me, at a time like this, I know.’

‘I blame you!’ exclaimed Nicholas.

‘I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and--and
sat so much alone. Shall I tell you why?’

‘Not if it pains you,’ said Nicholas. ‘I only asked that I might make
you happier, if I could.’

‘I know. I felt that, at the time.’ He drew his friend closer to him.
‘You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I would have
died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see--I know he loves her
dearly--Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?’

The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by
long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that
the dying boy, with all the ardour of a nature concentrated on one
absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.

He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded
in one or two slight ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was
dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that no eyes but his might see it,
and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in the
earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with
him in the grave.

Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that
he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed
each other on the cheek.

‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘I am happy.’

He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke
of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were
filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light
upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden--and so died.



CHAPTER 59

The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter


Ralph sat alone, in the solitary room where he was accustomed to take
his meals, and to sit of nights when no profitable occupation called
him abroad. Before him was an untasted breakfast, and near to where his
fingers beat restlessly upon the table, lay his watch. It was long past
the time at which, for many years, he had put it in his pocket and gone
with measured steps downstairs to the business of the day, but he took
as little heed of its monotonous warning, as of the meat and drink
before him, and remained with his head resting on one hand, and his eyes
fixed moodily on the ground.

This departure from his regular and constant habit, in one so regular
and unvarying in all that appertained to the daily pursuit of riches,
would almost of itself have told that the usurer was not well. That he
laboured under some mental or bodily indisposition, and that it was one
of no slight kind so to affect a man like him, was sufficiently shown by
his haggard face, jaded air, and hollow languid eyes: which he raised
at last with a start and a hasty glance around him, as one who suddenly
awakes from sleep, and cannot immediately recognise the place in which
he finds himself.

‘What is this,’ he said, ‘that hangs over me, and I cannot shake off? I
have never pampered myself, and should not be ill. I have never moped,
and pined, and yielded to fancies; but what CAN a man do without rest?’

He pressed his hand upon his forehead.

‘Night after night comes and goes, and I have no rest. If I sleep, what
rest is that which is disturbed by constant dreams of the same detested
faces crowding round me--of the same detested people, in every variety
of action, mingling with all I say and do, and always to my defeat?
Waking, what rest have I, constantly haunted by this heavy shadow of--I
know not what--which is its worst character? I must have rest. One
night’s unbroken rest, and I should be a man again.’

Pushing the table from him while he spoke, as though he loathed the
sight of food, he encountered the watch: the hands of which were almost
upon noon.

‘This is strange!’ he said; ‘noon, and Noggs not here! What drunken
brawl keeps him away? I would give something now--something in money
even after that dreadful loss--if he had stabbed a man in a tavern
scuffle, or broken into a house, or picked a pocket, or done anything
that would send him abroad with an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of
him. Better still, if I could throw temptation in his way, and lure him
on to rob me. He should be welcome to what he took, so I brought the law
upon him; for he is a traitor, I swear! How, or when, or where, I don’t
know, though I suspect.’

After waiting for another half-hour, he dispatched the woman who kept
his house to Newman’s lodging, to inquire if he were ill, and why he had
not come or sent. She brought back answer that he had not been home all
night, and that no one could tell her anything about him.

‘But there is a gentleman, sir,’ she said, ‘below, who was standing at
the door when I came in, and he says--’

‘What says he?’ demanded Ralph, turning angrily upon her. ‘I told you I
would see nobody.’

‘He says,’ replied the woman, abashed by his harshness, ‘that he comes
on very particular business which admits of no excuse; and I thought
perhaps it might be about--’

‘About what, in the devil’s name?’ said Ralph. ‘You spy and speculate on
people’s business with me, do you?’

‘Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious, and thought it might be about Mr
Noggs; that’s all.’

‘Saw I was anxious!’ muttered Ralph; ‘they all watch me, now. Where is
this person? You did not say I was not down yet, I hope?’

The woman replied that he was in the little office, and that she had
said her master was engaged, but she would take the message.

‘Well,’ said Ralph, ‘I’ll see him. Go you to your kitchen, and keep
there. Do you mind me?’

Glad to be released, the woman quickly disappeared. Collecting himself,
and assuming as much of his accustomed manner as his utmost resolution
could summon, Ralph descended the stairs. After pausing for a few
moments, with his hand upon the lock, he entered Newman’s room, and
confronted Mr. Charles Cheeryble.

Of all men alive, this was one of the last he would have wished to meet
at any time; but, now that he recognised in him only the patron
and protector of Nicholas, he would rather have seen a spectre. One
beneficial effect, however, the encounter had upon him. It instantly
roused all his dormant energies; rekindled in his breast the passions
that, for many years, had found an improving home there; called up all
his wrath, hatred, and malice; restored the sneer to his lip, and the
scowl to his brow; and made him again, in all outward appearance, the
same Ralph Nickleby whom so many had bitter cause to remember.

‘Humph!’ said Ralph, pausing at the door. ‘This is an unexpected favour,
sir.’

‘And an unwelcome one,’ said brother Charles; ‘an unwelcome one, I
know.’

‘Men say you are truth itself, sir,’ replied Ralph. ‘You speak truth
now, at all events, and I’ll not contradict you. The favour is, at
least, as unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can scarcely say more.’

‘Plainly, sir--’ began brother Charles.

‘Plainly, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, ‘I wish this conference to be a short
one, and to end where it begins. I guess the subject upon which you are
about to speak, and I’ll not hear you. You like plainness, I believe;
there it is. Here is the door as you see. Our way lies in very different
directions. Take yours, I beg of you, and leave me to pursue mine in
quiet.’

‘In quiet!’ repeated brother Charles mildly, and looking at him with
more of pity than reproach. ‘To pursue HIS way in quiet!’

‘You will scarcely remain in my house, I presume, sir, against my will,’
said Ralph; ‘or you can scarcely hope to make an impression upon a
man who closes his ears to all that you can say, and is firmly and
resolutely determined not to hear you.’

‘Mr. Nickleby, sir,’ returned brother Charles: no less mildly than
before, but firmly too: ‘I come here against my will, sorely and
grievously against my will. I have never been in this house before; and,
to speak my mind, sir, I don’t feel at home or easy in it, and have no
wish ever to be here again. You do not guess the subject on which I come
to speak to you; you do not indeed. I am sure of that, or your manner
would be a very different one.’

Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear eye and open countenance of
the honest old merchant underwent no change of expression, and met his
look without reserve.

‘Shall I go on?’ said Mr. Cheeryble.

‘Oh, by all means, if you please,’ returned Ralph drily. ‘Here are walls
to speak to, sir, a desk, and two stools: most attentive auditors, and
certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg; make my house yours, and
perhaps by the time I return from my walk, you will have finished what
you have to say, and will yield me up possession again.’

So saying, he buttoned his coat, and turning into the passage, took down
his hat. The old gentleman followed, and was about to speak, when Ralph
waved him off impatiently, and said:

‘Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word. Virtuous as you are, you are
not an angel yet, to appear in men’s houses whether they will or no, and
pour your speech into unwilling ears. Preach to the walls I tell you;
not to me!’

‘I am no angel, Heaven knows,’ returned brother Charles, shaking his
head, ‘but an erring and imperfect man; nevertheless, there is
one quality which all men have, in common with the angels, blessed
opportunities of exercising, if they will; mercy. It is an errand of
mercy that brings me here. Pray let me discharge it.’

‘I show no mercy,’ retorted Ralph with a triumphant smile, ‘and I
ask none. Seek no mercy from me, sir, in behalf of the fellow who has
imposed upon your childish credulity, but let him expect the worst that
I can do.’

‘HE ask mercy at your hands!’ exclaimed the old merchant warmly; ‘ask it
at his, sir; ask it at his. If you will not hear me now, when you may,
hear me when you must, or anticipate what I would say, and take measures
to prevent our ever meeting again. Your nephew is a noble lad, sir, an
honest, noble lad. What you are, Mr. Nickleby, I will not say; but what
you have done, I know. Now, sir, when you go about the business in which
you have been recently engaged, and find it difficult of pursuing, come
to me and my brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater, sir, and we’ll explain
it for you--and come soon, or it may be too late, and you may have it
explained with a little more roughness, and a little less delicacy--and
never forget, sir, that I came here this morning, in mercy to you, and
am still ready to talk to you in the same spirit.’

With these words, uttered with great emphasis and emotion, brother
Charles put on his broad-brimmed hat, and, passing Ralph Nickleby
without any other remark, trotted nimbly into the street. Ralph looked
after him, but neither moved nor spoke for some time: when he broke what
almost seemed the silence of stupefaction, by a scornful laugh.

‘This,’ he said, ‘from its wildness, should be another of those dreams
that have so broken my rest of late. In mercy to me! Pho! The old
simpleton has gone mad.’

Although he expressed himself in this derisive and contemptuous manner,
it was plain that, the more Ralph pondered, the more ill at ease he
became, and the more he laboured under some vague anxiety and alarm,
which increased as the time passed on and no tidings of Newman Noggs
arrived. After waiting until late in the afternoon, tortured by various
apprehensions and misgivings, and the recollection of the warning which
his nephew had given him when they last met: the further confirmation of
which now presented itself in one shape of probability, now in another,
and haunted him perpetually: he left home, and, scarcely knowing why,
save that he was in a suspicious and agitated mood, betook himself to
Snawley’s house. His wife presented herself; and, of her, Ralph inquired
whether her husband was at home.

‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘he is not indeed, and I don’t think he will be
at home for a very long time; that’s more.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Ralph.

‘Oh yes, I know you very well; too well, perhaps, and perhaps he does
too, and sorry am I that I should have to say it.’

‘Tell him that I saw him through the window-blind above, as I crossed
the road just now, and that I would speak to him on business,’ said
Ralph. ‘Do you hear?’

‘I hear,’ rejoined Mrs. Snawley, taking no further notice of the request.

‘I knew this woman was a hypocrite, in the way of psalms and Scripture
phrases,’ said Ralph, passing quietly by, ‘but I never knew she drank
before.’

‘Stop! You don’t come in here,’ said Mr. Snawley’s better-half,
interposing her person, which was a robust one, in the doorway. ‘You
have said more than enough to him on business, before now. I always told
him what dealing with you and working out your schemes would come to.
It was either you or the schoolmaster--one of you, or the two between
you--that got the forged letter done; remember that! That wasn’t his
doing, so don’t lay it at his door.’

‘Hold your tongue, you Jezebel,’ said Ralph, looking fearfully round.

‘Ah, I know when to hold my tongue, and when to speak, Mr. Nickleby,’
retorted the dame. ‘Take care that other people know when to hold
theirs.’

‘You jade,’ said Ralph, ‘if your husband has been idiot enough to trust
you with his secrets, keep them; keep them, she-devil that you are!’

‘Not so much his secrets as other people’s secrets, perhaps,’ retorted
the woman; ‘not so much his secrets as yours. None of your black looks
at me! You’ll want ‘em all, perhaps, for another time. You had better
keep ‘em.’

‘Will you,’ said Ralph, suppressing his passion as well as he could,
and clutching her tightly by the wrist; ‘will you go to your husband and
tell him that I know he is at home, and that I must see him? And
will you tell me what it is that you and he mean by this new style of
behaviour?’

‘No,’ replied the woman, violently disengaging herself, ‘I’ll do
neither.’

‘You set me at defiance, do you?’ said Ralph.

‘Yes,’ was the answer. I do.’

For an instant Ralph had his hand raised, as though he were about to
strike her; but, checking himself, and nodding his head and muttering as
though to assure her he would not forget this, walked away.

Thence, he went straight to the inn which Mr. Squeers frequented, and
inquired when he had been there last; in the vague hope that, successful
or unsuccessful, he might, by this time, have returned from his mission
and be able to assure him that all was safe. But Mr. Squeers had not been
there for ten days, and all that the people could tell about him was,
that he had left his luggage and his bill.

Disturbed by a thousand fears and surmises, and bent upon ascertaining
whether Squeers had any suspicion of Snawley, or was, in any way, a
party to this altered behaviour, Ralph determined to hazard the
extreme step of inquiring for him at the Lambeth lodging, and having an
interview with him even there. Bent upon this purpose, and in that mood
in which delay is insupportable, he repaired at once to the place; and
being, by description, perfectly acquainted with the situation of his
room, crept upstairs and knocked gently at the door.

Not one, nor two, nor three, nor yet a dozen knocks, served to convince
Ralph, against his wish, that there was nobody inside. He reasoned that
he might be asleep; and, listening, almost persuaded himself that he
could hear him breathe. Even when he was satisfied that he could not be
there, he sat patiently on a broken stair and waited; arguing, that he
had gone out upon some slight errand, and must soon return.

Many feet came up the creaking stairs; and the step of some seemed to
his listening ear so like that of the man for whom he waited, that Ralph
often stood up to be ready to address him when he reached the top; but,
one by one, each person turned off into some room short of the place
where he was stationed: and at every such disappointment he felt quite
chilled and lonely.

At length he felt it was hopeless to remain, and going downstairs again,
inquired of one of the lodgers if he knew anything of Mr. Squeers’s
movements--mentioning that worthy by an assumed name which had been
agreed upon between them. By this lodger he was referred to another, and
by him to someone else, from whom he learnt, that, late on the previous
night, he had gone out hastily with two men, who had shortly afterwards
returned for the old woman who lived on the same floor; and that,
although the circumstance had attracted the attention of the informant,
he had not spoken to them at the time, nor made any inquiry afterwards.

This possessed him with the idea that, perhaps, Peg Sliderskew had been
apprehended for the robbery, and that Mr. Squeers, being with her at the
time, had been apprehended also, on suspicion of being a confederate. If
this were so, the fact must be known to Gride; and to Gride’s house he
directed his steps; now thoroughly alarmed, and fearful that there were
indeed plots afoot, tending to his discomfiture and ruin.

Arrived at the usurer’s house, he found the windows close shut, the
dingy blinds drawn down; all was silent, melancholy, and deserted. But
this was its usual aspect. He knocked--gently at first--then loud and
vigorously. Nobody came. He wrote a few words in pencil on a card, and
having thrust it under the door was going away, when a noise above, as
though a window-sash were stealthily raised, caught his ear, and looking
up he could just discern the face of Gride himself, cautiously peering
over the house parapet from the window of the garret. Seeing who was
below, he drew it in again; not so quickly, however, but that Ralph let
him know he was observed, and called to him to come down.

The call being repeated, Gride looked out again, so cautiously that no
part of the old man’s body was visible. The sharp features and white
hair appearing alone, above the parapet, looked like a severed head
garnishing the wall.

‘Hush!’ he cried. ‘Go away, go away!’

‘Come down,’ said Ralph, beckoning him.

‘Go a--way!’ squeaked Gride, shaking his head in a sort of ecstasy of
impatience. ‘Don’t speak to me, don’t knock, don’t call attention to the
house, but go away.’

‘I’ll knock, I swear, till I have your neighbours up in arms,’ said
Ralph, ‘if you don’t tell me what you mean by lurking there, you whining
cur.’

‘I can’t hear what you say--don’t talk to me--it isn’t safe--go away--go
away!’ returned Gride.

‘Come down, I say. Will you come down?’ said Ralph fiercely.

‘No--o--o--oo,’ snarled Gride. He drew in his head; and Ralph, left
standing in the street, could hear the sash closed, as gently and
carefully as it had been opened.

‘How is this,’ said he, ‘that they all fall from me, and shun me like
the plague, these men who have licked the dust from my feet? IS my
day past, and is this indeed the coming on of night? I’ll know what it
means! I will, at any cost. I am firmer and more myself, just now, than
I have been these many days.’

Turning from the door, which, in the first transport of his rage, he had
meditated battering upon until Gride’s very fears should impel him
to open it, he turned his face towards the city, and working his way
steadily through the crowd which was pouring from it (it was by this
time between five and six o’clock in the afternoon) went straight to the
house of business of the brothers Cheeryble, and putting his head into
the glass case, found Tim Linkinwater alone.

‘My name’s Nickleby,’ said Ralph.

‘I know it,’ replied Tim, surveying him through his spectacles.

‘Which of your firm was it who called on me this morning?’ demanded
Ralph.

‘Mr. Charles.’

‘Then, tell Mr. Charles I want to see him.’

‘You shall see,’ said Tim, getting off his stool with great agility,
‘you shall see, not only Mr. Charles, but Mr. Ned likewise.’

Tim stopped, looked steadily and severely at Ralph, nodded his head
once, in a curt manner which seemed to say there was a little more
behind, and vanished. After a short interval, he returned, and, ushering
Ralph into the presence of the two brothers, remained in the room
himself.

‘I want to speak to you, who spoke to me this morning,’ said Ralph,
pointing out with his finger the man whom he addressed.

‘I have no secrets from my brother Ned, or from Tim Linkinwater,’
observed brother Charles quietly.

‘I have,’ said Ralph.

‘Mr. Nickleby, sir,’ said brother Ned, ‘the matter upon which my brother
Charles called upon you this morning is one which is already perfectly
well known to us three, and to others besides, and must unhappily
soon become known to a great many more. He waited upon you, sir, this
morning, alone, as a matter of delicacy and consideration. We feel, now,
that further delicacy and consideration would be misplaced; and, if we
confer together, it must be as we are or not at all.’

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Ralph with a curl of the lip, ‘talking in
riddles would seem to be the peculiar forte of you two, and I suppose
your clerk, like a prudent man, has studied the art also with a view to
your good graces. Talk in company, gentlemen, in God’s name. I’ll humour
you.’

‘Humour!’ cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly growing very red in the face.
‘He’ll humour us! He’ll humour Cheeryble Brothers! Do you hear that? Do
you hear him? DO you hear him say he’ll humour Cheeryble Brothers?’

‘Tim,’ said Charles and Ned together, ‘pray, Tim, pray now, don’t.’

Tim, taking the hint, stifled his indignation as well as he could,
and suffered it to escape through his spectacles, with the additional
safety-valve of a short hysterical laugh now and then, which seemed to
relieve him mightily.

‘As nobody bids me to a seat,’ said Ralph, looking round, ‘I’ll take
one, for I am fatigued with walking. And now, if you please, gentlemen,
I wish to know--I demand to know; I have the right--what you have to
say to me, which justifies such a tone as you have assumed, and that
underhand interference in my affairs which, I have reason to suppose,
you have been practising. I tell you plainly, gentlemen, that little as
I care for the opinion of the world (as the slang goes), I don’t choose
to submit quietly to slander and malice. Whether you suffer yourselves
to be imposed upon too easily, or wilfully make yourselves parties to
it, the result to me is the same. In either case, you can’t expect from
a plain man like myself much consideration or forbearance.’

So coolly and deliberately was this said, that nine men out of ten,
ignorant of the circumstances, would have supposed Ralph to be really
an injured man. There he sat, with folded arms; paler than usual,
certainly, and sufficiently ill-favoured, but quite collected--far more
so than the brothers or the exasperated Tim--and ready to face out the
worst.

‘Very well, sir,’ said brother Charles. ‘Very well. Brother Ned, will
you ring the bell?’

‘Charles, my dear fellow! stop one instant,’ returned the other. ‘It
will be better for Mr. Nickleby and for our object that he should remain
silent, if he can, till we have said what we have to say. I wish him to
understand that.’

‘Quite right, quite right,’ said brother Charles.

Ralph smiled, but made no reply. The bell was rung; the room-door
opened; a man came in, with a halting walk; and, looking round, Ralph’s
eyes met those of Newman Noggs. From that moment, his heart began to
fail him.

‘This is a good beginning,’ he said bitterly. ‘Oh! this is a good
beginning. You are candid, honest, open-hearted, fair-dealing men! I
always knew the real worth of such characters as yours! To tamper with a
fellow like this, who would sell his soul (if he had one) for drink, and
whose every word is a lie. What men are safe if this is done? Oh, it’s a
good beginning!’

‘I WILL speak,’ cried Newman, standing on tiptoe to look over
Tim’s head, who had interposed to prevent him. ‘Hallo, you sir--old
Nickleby!--what do you mean when you talk of “a fellow like this”? Who
made me “a fellow like this”? If I would sell my soul for drink, why
wasn’t I a thief, swindler, housebreaker, area sneak, robber of pence
out of the trays of blind men’s dogs, rather than your drudge and
packhorse? If my every word was a lie, why wasn’t I a pet and favourite
of yours? Lie! When did I ever cringe and fawn to you. Tell me that!
I served you faithfully. I did more work, because I was poor, and took
more hard words from you because I despised you and them, than any
man you could have got from the parish workhouse. I did. I served you
because I was proud; because I was a lonely man with you, and there were
no other drudges to see my degradation; and because nobody knew, better
than you, that I was a ruined man: that I hadn’t always been what I
am: and that I might have been better off, if I hadn’t been a fool and
fallen into the hands of you and others who were knaves. Do you deny
that?’

‘Gently,’ reasoned Tim; ‘you said you wouldn’t.’

‘I said I wouldn’t!’ cried Newman, thrusting him aside, and moving his
hand as Tim moved, so as to keep him at arm’s length; ‘don’t tell me!
Here, you Nickleby! Don’t pretend not to mind me; it won’t do; I know
better. You were talking of tampering, just now. Who tampered with
Yorkshire schoolmasters, and, while they sent the drudge out, that he
shouldn’t overhear, forgot that such great caution might render him
suspicious, and that he might watch his master out at nights, and might
set other eyes to watch the schoolmaster? Who tampered with a selfish
father, urging him to sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and
tampered with Gride too, and did so in the little office, WITH A CLOSET
IN THE ROOM?’

Ralph had put a great command upon himself; but he could not have
suppressed a slight start, if he had been certain to be beheaded for it
next moment.

‘Aha!’ cried Newman, ‘you mind me now, do you? What first set this fag
to be jealous of his master’s actions, and to feel that, if he hadn’t
crossed him when he might, he would have been as bad as he, or worse?
That master’s cruel treatment of his own flesh and blood, and vile
designs upon a young girl who interested even his broken-down, drunken,
miserable hack, and made him linger in his service, in the hope of doing
her some good (as, thank God, he had done others once or twice before),
when he would, otherwise, have relieved his feelings by pummelling his
master soundly, and then going to the Devil. He would--mark that; and
mark this--that I’m here now, because these gentlemen thought it best.
When I sought them out (as I did; there was no tampering with me),
I told them I wanted help to find you out, to trace you down, to go
through with what I had begun, to help the right; and that when I had
done it, I’d burst into your room and tell you all, face to face, man
to man, and like a man. Now I’ve said my say, and let anybody else say
theirs, and fire away!’

With this concluding sentiment, Newman Noggs, who had been perpetually
sitting down and getting up again all through his speech, which he had
delivered in a series of jerks; and who was, from the violent exercise
and the excitement combined, in a state of most intense and fiery heat;
became, without passing through any intermediate stage, stiff, upright,
and motionless, and so remained, staring at Ralph Nickleby with all his
might and main.

Ralph looked at him for an instant, and for an instant only; then, waved
his hand, and beating the ground with his foot, said in a choking voice:

‘Go on, gentlemen, go on! I’m patient, you see. There’s law to be had,
there’s law. I shall call you to an account for this. Take care what you
say; I shall make you prove it.’

‘The proof is ready,’ returned brother Charles, ‘quite ready to our
hands. The man Snawley, last night, made a confession.’

‘Who may “the man Snawley” be,’ returned Ralph, ‘and what may his
“confession” have to do with my affairs?’

To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexibility of manner, the old
gentleman returned no answer, but went on to say, that to show him how
much they were in earnest, it would be necessary to tell him, not only
what accusations were made against him, but what proof of them they
had, and how that proof had been acquired. This laying open of the whole
question brought up brother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and Newman Noggs, all
three at once; who, after a vast deal of talking together, and a scene
of great confusion, laid before Ralph, in distinct terms, the following
statement.

That, Newman, having been solemnly assured by one not then producible
that Smike was not the son of Snawley, and this person having offered to
make oath to that effect, if necessary, they had by this communication
been first led to doubt the claim set up, which they would otherwise
have seen no reason to dispute, supported as it was by evidence which
they had no power of disproving. That, once suspecting the existence of
a conspiracy, they had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to the
malice of Ralph, and the vindictiveness and avarice of Squeers. That,
suspicion and proof being two very different things, they had been
advised by a lawyer, eminent for his sagacity and acuteness in such
practice, to resist the proceedings taken on the other side for the
recovery of the youth as slowly and artfully as possible, and meanwhile
to beset Snawley (with whom it was clear the main falsehood must rest);
to lead him, if possible, into contradictory and conflicting statements;
to harass him by all available means; and so to practise on his fears,
and regard for his own safety, as to induce him to divulge the whole
scheme, and to give up his employer and whomsoever else he could
implicate. That, all this had been skilfully done; but that Snawley,
who was well practised in the arts of low cunning and intrigue,
had successfully baffled all their attempts, until an unexpected
circumstance had brought him, last night, upon his knees.

It thus arose. When Newman Noggs reported that Squeers was again in
town, and that an interview of such secrecy had taken place between him
and Ralph that he had been sent out of the house, plainly lest he should
overhear a word, a watch was set upon the schoolmaster, in the hope
that something might be discovered which would throw some light upon
the suspected plot. It being found, however, that he held no further
communication with Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived quite alone,
they were completely at fault; the watch was withdrawn, and they would
have observed his motions no longer, if it had not happened that,
one night, Newman stumbled unobserved on him and Ralph in the street
together. Following them, he discovered, to his surprise, that they
repaired to various low lodging-houses, and taverns kept by broken
gamblers, to more than one of whom Ralph was known, and that they were
in pursuit--so he found by inquiries when they had left--of an
old woman, whose description exactly tallied with that of deaf Mrs
Sliderskew. Affairs now appearing to assume a more serious complexion,
the watch was renewed with increased vigilance; an officer was procured,
who took up his abode in the same tavern with Squeers: and by him and
Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of the unconscious schoolmaster were
dogged, until he was safely housed in the lodging at Lambeth. Mr. Squeers
having shifted his lodging, the officer shifted his, and lying concealed
in the same street, and, indeed, in the opposite house, soon found that
Mr. Squeers and Mrs. Sliderskew were in constant communication.

In this state of things, Arthur Gride was appealed to. The robbery,
partly owing to the inquisitiveness of the neighbours, and partly to
his own grief and rage, had, long ago, become known; but he positively
refused to give his sanction or yield any assistance to the old woman’s
capture, and was seized with such a panic at the idea of being called
upon to give evidence against her, that he shut himself up close in his
house, and refused to hold communication with anybody. Upon this, the
pursuers took counsel together, and, coming so near the truth as to
arrive at the conclusion that Gride and Ralph, with Squeers for their
instrument, were negotiating for the recovery of some of the stolen
papers which would not bear the light, and might possibly explain the
hints relative to Madeline which Newman had overheard, resolved that Mrs
Sliderskew should be taken into custody before she had parted with
them: and Squeers too, if anything suspicious could be attached to
him. Accordingly, a search-warrant being procured, and all prepared, Mr
Squeers’s window was watched, until his light was put out, and the time
arrived when, as had been previously ascertained, he usually visited
Mrs. Sliderskew. This done, Frank Cheeryble and Newman stole upstairs to
listen to their discourse, and to give the signal to the officer at the
most favourable time. At what an opportune moment they arrived, how
they listened, and what they heard, is already known to the reader. Mr
Squeers, still half stunned, was hurried off with a stolen deed in his
possession, and Mrs. Sliderskew was apprehended likewise. The information
being promptly carried to Snawley that Squeers was in custody--he was
not told for what--that worthy, first extorting a promise that he should
be kept harmless, declared the whole tale concerning Smike to be a
fiction and forgery, and implicated Ralph Nickleby to the fullest
extent. As to Mr. Squeers, he had, that morning, undergone a private
examination before a magistrate; and, being unable to account
satisfactorily for his possession of the deed or his companionship with
Mrs. Sliderskew, had been, with her, remanded for a week.

All these discoveries were now related to Ralph, circumstantially, and
in detail. Whatever impression they secretly produced, he suffered no
sign of emotion to escape him, but sat perfectly still, not raising his
frowning eyes from the ground, and covering his mouth with his hand.
When the narrative was concluded; he raised his head hastily, as if
about to speak, but on brother Charles resuming, fell into his old
attitude again.

‘I told you this morning,’ said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon
his brother’s shoulder, ‘that I came to you in mercy. How far you may be
implicated in this last transaction, or how far the person who is now
in custody may criminate you, you best know. But, justice must take its
course against the parties implicated in the plot against this poor,
unoffending, injured lad. It is not in my power, or in the power of my
brother Ned, to save you from the consequences. The utmost we can do is,
to warn you in time, and to give you an opportunity of escaping them. We
would not have an old man like you disgraced and punished by your near
relation; nor would we have him forget, like you, all ties of blood
and nature. We entreat you--brother Ned, you join me, I know, in this
entreaty, and so, Tim Linkinwater, do you, although you pretend to be an
obstinate dog, sir, and sit there frowning as if you didn’t--we entreat
you to retire from London, to take shelter in some place where you will
be safe from the consequences of these wicked designs, and where you may
have time, sir, to atone for them, and to become a better man.’

‘And do you think,’ returned Ralph, rising, ‘and do you think, you will
so easily crush ME? Do you think that a hundred well-arranged plans, or
a hundred suborned witnesses, or a hundred false curs at my heels, or a
hundred canting speeches full of oily words, will move me? I thank you
for disclosing your schemes, which I am now prepared for. You have not
the man to deal with that you think; try me! and remember that I
spit upon your fair words and false dealings, and dare you--provoke
you--taunt you--to do to me the very worst you can!’

Thus they parted, for that time; but the worst had not come yet.



CHAPTER 60

The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told


Instead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first street
cabriolet he could find, and, directing the driver towards the
police-office of the district in which Mr. Squeers’s misfortunes had
occurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, discharging the
man, went the rest of his way thither on foot. Inquiring for the object
of his solicitude, he learnt that he had timed his visit well; for Mr
Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for a hackney coach he had
ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding to his week’s retirement,
like a gentleman.

Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into a kind of
waiting-room in which, by reason of his scholastic profession and
superior respectability, Mr. Squeers had been permitted to pass the day.
Here, by the light of a guttering and blackened candle, he could barely
discern the schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench in a remote corner.
An empty glass stood on a table before him, which, with his somnolent
condition and a very strong smell of brandy and water, forewarned
the visitor that Mr. Squeers had been seeking, in creature comforts, a
temporary forgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.

It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic and heavy were
his slumbers. Regaining his faculties by slow and faint glimmerings, he
at length sat upright; and, displaying a very yellow face, a very
red nose, and a very bristly beard: the joint effect of which was
considerably heightened by a dirty white handkerchief, spotted with
blood, drawn over the crown of his head and tied under his chin: stared
ruefully at Ralph in silence, until his feelings found a vent in this
pithy sentence:

‘I say, young fellow, you’ve been and done it now; you have!’

‘What’s the matter with your head?’ asked Ralph.

‘Why, your man, your informing kidnapping man, has been and broke it,’
rejoined Squeers sulkily; ‘that’s what’s the matter with it. You’ve come
at last, have you?’

‘Why have you not sent to me?’ said Ralph. ‘How could I come till I knew
what had befallen you?’

‘My family!’ hiccuped Mr. Squeers, raising his eye to the ceiling: ‘my
daughter, as is at that age when all the sensibilities is a-coming out
strong in blow--my son as is the young Norval of private life, and the
pride and ornament of a doting willage--here’s a shock for my family!
The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses is tore, and their sun is gone down
into the ocean wave!’

‘You have been drinking,’ said Ralph, ‘and have not yet slept yourself
sober.’

‘I haven’t been drinking YOUR health, my codger,’ replied Mr. Squeers;
‘so you have nothing to do with that.’

Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster’s altered and
insolent manner awakened, and asked again why he had not sent to him.

‘What should I get by sending to you?’ returned Squeers. ‘To be known to
be in with you wouldn’t do me a deal of good, and they won’t take bail
till they know something more of the case, so here am I hard and fast:
and there are you, loose and comfortable.’

‘And so must you be in a few days,’ retorted Ralph, with affected
good-humour. ‘They can’t hurt you, man.’

‘Why, I suppose they can’t do much to me, if I explain how it was that I
got into the good company of that there ca-daverous old Slider,’ replied
Squeers viciously, ‘who I wish was dead and buried, and resurrected and
dissected, and hung upon wires in a anatomical museum, before ever I’d
had anything to do with her. This is what him with the powdered head
says this morning, in so many words: “Prisoner! As you have been found
in company with this woman; as you were detected in possession of
this document; as you were engaged with her in fraudulently destroying
others, and can give no satisfactory account of yourself; I shall remand
you for a week, in order that inquiries may be made, and evidence got.
And meanwhile I can’t take any bail for your appearance.” Well then,
what I say now is, that I CAN give a satisfactory account of myself;
I can hand in the card of my establishment and say, “I am the Wackford
Squeers as is therein named, sir. I am the man as is guaranteed,
by unimpeachable references, to be a out-and-outer in morals and
uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong in this business is no fault
of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I was not aware that anything
was wrong. I was merely employed by a friend, my friend Mr. Ralph
Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send for him, sir, and ask him what he has
to say; he’s the man; not me!”’

‘What document was it that you had?’ asked Ralph, evading, for the
moment, the point just raised.

‘What document? Why, THE document,’ replied Squeers. ‘The Madeline
What’s-her-name one. It was a will; that’s what it was.’

‘Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, to what
extent?’ asked Ralph hurriedly.

‘A will in her favour; that’s all I know,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and that’s
more than you’d have known, if you’d had them bellows on your head. It’s
all owing to your precious caution that they got hold of it. If you had
let me burn it, and taken my word that it was gone, it would have been a
heap of ashes behind the fire, instead of being whole and sound, inside
of my great-coat.’

‘Beaten at every point!’ muttered Ralph.

‘Ah!’ sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water and his broken
head, wandered strangely, ‘at the delightful village of Dotheboys near
Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed,
furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries, instructed
in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry,
astronomy, trigonometry--this is a altered state of trigonomics, this
is! A double 1--all, everything--a cobbler’s weapon. U-p-up, adjective,
not down. S-q-u-double e-r-s-Squeers, noun substantive, a educator of
youth. Total, all up with Squeers!’

His running on, in this way, had afforded Ralph an opportunity of
recovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested to him
the necessity of removing, as far as possible, the schoolmaster’s
misgivings, and leading him to believe that his safety and best policy
lay in the preservation of a rigid silence.

‘I tell you, once again,’ he said, ‘they can’t hurt you. You shall have
an action for false imprisonment, and make a profit of this, yet. We
will devise a story for you that should carry you through twenty times
such a trivial scrape as this; and if they want security in a thousand
pounds for your reappearance in case you should be called upon, you
shall have it. All you have to do is, to keep back the truth. You’re a
little fuddled tonight, and may not be able to see this as clearly as
you would at another time; but this is what you must do, and you’ll need
all your senses about you; for a slip might be awkward.’

‘Oh!’ said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with his head stuck
on one side, like an old raven. ‘That’s what I’m to do, is it? Now then,
just you hear a word or two from me. I an’t a-going to have any stories
made for me, and I an’t a-going to stick to any. If I find matters going
again me, I shall expect you to take your share, and I’ll take care you
do. You never said anything about danger. I never bargained for being
brought into such a plight as this, and I don’t mean to take it as quiet
as you think. I let you lead me on, from one thing to another, because
we had been mixed up together in a certain sort of a way, and if you had
liked to be ill-natured you might perhaps have hurt the business, and
if you liked to be good-natured you might throw a good deal in my way.
Well; if all goes right now, that’s quite correct, and I don’t mind it;
but if anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I shall just say
and do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advice from nobody.
My moral influence with them lads,’ added Mr. Squeers, with deeper
gravity, ‘is a tottering to its basis. The images of Mrs. Squeers, my
daughter, and my son Wackford, all short of vittles, is perpetually
before me; every other consideration melts away and vanishes, in front
of these; the only number in all arithmetic that I know of, as a husband
and a father, is number one, under this here most fatal go!’

How long Mr. Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy a discussion his
declamation might have led to, nobody knows. Being interrupted, at this
point, by the arrival of the coach and an attendant who was to bear
him company, he perched his hat with great dignity on the top of the
handkerchief that bound his head; and, thrusting one hand in his pocket,
and taking the attendant’s arm with the other, suffered himself to be
led forth.

‘As I supposed from his not sending!’ thought Ralph. ‘This fellow, I
plainly see through all his tipsy fooling, has made up his mind to turn
upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in, that they are not only all struck
with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have their fling at me
now, though time was, and no longer ago than yesterday too, when they
were all civility and compliance. But they shall not move me. I’ll not
give way. I will not budge one inch!’

He went home, and was glad to find his housekeeper complaining of
illness, that he might have an excuse for being alone and sending her
away to where she lived: which was hard by. Then, he sat down by the
light of a single candle, and began to think, for the first time, on all
that had taken place that day.

He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, in addition to the
anxiety of mind he had undergone, had been travelling about, from place
to place almost incessantly, for many hours. He felt sick and exhausted,
but could taste nothing save a glass of water, and continued to sit with
his head upon his hand; not resting nor thinking, but laboriously
trying to do both, and feeling that every sense but one of weariness and
desolation, was for the time benumbed.

It was nearly ten o’clock when he heard a knocking at the door, and
still sat quiet as before, as if he could not even bring his thoughts to
bear upon that. It had been often repeated, and he had, several times,
heard a voice outside, saying there was a light in the window (meaning,
as he knew, his own candle), before he could rouse himself and go
downstairs.

‘Mr. Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent to beg you
will come with me directly,’ said a voice he seemed to recognise. He
held his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, saw Tim Linkinwater on
the steps.

‘Come where?’ demanded Ralph.

‘To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coach here.’

‘Why should I go there?’ said Ralph.

‘Don’t ask me why, but pray come with me.’

‘Another edition of today!’ returned Ralph, making as though he would
shut the door.

‘No, no!’ cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking most
earnestly; ‘it is only that you may hear something that has occurred:
something very dreadful, Mr. Nickleby, which concerns you nearly. Do you
think I would tell you so or come to you like this, if it were not the
case?’

Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeed greatly
excited, he faltered, and could not tell what to say or think.

‘You had better hear this now, than at any other time,’ said Tim; ‘it
may have some influence with you. For Heaven’s sake come!’

Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph’s obstinacy and dislike would have
been proof against any appeal from such a quarter, however emphatically
urged; but now, after a moment’s hesitation, he went into the hall for
his hat, and returning, got into the coach without speaking a word.

Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as Ralph Nickleby
went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by the light of the
candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel and stagger like a
drunken man. He well remembered, too, that when he had placed his foot
upon the coach-steps, he turned round and looked upon him with a face so
ashy pale and so very wild and vacant that it made him shudder, and for
the moment almost afraid to follow. People were fond of saying that
he had some dark presentiment upon him then, but his emotion might,
perhaps, with greater show of reason, be referred to what he had
undergone that day.

A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived at their place
of destination, Ralph followed his conductor into the house, and into a
room where the two brothers were. He was so astounded, not to say awed,
by something of a mute compassion for himself which was visible in their
manner and in that of the old clerk, that he could scarcely speak.

Having taken a seat, however, he contrived to say, though in broken
words, ‘What--what have you to say to me--more than has been said
already?’

The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, and terminated in
a bay window, about which hung some heavy drapery. Casting his eyes in
this direction as he spoke, he thought he made out the dusky figure of
a man. He was confirmed in this impression by seeing that the object
moved, as if uneasy under his scrutiny.

‘Who’s that yonder?’ he said.

‘One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, the intelligence
which caused our sending to you,’ replied brother Charles. ‘Let him be,
sir, let him be for the present.’

‘More riddles!’ said Ralph, faintly. ‘Well, sir?’

In turning his face towards the brothers he was obliged to avert it from
the window; but, before either of them could speak, he had looked round
again. It was evident that he was rendered restless and uncomfortable by
the presence of the unseen person; for he repeated this action several
times, and at length, as if in a nervous state which rendered him
positively unable to turn away from the place, sat so as to have it
opposite him, muttering as an excuse that he could not bear the light.

The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their manner showing
that they were agitated. Ralph glanced at them twice or thrice, and
ultimately said, with a great effort to recover his self-possession,
‘Now, what is this? If I am brought from home at this time of night, let
it be for something. What have you got to tell me?’ After a short pause,
he added, ‘Is my niece dead?’

He had struck upon a key which rendered the task of commencement an
easier one. Brother Charles turned, and said that it was a death of
which they had to tell him, but that his niece was well.

‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ said Ralph, as his eyes brightened, ‘that
her brother’s dead? No, that’s too good. I’d not believe it, if you told
me so. It would be too welcome news to be true.’

‘Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural man,’ cried the other brother,
warmly. ‘Prepare yourself for intelligence which, if you have any human
feeling in your breast, will make even you shrink and tremble. What if
we tell you that a poor unfortunate boy: a child in everything but never
having known one of those tender endearments, or one of those lightsome
hours which make our childhood a time to be remembered like a happy
dream through all our after life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionate
creature, who never offended you, or did you wrong, but on whom you have
vented the malice and hatred you have conceived for your nephew, and
whom you have made an instrument for wreaking your bad passions upon
him: what if we tell you that, sinking under your persecution, sir, and
the misery and ill-usage of a life short in years but long in suffering,
this poor creature has gone to tell his sad tale where, for your part in
it, you must surely answer?’

‘If you tell me,’ said Ralph; ‘if you tell me that he is dead, I forgive
you all else. If you tell me that he is dead, I am in your debt and
bound to you for life. He is! I see it in your faces. Who triumphs now?
Is this your dreadful news; this your terrible intelligence? You see
how it moves me. You did well to send. I would have travelled a hundred
miles afoot, through mud, mire, and darkness, to hear this news just at
this time.’

Even then, moved as he was by this savage joy, Ralph could see in the
faces of the two brothers, mingling with their look of disgust and
horror, something of that indefinable compassion for himself which he
had noticed before.

‘And HE brought you the intelligence, did he?’ said Ralph, pointing
with his finger towards the recess already mentioned; ‘and sat there,
no doubt, to see me prostrated and overwhelmed by it! Ha, ha, ha! But I
tell him that I’ll be a sharp thorn in his side for many a long day to
come; and I tell you two, again, that you don’t know him yet; and that
you’ll rue the day you took compassion on the vagabond.’

‘You take me for your nephew,’ said a hollow voice; ‘it would be better
for you, and for me too, if I were he indeed.’

The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowly down. He
started back, for he found that he confronted--not Nicholas, as he had
supposed, but Brooker.

Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had never feared
him before; but the pallor which had been observed in his face when he
issued forth that night, came upon him again. He was seen to tremble,
and his voice changed as he said, keeping his eyes upon him,

‘What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, a felon, a
common thief?’

‘Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr. Nickleby, hear what he has to
tell you, be he what he may!’ cried the brothers, with such emphatic
earnestness, that Ralph turned to them in wonder. They pointed to
Brooker. Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemed mechanically.

‘That boy,’ said the man, ‘that these gentlemen have been talking of--’

‘That boy,’ repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.

‘Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who is now in his
grave--’

‘Who is now in his grave,’ echoed Ralph, like one who talks in his
sleep.

The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnly together:

‘--Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!’

In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his two hands
upon his temples. He removed them, after a minute, and never was there
seen, part of a living man undisfigured by any wound, such a ghastly
face as he then disclosed. He looked at Brooker, who was by this time
standing at a short distance from him; but did not say one word, or make
the slightest sound or gesture.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the man, ‘I offer no excuses for myself. I am long
past that. If, in telling you how this has happened, I tell you that I
was harshly used, and perhaps driven out of my real nature, I do it only
as a necessary part of my story, and not to shield myself. I am a guilty
man.’

He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking away from Ralph, and
addressing himself to the brothers, proceeded in a subdued and humble
tone:

‘Among those who once had dealings with this man, gentlemen--that’s from
twenty to five-and-twenty years ago--there was one: a rough fox-hunting,
hard-drinking gentleman, who had run through his own fortune, and wanted
to squander away that of his sister: they were both orphans, and she
lived with him and managed his house. I don’t know whether it was,
originally, to back his influence and try to over-persuade the young
woman or not, but he,’ pointing, to Ralph, ‘used to go down to the house
in Leicestershire pretty often, and stop there many days at a time. They
had had a great many dealings together, and he may have gone on some
of those, or to patch up his client’s affairs, which were in a ruinous
state; of course he went for profit. The gentlewoman was not a girl,
but she was, I have heard say, handsome, and entitled to a pretty large
property. In course of time, he married her. The same love of gain
which led him to contract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly
private; for a clause in her father’s will declared that if she married
without her brother’s consent, the property, in which she had only some
life interest while she remained single, should pass away altogether to
another branch of the family. The brother would give no consent that the
sister didn’t buy, and pay for handsomely; Mr. Nickleby would consent to
no such sacrifice; and so they went on, keeping their marriage secret,
and waiting for him to break his neck or die of a fever. He did neither,
and meanwhile the result of this private marriage was a son. The child
was put out to nurse, a long way off; his mother never saw him but once
or twice, and then by stealth; and his father--so eagerly did he thirst
after the money which seemed to come almost within his grasp now,
for his brother-in-law was very ill, and breaking more and more every
day--never went near him, to avoid raising any suspicion. The brother
lingered on; Mr. Nickleby’s wife constantly urged him to avow their
marriage; he peremptorily refused. She remained alone in a dull country
house: seeing little or no company but riotous, drunken sportsmen.
He lived in London and clung to his business. Angry quarrels and
recriminations took place, and when they had been married nearly seven
years, and were within a few weeks of the time when the brother’s death
would have adjusted all, she eloped with a younger man, and left him.’

Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signed to him
to proceed.

‘It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstances from his
own lips. They were no secrets then; for the brother, and others, knew
them; but they were communicated to me, not on this account, but because
I was wanted. He followed the fugitives. Some said to make money of his
wife’s shame, but, I believe, to take some violent revenge, for that was
as much his character as the other; perhaps more. He didn’t find them,
and she died not long after. I don’t know whether he began to think he
might like the child, or whether he wished to make sure that it should
never fall into its mother’s hands; but, before he went, he intrusted me
with the charge of bringing it home. And I did so.’

He went on, from this point, in a still more humble tone, and spoke in a
very low voice; pointing to Ralph as he resumed.

‘He had used me ill--cruelly--I reminded him in what, not long ago when
I met him in the street--and I hated him. I brought the child home to
his own house, and lodged him in the front garret. Neglect had made him
very sickly, and I was obliged to call in a doctor, who said he must be
removed for change of air, or he would die. I think that first put it in
my head. I did it then. He was gone six weeks, and when he came back, I
told him--with every circumstance well planned and proved; nobody could
have suspected me--that the child was dead and buried. He might have
been disappointed in some intention he had formed, or he might have had
some natural affection, but he WAS grieved at THAT, and I was confirmed
in my design of opening up the secret one day, and making it a means of
getting money from him. I had heard, like most other men, of Yorkshire
schools. I took the child to one kept by a man named Squeers, and left
it there. I gave him the name of Smike. Year by year, I paid twenty
pounds a-year for him for six years; never breathing the secret all the
time; for I had left his father’s service after more hard usage, and
quarrelled with him again. I was sent away from this country. I have
been away nearly eight years. Directly I came home again, I travelled
down into Yorkshire, and, skulking in the village of an evening-time,
made inquiries about the boys at the school, and found that this one,
whom I had placed there, had run away with a young man bearing the name
of his own father. I sought his father out in London, and hinting at
what I could tell him, tried for a little money to support life; but he
repulsed me with threats. I then found out his clerk, and, going on
from little to little, and showing him that there were good reasons for
communicating with me, learnt what was going on; and it was I who told
him that the boy was no son of the man who claimed to be his father. All
this time I had never seen the boy. At length, I heard from this same
source that he was very ill, and where he was. I travelled down there,
that I might recall myself, if possible, to his recollection and confirm
my story. I came upon him unexpectedly; but before I could speak he knew
me--he had good cause to remember me, poor lad!--and I would have sworn
to him if I had met him in the Indies. I knew the piteous face I had
seen in the little child. After a few days’ indecision, I applied to the
young gentleman in whose care he was, and I found that he was dead. He
knows how quickly he recognised me again, how often he had described
me and my leaving him at the school, and how he told him of a garret
he recollected: which is the one I have spoken of, and in his father’s
house to this day. This is my story. I demand to be brought face to face
with the schoolmaster, and put to any possible proof of any part of it,
and I will show that it’s too true, and that I have this guilt upon my
soul.’

‘Unhappy man!’ said the brothers. ‘What reparation can you make for
this?’

‘None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing to hope now. I
am old in years, and older still in misery and care. This confession can
bring nothing upon me but new suffering and punishment; but I make it,
and will abide by it whatever comes. I have been made the instrument of
working out this dreadful retribution upon the head of a man who, in
the hot pursuit of his bad ends, has persecuted and hunted down his own
child to death. It must descend upon me too. I know it must fall. My
reparation comes too late; and, neither in this world nor in the next,
can I have hope again!’

He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon the table close
to where Ralph was seated, and which was the only one in the room, was
thrown to the ground, and left them in darkness. There was some trifling
confusion in obtaining another light; the interval was a mere nothing;
but when the light appeared, Ralph Nickleby was gone.

The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time in discussing
the probability of his return; and, when it became apparent that he
would not come back, they hesitated whether or no to send after him.
At length, remembering how strangely and silently he had sat in one
immovable position during the interview, and thinking he might possibly
be ill, they determined, although it was now very late, to send to his
house on some pretence. Finding an excuse in the presence of Brooker,
whom they knew not how to dispose of without consulting his wishes, they
concluded to act upon this resolution before going to bed.



CHAPTER 61

Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly
and prudent People


On the next morning after Brooker’s disclosure had been made, Nicholas
returned home. The meeting between him and those whom he had left there
was not without strong emotion on both sides; for they had been informed
by his letters of what had occurred: and, besides that his griefs
were theirs, they mourned with him the death of one whose forlorn and
helpless state had first established a claim upon their compassion,
and whose truth of heart and grateful earnest nature had, every day,
endeared him to them more and more.

‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, wiping her eyes, and sobbing bitterly,
‘I have lost the best, the most zealous, and most attentive creature
that has ever been a companion to me in my life--putting you, my dear
Nicholas, and Kate, and your poor papa, and that well-behaved nurse who
ran away with the linen and the twelve small forks, out of the question,
of course. Of all the tractable, equal-tempered, attached, and faithful
beings that ever lived, I believe he was the most so. To look round upon
the garden, now, that he took so much pride in, or to go into his room
and see it filled with so many of those little contrivances for our
comfort that he was so fond of making, and made so well, and so little
thought he would leave unfinished--I can’t bear it, I cannot really. Ah!
This is a great trial to me, a great trial. It will be comfort to you,
my dear Nicholas, to the end of your life, to recollect how kind
and good you always were to him--so it will be to me, to think what
excellent terms we were always upon, and how fond he always was of me,
poor fellow! It was very natural you should have been attached to him,
my dear--very--and of course you were, and are very much cut up by this.
I am sure it’s only necessary to look at you and see how changed
you are, to see that; but nobody knows what my feelings are--nobody
can--it’s quite impossible!’

While Mrs. Nickleby, with the utmost sincerity, gave vent to her sorrows
after her own peculiar fashion of considering herself foremost, she
was not the only one who indulged such feelings. Kate, although well
accustomed to forget herself when others were to be considered, could
not repress her grief; Madeline was scarcely less moved than she; and
poor, hearty, honest little Miss La Creevy, who had come upon one of her
visits while Nicholas was away, and had done nothing, since the sad news
arrived, but console and cheer them all, no sooner beheld him coming
in at the door, than she sat herself down upon the stairs, and bursting
into a flood of tears, refused for a long time to be comforted.

‘It hurts me so,’ cried the poor body, ‘to see him come back alone. I
can’t help thinking what he must have suffered himself. I wouldn’t mind
so much if he gave way a little more; but he bears it so manfully.’

‘Why, so I should,’ said Nicholas, ‘should I not?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the little woman, ‘and bless you for a good
creature! but this does seem at first to a simple soul like me--I know
it’s wrong to say so, and I shall be sorry for it presently--this does
seem such a poor reward for all you have done.’

‘Nay,’ said Nicholas gently, ‘what better reward could I have, than
the knowledge that his last days were peaceful and happy, and the
recollection that I was his constant companion, and was not prevented,
as I might have been by a hundred circumstances, from being beside him?’

‘To be sure,’ sobbed Miss La Creevy; ‘it’s very true, and I’m an
ungrateful, impious, wicked little fool, I know.’

With that, the good soul fell to crying afresh, and, endeavouring to
recover herself, tried to laugh. The laugh and the cry, meeting each
other thus abruptly, had a struggle for the mastery; the result was,
that it was a drawn battle, and Miss La Creevy went into hysterics.

Waiting until they were all tolerably quiet and composed again,
Nicholas, who stood in need of some rest after his long journey, retired
to his own room, and throwing himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed,
fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, he found Kate sitting by his
bedside, who, seeing that he had opened his eyes, stooped down to kiss
him.

‘I came to tell you how glad I am to see you home again.’

‘But I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Kate.’

‘We have been wearying so for your return,’ said Kate, ‘mama and I,
and--and Madeline.’

‘You said in your last letter that she was quite well,’ said Nicholas,
rather hastily, and colouring as he spoke. ‘Has nothing been said, since
I have been away, about any future arrangements that the brothers have
in contemplation for her?’

‘Oh, not a word,’ replied Kate. ‘I can’t think of parting from her
without sorrow; and surely, Nicholas, YOU don’t wish it!’

Nicholas coloured again, and, sitting down beside his sister on a little
couch near the window, said:

‘No, Kate, no, I do not. I might strive to disguise my real feelings
from anybody but you; but I will tell you that--briefly and plainly,
Kate--that I love her.’

Kate’s eyes brightened, and she was going to make some reply, when
Nicholas laid his hand upon her arm, and went on:

‘Nobody must know this but you. She, last of all.’

‘Dear Nicholas!’

‘Last of all; never, though never is a long day. Sometimes, I try to
think that the time may come when I may honestly tell her this; but it
is so far off; in such distant perspective, so many years must elapse
before it comes, and when it does come (if ever) I shall be so
unlike what I am now, and shall have so outlived my days of youth and
romance--though not, I am sure, of love for her--that even I feel how
visionary all such hopes must be, and try to crush them rudely myself,
and have the pain over, rather than suffer time to wither them, and keep
the disappointment in store. No, Kate! Since I have been absent, I
have had, in that poor fellow who is gone, perpetually before my eyes,
another instance of the munificent liberality of these noble brothers.
As far as in me lies, I will deserve it, and if I have wavered in
my bounden duty to them before, I am now determined to discharge it
rigidly, and to put further delays and temptations beyond my reach.’

‘Before you say another word, dear Nicholas,’ said Kate, turning pale,
‘you must hear what I have to tell you. I came on purpose, but I had not
the courage. What you say now, gives me new heart.’ She faltered, and
burst into tears.

There was that in her manner which prepared Nicholas for what was
coming. Kate tried to speak, but her tears prevented her.

‘Come, you foolish girl,’ said Nicholas; ‘why, Kate, Kate, be a woman! I
think I know what you would tell me. It concerns Mr. Frank, does it not?’

Kate sunk her head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out ‘Yes.’

‘And he has offered you his hand, perhaps, since I have been away,’ said
Nicholas; ‘is that it? Yes. Well, well; it is not so difficult, you see,
to tell me, after all. He offered you his hand?’

‘Which I refused,’ said Kate.

‘Yes; and why?’

‘I told him,’ she said, in a trembling voice, ‘all that I have since
found you told mama; and while I could not conceal from him, and cannot
from you, that--that it was a pang and a great trial, I did so firmly,
and begged him not to see me any more.’

‘That’s my own brave Kate!’ said Nicholas, pressing her to his breast.
‘I knew you would.’

‘He tried to alter my resolution,’ said Kate, ‘and declared that, be my
decision what it might, he would not only inform his uncles of the
step he had taken, but would communicate it to you also, directly you
returned. I am afraid,’ she added, her momentary composure forsaking
her, ‘I am afraid I may not have said, strongly enough, how deeply I
felt such disinterested love, and how earnestly I prayed for his future
happiness. If you do talk together, I should--I should like him to know
that.’

‘And did you suppose, Kate, when you had made this sacrifice to what
you knew was right and honourable, that I should shrink from mine?’ said
Nicholas tenderly.

‘Oh no! not if your position had been the same, but--’

‘But it is the same,’ interrupted Nicholas. ‘Madeline is not the near
relation of our benefactors, but she is closely bound to them by ties as
dear; and I was first intrusted with her history, specially because they
reposed unbounded confidence in me, and believed that I was as true as
steel. How base would it be of me to take advantage of the circumstances
which placed her here, or of the slight service I was happily able to
render her, and to seek to engage her affections when the result must
be, if I succeeded, that the brothers would be disappointed in their
darling wish of establishing her as their own child, and that I must
seem to hope to build my fortunes on their compassion for the young
creature whom I had so meanly and unworthily entrapped: turning her very
gratitude and warmth of heart to my own purpose and account, and trading
in her misfortunes! I, too, whose duty, and pride, and pleasure, Kate,
it is to have other claims upon me which I will never forget; and who
have the means of a comfortable and happy life already, and have no
right to look beyond it! I have determined to remove this weight from my
mind. I doubt whether I have not done wrong, even now; and today I
will, without reserve or equivocation, disclose my real reasons to Mr
Cherryble, and implore him to take immediate measures for removing this
young lady to the shelter of some other roof.’

‘Today? so very soon?’

‘I have thought of this for weeks, and why should I postpone it? If the
scene through which I have just passed has taught me to reflect, and has
awakened me to a more anxious and careful sense of duty, why should I
wait until the impression has cooled? You would not dissuade me, Kate;
now would you?’

‘You may grow rich, you know,’ said Kate.

‘I may grow rich!’ repeated Nicholas, with a mournful smile, ‘ay, and
I may grow old! But rich or poor, or old or young, we shall ever be the
same to each other, and in that our comfort lies. What if we have but
one home? It can never be a solitary one to you and me. What if we were
to remain so true to these first impressions as to form no others? It is
but one more link to the strong chain that binds us together. It seems
but yesterday that we were playfellows, Kate, and it will seem but
tomorrow when we are staid old people, looking back to these cares as we
look back, now, to those of our childish days: and recollecting with a
melancholy pleasure that the time was, when they could move us. Perhaps
then, when we are quaint old folks and talk of the times when our step
was lighter and our hair not grey, we may be even thankful for the
trials that so endeared us to each other, and turned our lives into that
current, down which we shall have glided so peacefully and calmly. And
having caught some inkling of our story, the young people about us--as
young as you and I are now, Kate--may come to us for sympathy, and pour
distresses which hope and inexperience could scarcely feel enough for,
into the compassionate ears of the old bachelor brother and his maiden
sister.’

Kate smiled through her tears as Nicholas drew this picture; but they
were not tears of sorrow, although they continued to fall when he had
ceased to speak.

‘Am I not right, Kate?’ he said, after a short silence.

‘Quite, quite, dear brother; and I cannot tell you how happy I am that I
have acted as you would have had me.’

‘You don’t regret?’

‘N--n--no,’ said Kate timidly, tracing some pattern upon the ground with
her little foot. ‘I don’t regret having done what was honourable
and right, of course; but I do regret that this should have ever
happened--at least sometimes I regret it, and sometimes I--I don’t know
what I say; I am but a weak girl, Nicholas, and it has agitated me very
much.’

It is no vaunt to affirm that if Nicholas had had ten thousand pounds
at the minute, he would, in his generous affection for the owner of the
blushing cheek and downcast eye, have bestowed its utmost farthing, in
perfect forgetfulness of himself, to secure her happiness. But all he
could do was to comfort and console her by kind words; and words they
were of such love and kindness, and cheerful encouragement, that poor
Kate threw her arms about his neck, and declared she would weep no more.

‘What man,’ thought Nicholas proudly, while on his way, soon afterwards,
to the brothers’ house, ‘would not be sufficiently rewarded for any
sacrifice of fortune by the possession of such a heart as Kate’s, which,
but that hearts weigh light, and gold and silver heavy, is beyond all
praise? Frank has money, and wants no more. Where would it buy him such
a treasure as Kate? And yet, in unequal marriages, the rich party is
always supposed to make a great sacrifice, and the other to get a good
bargain! But I am thinking like a lover, or like an ass: which I suppose
is pretty nearly the same.’

Checking thoughts so little adapted to the business on which he was
bound, by such self-reproofs as this and many others no less sturdy, he
proceeded on his way and presented himself before Tim Linkinwater.

‘Ah! Mr. Nickleby!’ cried Tim, ‘God bless you! how d’ye do? Well? Say
you’re quite well and never better. Do now.’

‘Quite,’ said Nicholas, shaking him by both hands.

‘Ah!’ said Tim, ‘you look tired though, now I come to look at you. Hark!
there he is, d’ye hear him? That was Dick, the blackbird. He hasn’t been
himself since you’ve been gone. He’d never get on without you, now; he
takes as naturally to you as he does to me.’

‘Dick is a far less sagacious fellow than I supposed him, if he thinks I
am half so well worthy of his notice as you,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Why, I’ll tell you what, sir,’ said Tim, standing in his favourite
attitude and pointing to the cage with the feather of his pen, ‘it’s a
very extraordinary thing about that bird, that the only people he ever
takes the smallest notice of, are Mr. Charles, and Mr. Ned, and you, and
me.’

Here, Tim stopped and glanced anxiously at Nicholas; then unexpectedly
catching his eye repeated, ‘And you and me, sir, and you and me.’ And
then he glanced at Nicholas again, and, squeezing his hand, said, ‘I am
a bad one at putting off anything I am interested in. I didn’t mean to
ask you, but I should like to hear a few particulars about that poor
boy. Did he mention Cheeryble Brothers at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘many and many a time.’

‘That was right of him,’ returned Tim, wiping his eyes; ‘that was very
right of him.’

‘And he mentioned your name a score of times,’ said Nicholas, ‘and often
bade me carry back his love to Mr. Linkinwater.’

‘No, no, did he though?’ rejoined Tim, sobbing outright. ‘Poor fellow!
I wish we could have had him buried in town. There isn’t such a
burying-ground in all London as that little one on the other side of the
square--there are counting-houses all round it, and if you go in there,
on a fine day, you can see the books and safes through the open windows.
And he sent his love to me, did he? I didn’t expect he would have
thought of me. Poor fellow, poor fellow! His love too!’

Tim was so completely overcome by this little mark of recollection, that
he was quite unequal to any more conversation at the moment. Nicholas
therefore slipped quietly out, and went to brother Charles’s room.

If he had previously sustained his firmness and fortitude, it had been
by an effort which had cost him no little pain; but the warm welcome,
the hearty manner, the homely unaffected commiseration, of the good old
man, went to his heart, and no inward struggle could prevent his showing
it.

‘Come, come, my dear sir,’ said the benevolent merchant; ‘we must not
be cast down; no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune, and we must
remember that there are many sources of consolation even in death.
Every day that this poor lad had lived, he must have been less and
less qualified for the world, and more and more unhappy in is own
deficiencies. It is better as it is, my dear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it’s
better as it is.’

‘I have thought of all that, sir,’ replied Nicholas, clearing his
throat. ‘I feel it, I assure you.’

‘Yes, that’s well,’ replied Mr. Cheeryble, who, in the midst of all his
comforting, was quite as much taken aback as honest old Tim; ‘that’s
well. Where is my brother Ned? Tim Linkinwater, sir, where is my brother
Ned?’

‘Gone out with Mr. Trimmers, about getting that unfortunate man into the
hospital, and sending a nurse to his children,’ said Tim.

‘My brother Ned is a fine fellow, a great fellow!’ exclaimed brother
Charles as he shut the door and returned to Nicholas. ‘He will be
overjoyed to see you, my dear sir. We have been speaking of you every
day.’

‘To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find you alone,’ said
Nicholas, with some natural hesitation; ‘for I am anxious to say
something to you. Can you spare me a very few minutes?’

‘Surely, surely,’ returned brother Charles, looking at him with an
anxious countenance. ‘Say on, my dear sir, say on.’

‘I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,’ said Nicholas. ‘If ever one
mortal had reason to be penetrated with love and reverence for another:
with such attachment as would make the hardest service in his behalf a
pleasure and delight: with such grateful recollections as must rouse the
utmost zeal and fidelity of his nature: those are the feelings which I
should entertain for you, and do, from my heart and soul, believe me!’

‘I do believe you,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘and I am happy in
the belief. I have never doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I never
shall.’

‘Your telling me that so kindly,’ said Nicholas, ‘emboldens me to
proceed. When you first took me into your confidence, and dispatched me
on those missions to Miss Bray, I should have told you that I had seen
her long before; that her beauty had made an impression upon me which I
could not efface; and that I had fruitlessly endeavoured to trace her,
and become acquainted with her history. I did not tell you so, because
I vainly thought I could conquer my weaker feelings, and render every
consideration subservient to my duty to you.’

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said brother Charles, ‘you did not violate the confidence
I placed in you, or take an unworthy advantage of it. I am sure you did
not.’

‘I did not,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Although I found that the necessity
for self-command and restraint became every day more imperious, and the
difficulty greater, I never, for one instant, spoke or looked but as I
would have done had you been by. I never, for one moment, deserted my
trust, nor have I to this instant. But I find that constant association
and companionship with this sweet girl is fatal to my peace of mind, and
may prove destructive to the resolutions I made in the beginning, and up
to this time have faithfully kept. In short, sir, I cannot trust myself,
and I implore and beseech you to remove this young lady from under the
charge of my mother and sister without delay. I know that to anyone but
myself--to you, who consider the immeasurable distance between me and
this young lady, who is now your ward, and the object of your peculiar
care--my loving her, even in thought, must appear the height of rashness
and presumption. I know it is so. But who can see her as I have seen,
who can know what her life has been, and not love her? I have no excuse
but that; and as I cannot fly from this temptation, and cannot repress
this passion, with its object constantly before me, what can I do but
pray and beseech you to remove it, and to leave me to forget her?’

‘Mr. Nickleby,’ said the old man, after a short silence, ‘you can do no
more. I was wrong to expose a young man like you to this trial. I might
have foreseen what would happen. Thank you, sir, thank you. Madeline
shall be removed.’

‘If you would grant me one favour, dear sir, and suffer her to remember
me with esteem, by never revealing to her this confession--’

‘I will take care,’ said Mr. Cheeryble. ‘And now, is this all you have to
tell me?’

‘No!’ returned Nicholas, meeting his eye, ‘it is not.’

‘I know the rest,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, apparently very much relieved by
this prompt reply. ‘When did it come to your knowledge?’

‘When I reached home this morning.’

‘You felt it your duty immediately to come to me, and tell me what your
sister no doubt acquainted you with?’

‘I did,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I could have wished to have spoken to Mr
Frank first.’

‘Frank was with me last night,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘You have
done well, Mr. Nickleby--very well, sir--and I thank you again.’

Upon this head, Nicholas requested permission to add a few words. He
ventured to hope that nothing he had said would lead to the estrangement
of Kate and Madeline, who had formed an attachment for each other, any
interruption of which would, he knew, be attended with great pain to
them, and, most of all, with remorse and pain to him, as its unhappy
cause. When these things were all forgotten, he hoped that Frank and he
might still be warm friends, and that no word or thought of his humble
home, or of her who was well contented to remain there and share his
quiet fortunes, would ever again disturb the harmony between them. He
recounted, as nearly as he could, what had passed between himself
and Kate that morning: speaking of her with such warmth of pride and
affection, and dwelling so cheerfully upon the confidence they had of
overcoming any selfish regrets and living contented and happy in each
other’s love, that few could have heard him unmoved. More moved
himself than he had been yet, he expressed in a few hurried words--as
expressive, perhaps, as the most eloquent phrases--his devotion to the
brothers, and his hope that he might live and die in their service.

To all this, brother Charles listened in profound silence, and with his
chair so turned from Nicholas that his face could not be seen. He
had not spoken either, in his accustomed manner, but with a certain
stiffness and embarrassment very foreign to it. Nicholas feared he had
offended him. He said, ‘No, no, he had done quite right,’ but that was
all.

‘Frank is a heedless, foolish fellow,’ he said, after Nicholas had
paused for some time; ‘a very heedless, foolish fellow. I will take care
that this is brought to a close without delay. Let us say no more upon
the subject; it’s a very painful one to me. Come to me in half an hour;
I have strange things to tell you, my dear sir, and your uncle has
appointed this afternoon for your waiting upon him with me.’

‘Waiting upon him! With you, sir!’ cried Nicholas.

‘Ay, with me,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Return to me in half an hour,
and I’ll tell you more.’

Nicholas waited upon him at the time mentioned, and then learnt all
that had taken place on the previous day, and all that was known of the
appointment Ralph had made with the brothers; which was for that night;
and for the better understanding of which it will be requisite to
return and follow his own footsteps from the house of the twin brothers.
Therefore, we leave Nicholas somewhat reassured by the restored kindness
of their manner towards him, and yet sensible that it was different from
what it had been (though he scarcely knew in what respect): so he was
full of uneasiness, uncertainty, and disquiet.



CHAPTER 62

Ralph makes one last Appointment--and keeps it


Creeping from the house, and slinking off like a thief; groping with his
hands, when first he got into the street, as if he were a blind man; and
looking often over his shoulder while he hurried away, as though he were
followed in imagination or reality by someone anxious to question or
detain him; Ralph Nickleby left the city behind him, and took the road
to his own home.

The night was dark, and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds, furiously
and fast, before it. There was one black, gloomy mass that seemed
to follow him: not hurrying in the wild chase with the others, but
lingering sullenly behind, and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He
often looked back at this, and, more than once, stopped to let it pass
over; but, somehow, when he went forward again, it was still behind him,
coming mournfully and slowly up, like a shadowy funeral train.

He had to pass a poor, mean burial-ground--a dismal place, raised a
few feet above the level of the street, and parted from it by a low
parapet-wall and an iron railing; a rank, unwholesome, rotten spot,
where the very grass and weeds seemed, in their frouzy growth, to tell
that they had sprung from paupers’ bodies, and had struck their roots in
the graves of men, sodden, while alive, in steaming courts and drunken
hungry dens. And here, in truth, they lay, parted from the living by a
little earth and a board or two--lay thick and close--corrupting in body
as they had in mind--a dense and squalid crowd. Here they lay, cheek by
jowl with life: no deeper down than the feet of the throng that passed
there every day, and piled high as their throats. Here they lay, a
grisly family, all these dear departed brothers and sisters of the ruddy
clergyman who did his task so speedily when they were hidden in the
ground!

As he passed here, Ralph called to mind that he had been one of a jury,
long before, on the body of a man who had cut his throat; and that he
was buried in this place. He could not tell how he came to recollect it
now, when he had so often passed and never thought about him, or how it
was that he felt an interest in the circumstance; but he did both; and
stopping, and clasping the iron railings with his hands, looked eagerly
in, wondering which might be his grave.

While he was thus engaged, there came towards him, with noise of shouts
and singing, some fellows full of drink, followed by others, who were
remonstrating with them and urging them to go home in quiet. They were
in high good-humour; and one of them, a little, weazen, hump-backed
man, began to dance. He was a grotesque, fantastic figure, and the few
bystanders laughed. Ralph himself was moved to mirth, and echoed the
laugh of one who stood near and who looked round in his face. When they
had passed on, and he was left alone again, he resumed his speculation
with a new kind of interest; for he recollected that the last person who
had seen the suicide alive, had left him very merry, and he remembered
how strange he and the other jurors had thought that at the time.

He could not fix upon the spot among such a heap of graves, but he
conjured up a strong and vivid idea of the man himself, and how he
looked, and what had led him to do it; all of which he recalled with
ease. By dint of dwelling upon this theme, he carried the impression
with him when he went away; as he remembered, when a child, to have had
frequently before him the figure of some goblin he had once seen chalked
upon a door. But as he drew nearer and nearer home he forgot it again,
and began to think how very dull and solitary the house would be inside.

This feeling became so strong at last, that when he reached his own
door, he could hardly make up his mind to turn the key and open it. When
he had done that, and gone into the passage, he felt as though to shut
it again would be to shut out the world. But he let it go, and it closed
with a loud noise. There was no light. How very dreary, cold, and still
it was!

Shivering from head to foot, he made his way upstairs into the room
where he had been last disturbed. He had made a kind of compact with
himself that he would not think of what had happened until he got home.
He was at home now, and suffered himself to consider it.

His own child, his own child! He never doubted the tale; he felt it was
true; knew it as well, now, as if he had been privy to it all along. His
own child! And dead too. Dying beside Nicholas, loving him, and looking
upon him as something like an angel. That was the worst!

They had all turned from him and deserted him in his very first need.
Even money could not buy them now; everything must come out, and
everybody must know all. Here was the young lord dead, his companion
abroad and beyond his reach, ten thousand pounds gone at one blow, his
plot with Gride overset at the very moment of triumph, his after-schemes
discovered, himself in danger, the object of his persecution and
Nicholas’s love, his own wretched boy; everything crumbled and fallen
upon him, and he beaten down beneath the ruins and grovelling in the
dust.

If he had known his child to be alive; if no deceit had been ever
practised, and he had grown up beneath his eye; he might have been a
careless, indifferent, rough, harsh father--like enough--he felt that;
but the thought would come that he might have been otherwise, and that
his son might have been a comfort to him, and they two happy together.
He began to think now, that his supposed death and his wife’s flight had
had some share in making him the morose, hard man he was. He seemed to
remember a time when he was not quite so rough and obdurate; and almost
thought that he had first hated Nicholas because he was young and
gallant, and perhaps like the stripling who had brought dishonour and
loss of fortune on his head.

But one tender thought, or one of natural regret, in his whirlwind of
passion and remorse, was as a drop of calm water in a stormy maddened
sea. His hatred of Nicholas had been fed upon his own defeat, nourished
on his interference with his schemes, fattened upon his old defiance
and success. There were reasons for its increase; it had grown and
strengthened gradually. Now it attained a height which was sheer wild
lunacy. That his, of all others, should have been the hands to rescue
his miserable child; that he should have been his protector and faithful
friend; that he should have shown him that love and tenderness which,
from the wretched moment of his birth, he had never known; that he
should have taught him to hate his own parent and execrate his very
name; that he should now know and feel all this, and triumph in the
recollection; was gall and madness to the usurer’s heart. The dead
boy’s love for Nicholas, and the attachment of Nicholas to him, was
insupportable agony. The picture of his deathbed, with Nicholas at his
side, tending and supporting him, and he breathing out his thanks, and
expiring in his arms, when he would have had them mortal enemies and
hating each other to the last, drove him frantic. He gnashed his teeth
and smote the air, and looking wildly round, with eyes which gleamed
through the darkness, cried aloud:

‘I am trampled down and ruined. The wretch told me true. The night has
come! Is there no way to rob them of further triumph, and spurn their
mercy and compassion? Is there no devil to help me?’

Swiftly, there glided again into his brain the figure he had raised that
night. It seemed to lie before him. The head was covered now. So it
was when he first saw it. The rigid, upturned, marble feet too, he
remembered well. Then came before him the pale and trembling relatives
who had told their tale upon the inquest--the shrieks of women--the
silent dread of men--the consternation and disquiet--the victory
achieved by that heap of clay, which, with one motion of its hand, had
let out the life and made this stir among them--

He spoke no more; but, after a pause, softly groped his way out of
the room, and up the echoing stairs--up to the top--to the front
garret--where he closed the door behind him, and remained.

It was a mere lumber-room now, but it yet contained an old dismantled
bedstead; the one on which his son had slept; for no other had ever been
there. He avoided it hastily, and sat down as far from it as he could.

The weakened glare of the lights in the street below, shining through
the window which had no blind or curtain to intercept it, was enough to
show the character of the room, though not sufficient fully to reveal
the various articles of lumber, old corded trunks and broken furniture,
which were scattered about. It had a shelving roof; high in one part,
and at another descending almost to the floor. It was towards the
highest part that Ralph directed his eyes; and upon it he kept them
fixed steadily for some minutes, when he rose, and dragging thither an
old chest upon which he had been seated, mounted on it, and felt along
the wall above his head with both hands. At length, they touched a large
iron hook, firmly driven into one of the beams.

At that moment, he was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door below.
After a little hesitation he opened the window, and demanded who it was.

‘I want Mr. Nickleby,’ replied a voice.

‘What with him?’

‘That’s not Mr. Nickleby’s voice, surely?’ was the rejoinder.

It was not like it; but it was Ralph who spoke, and so he said.

The voice made answer that the twin brothers wished to know whether the
man whom he had seen that night was to be detained; and that although it
was now midnight they had sent, in their anxiety to do right.

‘Yes,’ cried Ralph, ‘detain him till tomorrow; then let them bring him
here--him and my nephew--and come themselves, and be sure that I will be
ready to receive them.’

‘At what hour?’ asked the voice.

‘At any hour,’ replied Ralph fiercely. ‘In the afternoon, tell them. At
any hour, at any minute. All times will be alike to me.’

He listened to the man’s retreating footsteps until the sound had
passed, and then, gazing up into the sky, saw, or thought he saw, the
same black cloud that had seemed to follow him home, and which now
appeared to hover directly above the house.

‘I know its meaning now,’ he muttered, ‘and the restless nights, the
dreams, and why I have quailed of late. All pointed to this. Oh! if men
by selling their own souls could ride rampant for a term, for how short
a term would I barter mine tonight!’

The sound of a deep bell came along the wind. One.

‘Lie on!’ cried the usurer, ‘with your iron tongue! Ring merrily for
births that make expectants writhe, and marriages that are made in hell,
and toll ruefully for the dead whose shoes are worn already! Call men
to prayers who are godly because not found out, and ring chimes for the
coming in of every year that brings this cursed world nearer to its end.
No bell or book for me! Throw me on a dunghill, and let me rot there, to
infect the air!’

With a wild look around, in which frenzy, hatred, and despair were
horribly mingled, he shook his clenched hand at the sky above him, which
was still dark and threatening, and closed the window.

The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneys quaked and
rocked; the crazy casement rattled with the wind, as though an impatient
hand inside were striving to burst it open. But no hand was there, and
it opened no more.


‘How’s this?’ cried one. ‘The gentleman say they can’t make anybody
hear, and have been trying these two hours.’

‘And yet he came home last night,’ said another; ‘for he spoke to
somebody out of that window upstairs.’

They were a little knot of men, and, the window being mentioned, went
out into the road to look up at it. This occasioned their observing that
the house was still close shut, as the housekeeper had said she had left
it on the previous night, and led to a great many suggestions: which
terminated in two or three of the boldest getting round to the back, and
so entering by a window, while the others remained outside, in impatient
expectation.

They looked into all the rooms below: opening the shutters as they went,
to admit the fading light: and still finding nobody, and everything
quiet and in its place, doubted whether they should go farther. One man,
however, remarking that they had not yet been into the garret, and that
it was there he had been last seen, they agreed to look there too, and
went up softly; for the mystery and silence made them timid.

After they had stood for an instant, on the landing, eyeing each other,
he who had proposed their carrying the search so far, turned the handle
of the door, and, pushing it open, looked through the chink, and fell
back directly.

‘It’s very odd,’ he whispered, ‘he’s hiding behind the door! Look!’

They pressed forward to see; but one among them thrusting the others
aside with a loud exclamation, drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and
dashing into the room, cut down the body.

He had torn a rope from one of the old trunks, and hung himself on an
iron hook immediately below the trap-door in the ceiling--in the very
place to which the eyes of his son, a lonely, desolate, little creature,
had so often been directed in childish terror, fourteen years before.



CHAPTER 63

The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and
others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself


Some weeks had passed, and the first shock of these events had subsided.
Madeline had been removed; Frank had been absent; and Nicholas and Kate
had begun to try in good earnest to stifle their own regrets, and to
live for each other and for their mother--who, poor lady, could in
nowise be reconciled to this dull and altered state of affairs--when
there came one evening, per favour of Mr. Linkinwater, an invitation from
the brothers to dinner on the next day but one: comprehending, not only
Mrs. Nickleby, Kate, and Nicholas, but little Miss La Creevy, who was
most particularly mentioned.

‘Now, my dears,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, when they had rendered becoming
honour to the bidding, and Tim had taken his departure, ‘what does THIS
mean?’

‘What do YOU mean, mother?’ asked Nicholas, smiling.

‘I say, my dear,’ rejoined that lady, with a face of unfathomable
mystery, ‘what does this invitation to dinner mean? What is its
intention and object?’

‘I conclude it means, that on such a day we are to eat and drink in
their house, and that its intent and object is to confer pleasure upon
us,’ said Nicholas.

‘And that’s all you conclude it is, my dear?’

‘I have not yet arrived at anything deeper, mother.’

‘Then I’ll just tell you one thing,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, you’ll find
yourself a little surprised; that’s all. You may depend upon it that
this means something besides dinner.’

‘Tea and supper, perhaps,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘I wouldn’t be absurd, my dear, if I were you,’ replied Mrs. Nickleby,
in a lofty manner, ‘because it’s not by any means becoming, and doesn’t
suit you at all. What I mean to say is, that the Mr. Cheerybles don’t ask
us to dinner with all this ceremony for nothing. Never mind; wait and
see. You won’t believe anything I say, of course. It’s much better to
wait; a great deal better; it’s satisfactory to all parties, and there
can be no disputing. All I say is, remember what I say now, and when I
say I said so, don’t say I didn’t.’

With this stipulation, Mrs. Nickleby, who was troubled, night and day,
with a vision of a hot messenger tearing up to the door to announce that
Nicholas had been taken into partnership, quitted that branch of the
subject, and entered upon a new one.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing,’ she said, ‘a most extraordinary
thing, that they should have invited Miss La Creevy. It quite astonishes
me, upon my word it does. Of course it’s very pleasant that she should
be invited, very pleasant, and I have no doubt that she’ll conduct
herself extremely well; she always does. It’s very gratifying to think
that we should have been the means of introducing her into such society,
and I’m quite glad of it--quite rejoiced--for she certainly is an
exceedingly well-behaved and good-natured little person. I could wish
that some friend would mention to her how very badly she has her cap
trimmed, and what very preposterous bows those are, but of course that’s
impossible, and if she likes to make a fright of herself, no doubt she
has a perfect right to do so. We never see ourselves--never do, and
never did--and I suppose we never shall.’

This moral reflection reminding her of the necessity of being peculiarly
smart on the occasion, so as to counterbalance Miss La Creevy, and be
herself an effectual set-off and atonement, led Mrs. Nickleby into a
consultation with her daughter relative to certain ribbons, gloves, and
trimmings: which, being a complicated question, and one of paramount
importance, soon routed the previous one, and put it to flight.

The great day arriving, the good lady put herself under Kate’s hands an
hour or so after breakfast, and, dressing by easy stages, completed
her toilette in sufficient time to allow of her daughter’s making hers,
which was very simple, and not very long, though so satisfactory that
she had never appeared more charming or looked more lovely. Miss La
Creevy, too, arrived with two bandboxes (whereof the bottoms fell out as
they were handed from the coach) and something in a newspaper, which a
gentleman had sat upon, coming down, and which was obliged to be ironed
again, before it was fit for service. At last, everybody was dressed,
including Nicholas, who had come home to fetch them, and they went away
in a coach sent by the brothers for the purpose: Mrs. Nickleby wondering
very much what they would have for dinner, and cross-examining Nicholas
as to the extent of his discoveries in the morning; whether he had smelt
anything cooking at all like turtle, and if not, what he had smelt; and
diversifying the conversation with reminiscences of dinners to which she
had gone some twenty years ago, concerning which she particularised not
only the dishes but the guests, in whom her hearers did not feel a very
absorbing interest, as not one of them had ever chanced to hear their
names before.

The old butler received them with profound respect and many smiles,
and ushered them into the drawing-room, where they were received by
the brothers with so much cordiality and kindness that Mrs. Nickleby was
quite in a flutter, and had scarcely presence of mind enough, even to
patronise Miss La Creevy. Kate was still more affected by the reception:
for, knowing that the brothers were acquainted with all that had passed
between her and Frank, she felt her position a most delicate and trying
one, and was trembling on the arm of Nicholas, when Mr. Charles took her
in his, and led her to another part of the room.

‘Have you seen Madeline, my dear,’ he said, ‘since she left your house?’

‘No, sir!’ replied Kate. ‘Not once.’

‘And not heard from her, eh? Not heard from her?’

‘I have only had one letter,’ rejoined Kate, gently. ‘I thought she
would not have forgotten me quite so soon.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, patting her on the head, and speaking as
affectionately as if she had been his favourite child. ‘Poor dear! what
do you think of this, brother Ned? Madeline has only written to her
once, only once, Ned, and she didn’t think she would have forgotten her
quite so soon, Ned.’

‘Oh! sad, sad; very sad!’ said Ned.

The brothers interchanged a glance, and looking at Kate for a little
time without speaking, shook hands, and nodded as if they were
congratulating each other on something very delightful.

‘Well, well,’ said brother Charles, ‘go into that room, my dear--that
door yonder--and see if there’s not a letter for you from her. I think
there’s one upon the table. You needn’t hurry back, my love, if there
is, for we don’t dine just yet, and there’s plenty of time. Plenty of
time.’

Kate retired as she was directed. Brother Charles, having followed her
graceful figure with his eyes, turned to Mrs. Nickleby, and said:

‘We took the liberty of naming one hour before the real dinner-time,
ma’am, because we had a little business to speak about, which would
occupy the interval. Ned, my dear fellow, will you mention what we
agreed upon? Mr. Nickleby, sir, have the goodness to follow me.’

Without any further explanation, Mrs. Nickleby, Miss La Creevy, and
brother Ned, were left alone together, and Nicholas followed brother
Charles into his private room; where, to his great astonishment, he
encountered Frank, whom he supposed to be abroad.

‘Young men,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, ‘shake hands!’

‘I need no bidding to do that,’ said Nicholas, extending his.

‘Nor I,’ rejoined Frank, as he clasped it heartily.

The old gentleman thought that two handsomer or finer young fellows
could scarcely stand side by side than those on whom he looked with so
much pleasure. Suffering his eyes to rest upon them, for a short time in
silence, he said, while he seated himself at his desk:

‘I wish to see you friends--close and firm friends--and if I thought
you otherwise, I should hesitate in what I am about to say. Frank, look
here! Mr. Nickleby, will you come on the other side?’

The young men stepped up on either hand of brother Charles, who produced
a paper from his desk, and unfolded it.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is a copy of the will of Madeline’s maternal
grandfather, bequeathing her the sum of twelve thousand pounds, payable
either upon her coming of age or marrying. It would appear that this
gentleman, angry with her (his only relation) because she would not put
herself under his protection, and detach herself from the society of her
father, in compliance with his repeated overtures, made a will leaving
this property (which was all he possessed) to a charitable institution.
He would seem to have repented this determination, however, for three
weeks afterwards, and in the same month, he executed this. By some
fraud, it was abstracted immediately after his decease, and the
other--the only will found--was proved and administered. Friendly
negotiations, which have only just now terminated, have been proceeding
since this instrument came into our hands, and, as there is no doubt
of its authenticity, and the witnesses have been discovered (after some
trouble), the money has been refunded. Madeline has therefore obtained
her right, and is, or will be, when either of the contingencies which I
have mentioned has arisen, mistress of this fortune. You understand me?’

Frank replied in the affirmative. Nicholas, who could not trust himself
to speak lest his voice should be heard to falter, bowed his head.

‘Now, Frank,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you were the immediate means
of recovering this deed. The fortune is but a small one; but we love
Madeline; and such as it is, we would rather see you allied to her with
that, than to any other girl we know who has three times the money. Will
you become a suitor to her for her hand?’

‘No, sir. I interested myself in the recovery of that instrument,
believing that her hand was already pledged to one who has a thousand
times the claims upon her gratitude, and, if I mistake not, upon her
heart, that I or any other man can ever urge. In this it seems I judged
hastily.’

‘As you always do, sir,’ cried brother Charles, utterly forgetting his
assumed dignity, ‘as you always do. How dare you think, Frank, that we
would have you marry for money, when youth, beauty, and every amiable
virtue and excellence were to be had for love? How dared you, Frank, go
and make love to Mr. Nickleby’s sister without telling us first what you
meant to do, and letting us speak for you?’

‘I hardly dared to hope--’

‘You hardly dared to hope! Then, so much the greater reason for having
our assistance! Mr. Nickleby, sir, Frank, although he judged hastily,
judged, for once, correctly. Madeline’s heart IS occupied. Give me
your hand, sir; it is occupied by you, and worthily and naturally. This
fortune is destined to be yours, but you have a greater fortune in her,
sir, than you would have in money were it forty times told. She chooses
you, Mr. Nickleby. She chooses as we, her dearest friends, would have her
choose. Frank chooses as we would have HIM choose. He should have your
sister’s little hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times; ay,
he should, and he shall! You acted nobly, not knowing our sentiments,
but now you know them, sir, you must do as you are bid. What! You are
the children of a worthy gentleman! The time was, sir, when my dear
brother Ned and I were two poor simple-hearted boys, wandering, almost
barefoot, to seek our fortunes: are we changed in anything but years
and worldly circumstances since that time? No, God forbid! Oh, Ned, Ned,
Ned, what a happy day this is for you and me! If our poor mother had
only lived to see us now, Ned, how proud it would have made her dear
heart at last!’

Thus apostrophised, brother Ned, who had entered with Mrs. Nickleby, and
who had been before unobserved by the young men, darted forward, and
fairly hugged brother Charles in his arms.

‘Bring in my little Kate,’ said the latter, after a short silence.
‘Bring her in, Ned. Let me see Kate, let me kiss her. I have a right
to do so now; I was very near it when she first came; I have often
been very near it. Ah! Did you find the letter, my bird? Did you find
Madeline herself, waiting for you and expecting you? Did you find that
she had not quite forgotten her friend and nurse and sweet companion?
Why, this is almost the best of all!’

‘Come, come,’ said Ned, ‘Frank will be jealous, and we shall have some
cutting of throats before dinner.’

‘Then let him take her away, Ned, let him take her away. Madeline’s in
the next room. Let all the lovers get out of the way, and talk among
themselves, if they’ve anything to say. Turn ‘em out, Ned, every one!’

Brother Charles began the clearance by leading the blushing girl to the
door, and dismissing her with a kiss. Frank was not very slow to follow,
and Nicholas had disappeared first of all. So there only remained Mrs
Nickleby and Miss La Creevy, who were both sobbing heartily; the two
brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who now came in to shake hands with
everybody: his round face all radiant and beaming with smiles.

‘Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,’ said brother Charles, who was always
spokesman, ‘now the young folks are happy, sir.’

‘You didn’t keep ‘em in suspense as long as you said you would, though,’
returned Tim, archly. ‘Why, Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Frank were to have
been in your room for I don’t know how long; and I don’t know what you
weren’t to have told them before you came out with the truth.’

‘Now, did you ever know such a villain as this, Ned?’ said the old
gentleman; ‘did you ever know such a villain as Tim Linkinwater?
He accusing me of being impatient, and he the very man who has been
wearying us morning, noon, and night, and torturing us for leave to go
and tell ‘em what was in store, before our plans were half complete, or
we had arranged a single thing. A treacherous dog!’

‘So he is, brother Charles,’ returned Ned; ‘Tim is a treacherous dog.
Tim is not to be trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow. He wants gravity
and steadiness; he must sow his wild oats, and then perhaps he’ll become
in time a respectable member of society.’

This being one of the standing jokes between the old fellows and Tim,
they all three laughed very heartily, and might have laughed much
longer, but that the brothers, seeing that Mrs. Nickleby was labouring to
express her feelings, and was really overwhelmed by the happiness of the
time, took her between them, and led her from the room under pretence of
having to consult her on some most important arrangements.

Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very often, and had always been
very chatty and pleasant together--had always been great friends--and
consequently it was the most natural thing in the world that Tim,
finding that she still sobbed, should endeavour to console her. As Miss
La Creevy sat on a large old-fashioned window-seat, where there was
ample room for two, it was also natural that Tim should sit down beside
her; and as to Tim’s being unusually spruce and particular in his attire
that day, why it was a high festival and a great occasion, and that was
the most natural thing of all.

Tim sat down beside Miss La Creevy, and, crossing one leg over the other
so that his foot--he had very comely feet and happened to be wearing
the neatest shoes and black silk stockings possible--should come easily
within the range of her eye, said in a soothing way:

‘Don’t cry!’

‘I must,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

‘No, don’t,’ said Tim. ‘Please don’t; pray don’t.’

‘I am so happy!’ sobbed the little woman.

‘Then laugh,’ said Tim. ‘Do laugh.’

What in the world Tim was doing with his arm, it is impossible to
conjecture, but he knocked his elbow against that part of the window
which was quite on the other side of Miss La Creevy; and it is clear
that it could have no business there.

‘Do laugh,’ said Tim, ‘or I’ll cry.’

‘Why should you cry?’ asked Miss La Creevy, smiling.

‘Because I’m happy too,’ said Tim. ‘We are both happy, and I should like
to do as you do.’

Surely, there never was a man who fidgeted as Tim must have done then;
for he knocked the window again--almost in the same place--and Miss La
Creevy said she was sure he’d break it.

‘I knew,’ said Tim, ‘that you would be pleased with this scene.’

‘It was very thoughtful and kind to remember me,’ returned Miss La
Creevy. ‘Nothing could have delighted me half so much.’

Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater have said all
this in a whisper? It was no secret. And why should Tim Linkinwater have
looked so hard at Miss La Creevy, and why should Miss La Creevy have
looked so hard at the ground?

‘It’s a pleasant thing,’ said Tim, ‘to people like us, who have passed
all our lives in the world alone, to see young folks that we are fond
of, brought together with so many years of happiness before them.’

‘Ah!’ cried the little woman with all her heart, ‘that it is!’

‘Although,’ pursued Tim ‘although it makes one feel quite solitary and
cast away. Now don’t it?’

Miss La Creevy said she didn’t know. And why should she say she didn’t
know? Because she must have known whether it did or not.

‘It’s almost enough to make us get married after all, isn’t it?’ said
Tim.

‘Oh, nonsense!’ replied Miss La Creevy, laughing. ‘We are too old.’

‘Not a bit,’ said Tim; ‘we are too old to be single. Why shouldn’t we
both be married, instead of sitting through the long winter evenings by
our solitary firesides? Why shouldn’t we make one fireside of it, and
marry each other?’

‘Oh, Mr. Linkinwater, you’re joking!’

‘No, no, I’m not. I’m not indeed,’ said Tim. ‘I will, if you will. Do,
my dear!’

‘It would make people laugh so.’

‘Let ‘em laugh,’ cried Tim stoutly; ‘we have good tempers I know, and
we’ll laugh too. Why, what hearty laughs we have had since we’ve known
each other!’

‘So we have,’ cried Miss La Creevy--giving way a little, as Tim
thought.

‘It has been the happiest time in all my life; at least, away from the
counting-house and Cheeryble Brothers,’ said Tim. ‘Do, my dear! Now say
you will.’

‘No, no, we mustn’t think of it,’ returned Miss La Creevy. ‘What would
the brothers say?’

‘Why, God bless your soul!’ cried Tim, innocently, ‘you don’t suppose I
should think of such a thing without their knowing it! Why they left us
here on purpose.’

‘I can never look ‘em in the face again!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy,
faintly.

‘Come,’ said Tim, ‘let’s be a comfortable couple. We shall live in the
old house here, where I have been for four-and-forty year; we shall go
to the old church, where I’ve been, every Sunday morning, all through
that time; we shall have all my old friends about us--Dick, the archway,
the pump, the flower-pots, and Mr. Frank’s children, and Mr. Nickleby’s
children, that we shall seem like grandfather and grandmother to. Let’s
be a comfortable couple, and take care of each other! And if we should
get deaf, or lame, or blind, or bed-ridden, how glad we shall be that we
have somebody we are fond of, always to talk to and sit with! Let’s be a
comfortable couple. Now, do, my dear!’

Five minutes after this honest and straightforward speech, little Miss
La Creevy and Tim were talking as pleasantly as if they had been married
for a score of years, and had never once quarrelled all the time; and
five minutes after that, when Miss La Creevy had bustled out to see if
her eyes were red and put her hair to rights, Tim moved with a stately
step towards the drawing-room, exclaiming as he went, ‘There an’t such
another woman in all London! I KNOW there an’t!’

By this time, the apoplectic butler was nearly in fits, in consequence
of the unheard-of postponement of dinner. Nicholas, who had been engaged
in a manner in which every reader may imagine for himself or herself,
was hurrying downstairs in obedience to his angry summons, when he
encountered a new surprise.

On his way down, he overtook, in one of the passages, a stranger
genteelly dressed in black, who was also moving towards the dining-room.
As he was rather lame, and walked slowly, Nicholas lingered behind, and
was following him step by step, wondering who he was, when he suddenly
turned round and caught him by both hands.

‘Newman Noggs!’ cried Nicholas joyfully

‘Ah! Newman, your own Newman, your own old faithful Newman! My dear boy,
my dear Nick, I give you joy--health, happiness, every blessing! I can’t
bear it--it’s too much, my dear boy--it makes a child of me!’

‘Where have you been?’ said Nicholas. ‘What have you been doing? How
often have I inquired for you, and been told that I should hear before
long!’

‘I know, I know!’ returned Newman. ‘They wanted all the happiness to
come together. I’ve been helping ‘em. I--I--look at me, Nick, look at
me!’

‘You would never let ME do that,’ said Nicholas in a tone of gentle
reproach.

‘I didn’t mind what I was, then. I shouldn’t have had the heart to put
on gentleman’s clothes. They would have reminded me of old times and
made me miserable. I am another man now, Nick. My dear boy, I can’t
speak. Don’t say anything to me. Don’t think the worse of me for these
tears. You don’t know what I feel today; you can’t, and never will!’

They walked in to dinner arm-in-arm, and sat down side by side.

Never was such a dinner as that, since the world began. There was the
superannuated bank clerk, Tim Linkinwater’s friend; and there was
the chubby old lady, Tim Linkinwater’s sister; and there was so much
attention from Tim Linkinwater’s sister to Miss La Creevy, and
there were so many jokes from the superannuated bank clerk, and Tim
Linkinwater himself was in such tiptop spirits, and little Miss La
Creevy was in such a comical state, that of themselves they would
have composed the pleasantest party conceivable. Then, there was Mrs
Nickleby, so grand and complacent; Madeline and Kate, so blushing and
beautiful; Nicholas and Frank, so devoted and proud; and all four so
silently and tremblingly happy; there was Newman so subdued yet
so overjoyed, and there were the twin brothers so delighted and
interchanging such looks, that the old servant stood transfixed behind
his master’s chair, and felt his eyes grow dim as they wandered round
the table.

When the first novelty of the meeting had worn off, and they began truly
to feel how happy they were, the conversation became more general, and
the harmony and pleasure if possible increased. The brothers were in a
perfect ecstasy; and their insisting on saluting the ladies all
round, before they would permit them to retire, gave occasion to the
superannuated bank clerk to say so many good things, that he quite
outshone himself, and was looked upon as a prodigy of humour.

‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, taking her daughter aside, as soon
as they got upstairs, ‘you don’t really mean to tell me that this is
actually true about Miss La Creevy and Mr. Linkinwater?’

‘Indeed it is, mama.’

‘Why, I never heard such a thing in my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nickleby.

‘Mr. Linkinwater is a most excellent creature,’ reasoned Kate, ‘and, for
his age, quite young still.’

‘For HIS age, my dear!’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘yes; nobody says
anything against him, except that I think he is the weakest and most
foolish man I ever knew. It’s HER age I speak of. That he should have
gone and offered himself to a woman who must be--ah, half as old again
as I am--and that she should have dared to accept him! It don’t signify,
Kate; I’m disgusted with her!’

Shaking her head very emphatically indeed, Mrs. Nickleby swept away;
and all the evening, in the midst of the merriment and enjoyment that
ensued, and in which with that exception she freely participated,
conducted herself towards Miss La Creevy in a stately and distant
manner, designed to mark her sense of the impropriety of her
conduct, and to signify her extreme and cutting disapprobation of the
misdemeanour she had so flagrantly committed.



CHAPTER 64

An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and
Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever


Nicholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is shared
by the friends of adverse and less fortunate days. Surrounded by every
fascination of love and hope, his warm heart yearned towards plain
John Browdie. He remembered their first meeting with a smile, and their
second with a tear; saw poor Smike once again with the bundle on
his shoulder trudging patiently by his side; and heard the honest
Yorkshireman’s rough words of encouragement as he left them on their
road to London.

Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to produce a letter
which should acquaint John at full length with his altered fortunes,
and assure him of his friendship and gratitude. It so happened, however,
that the letter could never be written. Although they applied themselves
to it with the best intentions in the world, it chanced that they always
fell to talking about something else, and when Nicholas tried it by
himself, he found it impossible to write one-half of what he wished to
say, or to pen anything, indeed, which on reperusal did not appear cold
and unsatisfactory compared with what he had in his mind. At last, after
going on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself more and more,
he resolved (the more readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to make a
hasty trip into Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr. and Mrs. Browdie
without a word of notice.

Thus it was that between seven and eight o’clock one evening, he and
Kate found themselves in the Saracen’s Head booking-office, securing
a place to Greta Bridge by the next morning’s coach. They had to go
westward, to procure some little necessaries for his journey, and, as it
was a fine night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.

The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and
Kate had so many anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes
of Frank, and each was so interested in what the other said, and both
were so happy and confiding, and had so much to talk about, that it was
not until they had plunged for a full half-hour into that labyrinth of
streets which lies between Seven Dials and Soho, without emerging into
any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it just possible
they might have lost their way.

The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking
about, and walking first to one end of the street and then to the other,
he could find no landmark he could recognise, and was fain to turn back
again in quest of some place at which he could seek a direction.

It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched
shops they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed
across the pavement from a cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or
three steps so as to render himself visible to those below and make his
inquiry, when he was arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a woman’s
voice.

‘Oh come away!’ said Kate, ‘they are quarrelling. You’ll be hurt.’

‘Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there’s anything the matter,’
returned her brother. ‘Hush!’

‘You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,’ cried the woman,
stamping on the ground, ‘why don’t you turn the mangle?’

‘So I am, my life and soul!’ replied the man’s voice. ‘I am always
turning. I am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition
mill. My life is one demd horrid grind!’

‘Then why don’t you go and list for a soldier?’ retorted the woman;
‘you’re welcome to.’

‘For a soldier!’ cried the man. ‘For a soldier! Would his joy and
gladness see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear
of his being slapped and beat by drummers demnebly? Would she have him
fire off real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers shaved, and
his eyes turned right and left, and his trousers pipeclayed?’

‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, ‘you don’t know who that is. It’s Mr
Mantalini I am confident.’

‘Do make sure! Peep at him while I ask the way,’ said Nicholas. ‘Come
down a step or two. Come!’

Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down the steps and looked into
a small boarded cellar. There, amidst clothes-baskets and clothes,
stripped up to his shirt-sleeves, but wearing still an old patched
pair of pantaloons of superlative make, a once brilliant waistcoat,
and moustache and whiskers as of yore, but lacking their lustrous
dye--there, endeavouring to mollify the wrath of a buxom female--not
the lawful Madame Mantalini, but the proprietress of the concern--and
grinding meanwhile as if for very life at the mangle, whose creaking
noise, mingled with her shrill tones, appeared almost to deafen
him--there was the graceful, elegant, fascinating, and once dashing
Mantalini.

‘Oh you false traitor!’ cried the lady, threatening personal violence on
Mr. Mantalini’s face.

‘False! Oh dem! Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and
most demnebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,’ said Mr. Mantalini,
humbly.

‘I won’t!’ screamed the woman. ‘I’ll tear your eyes out!’

‘Oh! What a demd savage lamb!’ cried Mr. Mantalini.

‘You’re never to be trusted,’ screamed the woman; ‘you were out all day
yesterday, and gallivanting somewhere I know. You know you were! Isn’t
it enough that I paid two pound fourteen for you, and took you out of
prison and let you live here like a gentleman, but must you go on like
this: breaking my heart besides?’

‘I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never do so any
more; I will never be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,’ said
Mr. Mantalini, dropping the handle of the mangle, and folding his palms
together; ‘it is all up with its handsome friend! He has gone to the
demnition bow-wows. It will have pity? It will not scratch and claw, but
pet and comfort? Oh, demmit!’

Very little affected, to judge from her action, by this tender appeal,
the lady was on the point of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas,
raising his voice, asked his way to Piccadilly.

Mr. Mantalini turned round, caught sight of Kate, and, without another
word, leapt at one bound into a bed which stood behind the door, and
drew the counterpane over his face: kicking meanwhile convulsively.

‘Demmit,’ he cried, in a suffocating voice, ‘it’s little Nickleby! Shut
the door, put out the candle, turn me up in the bedstead! Oh, dem, dem,
dem!’

The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr. Mantalini, as
if uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr
Mantalini happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from under the
bedclothes, in his anxiety to ascertain whether the visitors were gone,
she suddenly, and with a dexterity which could only have been acquired
by long practice, flung a pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so
good an aim that he kicked more violently than before, though without
venturing to make any effort to disengage his head, which was quite
extinguished. Thinking this a favourable opportunity for departing
before any of the torrent of her wrath discharged itself upon him,
Nicholas hurried Kate off, and left the unfortunate subject of this
unexpected recognition to explain his conduct as he best could.

The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather:
forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first
travelled that road, and how many vicissitudes and changes he had
since undergone. He was alone inside the greater part of the way, and
sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze, and, rousing himself, looked
out of the window, and recognised some place which he well remembered as
having passed, either on his journey down, or in the long walk back
with poor Smike, he could hardly believe but that all which had since
happened had been a dream, and that they were still plodding wearily on
towards London, with the world before them.

To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as
night set in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the
little alehouse where he had heard the story of the bold Baron of
Grogzwig, everything looked as if he had seen it but yesterday, and
not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs had melted away.
Encouraging the train of ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost
persuade himself that he sat again outside the coach, with Squeers and
the boys; that he heard their voices in the air; and that he felt again,
but with a mingled sensation of pain and pleasure now, that old sinking
of the heart, and longing after home. While he was yet yielding himself
up to these fancies he fell asleep, and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot
them.

He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and,
rising at a very early hour next morning, walked to the market town, and
inquired for John Browdie’s house. John lived in the outskirts, now he
was a family man; and as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no difficulty
in finding a boy who undertook to guide him to his residence.

Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not even
stopping to admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either,
Nicholas made his way to the kitchen door, and knocked lustily with his
stick.

‘Halloa!’ cried a voice inside. ‘Wa’et be the matther noo? Be the toon
a-fire? Ding, but thou mak’st noise eneaf!’

With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his
eyes too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together,
and burst into a hearty roar:

‘Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be
Misther Nickleby. Gi’ us thee hond, mun. Coom awa’, coom awa’. In wi
‘un, doon beside the fire; tak’ a soop o’ thot. Dinnot say a word till
thou’st droonk it a’! Oop wi’ it, mun. Ding! but I’m reeght glod to see
thee.’

Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen,
forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out
from an enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it
into his hand, opened his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to
him to drink it instantly, and stood with a broad grin of welcome
overspreading his great red face like a jolly giant.

‘I might ha’ knowa’d,’ said John, ‘that nobody but thou would ha’
coom wi’ sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa’ thou knocked at
schoolmeasther’s door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say; wa’at be a’ this aboot
schoolmeasther?’

‘You know it then?’ said Nicholas.

‘They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,’ replied John, ‘but
neane on ‘em seemed quite to un’erstan’ it, loike.’

‘After various shiftings and delays,’ said Nicholas, ‘he has been
sentenced to be transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful
possession of a stolen will; and, after that, he has to suffer the
consequence of a conspiracy.’

‘Whew!’ cried John, ‘a conspiracy! Soom’at in the pooder-plot wa’? Eh?
Soom’at in the Guy Faux line?’

‘No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I’ll explain it
presently.’

‘Thot’s reeght!’ said John, ‘explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for
thou be’est hoongry, and so am I; and Tilly she mun’ be at the bottom o’
a’ explanations, for she says thot’s the mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha!
Ecod, it’s a room start, is the mutual confidence!’

The entrance of Mrs. Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many
apologies for their having been detected in the act of breakfasting in
the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion of this grave subject, and
hastened the breakfast: which, being composed of vast mounds of toast,
new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and other cold substantials
(of which heavy relays were constantly appearing from another kitchen
under the direction of a very plump servant), was admirably adapted
to the cold bleak morning, and received the utmost justice from all
parties. At last, it came to a close; and the fire which had been
lighted in the best parlour having by this time burnt up, they adjourned
thither, to hear what Nicholas had to tell.

Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened so
many emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest
John groaned in sympathy, and at another roared with joy; at one time
he vowed to go up to London on purpose to get a sight of the brothers
Cheeryble; and, at another, swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive
such a ham by coach, and carriage free, as mortal knife had never
carved. When Nicholas began to describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth
wide open, nudging Mrs. Browdie from time to time, and exclaiming under
his breath that she must be ‘raa’ther a tidy sart,’ and when he heard
at last that his young friend had come down purposely to communicate his
good fortune, and to convey to him all those assurances of friendship
which he could not state with sufficient warmth in writing--that the
only object of his journey was to share his happiness with them, and
to tell them that when he was married they must come up to see him,
and that Madeline insisted on it as well as he--John could hold out no
longer, but after looking indignantly at his wife, and demanding to
know what she was whimpering for, drew his coat sleeve over his eyes and
blubbered outright.

‘Tell’ee wa’at though,’ said John seriously, when a great deal had been
said on both sides, ‘to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot ‘un
has reached school today, the old ‘ooman wean’t have a whole boan in her
boddy, nor Fanny neither.’

‘Oh, John!’ cried Mrs. Browdie.

‘Ah! and Oh, John agean,’ replied the Yorkshireman. ‘I dinnot know what
they lads mightn’t do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was
in trouble, some feythers and moothers sent and took their young chaps
awa’. If them as is left, should know waat’s coom tiv’un, there’ll be
sike a revolution and rebel!--Ding! But I think they’ll a’ gang daft,
and spill bluid like wather!’

In fact, John Browdie’s apprehensions were so strong that he determined
to ride over to the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to
accompany him, which, however, he declined, pleading that his presence
might perhaps aggravate the bitterness of their adversity.

‘Thot’s true!’ said John; ‘I should ne’er ha’ thought o’ thot.’

‘I must return tomorrow,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I mean to dine with you
today, and if Mrs. Browdie can give me a bed--’

‘Bed!’ cried John, ‘I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once.
Ecod, thou shouldst have ‘em a’. Bide till I coom back; on’y bide till I
coom back, and ecod we’ll make a day of it.’

Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of
the hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs. Browdie to
apply herself to hospitable preparations, and his young friend to stroll
about the neighbourhood, and revisit spots which were rendered familiar
to him by many a miserable association.

John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a
gate and made his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on
the inside. A tremendous noise and riot arose from within, and, applying
his eye to a convenient crevice in the wall, he did not remain long in
ignorance of its meaning.

The news of Mr. Squeers’s downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite
clear. To all appearance, it had very recently become known to the young
gentlemen; for the rebellion had just broken out.

It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle mornings, and Mrs. Squeers
had entered school according to custom with the large bowl and spoon,
followed by Miss Squeers and the amiable Wackford: who, during his
father’s absence, had taken upon him such minor branches of the
executive as kicking the pupils with his nailed boots, pulling the hair
of some of the smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating places,
and rendering himself, in various similar ways, a great comfort and
happiness to his mother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or
a simultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one detachment
rushed to the door and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and
forms, the stoutest (and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane,
and confronting Mrs. Squeers with a stern countenance, snatched off her
cap and beaver bonnet, put them on his own head, armed himself with the
wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of death, go down upon her knees and
take a dose directly. Before that estimable lady could recover herself,
or offer the slightest retaliation, she was forced into a kneeling
posture by a crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled to swallow a
spoonful of the odious mixture, rendered more than usually savoury by
the immersion in the bowl of Master Wackford’s head, whose ducking
was intrusted to another rebel. The success of this first achievement
prompted the malicious crowd, whose faces were clustered together in
every variety of lank and half-starved ugliness, to further acts of
outrage. The leader was insisting upon Mrs. Squeers repeating her dose,
Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the treacle, and a violent
assault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when John Browdie, bursting
open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed to the rescue. The shouts,
screams, groans, hoots, and clapping of hands, suddenly ceased, and a
dead silence ensued.

‘Ye be noice chaps,’ said John, looking steadily round. ‘What’s to do
here, thou yoong dogs?’

‘Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!’ cried a score of
shrill voices. ‘We won’t stop, we won’t stop!’

‘Weel then, dinnot stop,’ replied John; ‘who waants thee to stop? Roon
awa’ loike men, but dinnot hurt the women.’

‘Hurrah!’ cried the shrill voices, more shrilly still.

‘Hurrah?’ repeated John. ‘Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look
out. Hip--hip,--hip--hurrah!’

‘Hurrah!’ cried the voices.

‘Hurrah! Agean;’ said John. ‘Looder still.’

The boys obeyed.

‘Anoother!’ said John. ‘Dinnot be afeared on it. Let’s have a good ‘un!’

‘Hurrah!’

‘Noo then,’ said John, ‘let’s have yan more to end wi’, and then
coot off as quick as you loike. Tak’a good breath noo--Squeers be in
jail--the school’s brokken oop--it’s a’ ower--past and gane--think o’
thot, and let it be a hearty ‘un! Hurrah!’

Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed
before, and were destined never to respond to again. When the sound had
died away, the school was empty; and of the busy noisy crowd which had
peopled it but five minutes before, not one remained.

‘Very well, Mr. Browdie!’ said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the
recent encounter, but vixenish to the last; ‘you’ve been and excited our
boys to run away. Now see if we don’t pay you out for that, sir! If
my pa IS unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we’re not going to be
basely crowed and conquered over by you and ‘Tilda.’

‘Noa!’ replied John bluntly, ‘thou bean’t. Tak’ thy oath o’ thot. Think
betther o’ us, Fanny. I tell ‘ee both, that I’m glod the auld man has
been caught out at last--dom’d glod--but ye’ll sooffer eneaf wi’out any
crowin’ fra’ me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass,
so I tell ‘ee flat. More than thot, I tell ‘ee noo, that if thou need’st
friends to help thee awa’ from this place--dinnot turn up thy nose,
Fanny, thou may’st--thou’lt foind Tilly and I wi’ a thout o’ old times
aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I say thot, dinnot think
I be asheamed of waa’t I’ve deane, for I say again, Hurrah! and dom the
schoolmeasther. There!’

His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted
his nag, put him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily
forth some fragments of an old song, to which the horse’s hoofs rang a
merry accompaniment, sped back to his pretty wife and to Nicholas.

For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with
boys, who, the report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr. and Mrs
Browdie, not only with a hearty meal of bread and meat, but with sundry
shillings and sixpences to help them on their way. To this rumour John
always returned a stout denial, which he accompanied, however, with a
lurking grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed
all previous believers.

There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been,
and many as were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still
knew no other home, and had formed for it a sort of attachment, which
made them weep when the bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a
refuge. Of these, some were found crying under hedges and in such
places, frightened at the solitude. One had a dead bird in a little
cage; he had wandered nearly twenty miles, and when his poor favourite
died, lost courage, and lay down beside him. Another was discovered in a
yard hard by the school, sleeping with a dog, who bit at those who came
to remove him, and licked the sleeping child’s pale face.

They were taken back, and some other stragglers were recovered, but
by degrees they were claimed, or lost again; and, in course of time,
Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking-up began to be forgotten by the
neighbours, or to be only spoken of as among the things that had been.



CHAPTER 65

Conclusion


When her term of mourning had expired, Madeline gave her hand and
fortune to Nicholas; and, on the same day and at the same time, Kate
became Mrs. Frank Cheeryble. It was expected that Tim Linkinwater and
Miss La Creevy would have made a third couple on the occasion, but
they declined, and two or three weeks afterwards went out together one
morning before breakfast, and, coming back with merry faces, were found
to have been quietly married that day.

The money which Nicholas acquired in right of his wife he invested in
the firm of Cheeryble Brothers, in which Frank had become a partner.
Before many years elapsed, the business began to be carried on in the
names of ‘Cheeryble and Nickleby,’ so that Mrs. Nickleby’s prophetic
anticipations were realised at last.

The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be told that THEY were happy?
They were surrounded by happiness of their own creation, and lived but
to increase it.

Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much entreaty and brow-beating, to
accept a share in the house; but he could never be prevailed upon to
suffer the publication of his name as a partner, and always persisted in
the punctual and regular discharge of his clerkly duties.

He and his wife lived in the old house, and occupied the very bedchamber
in which he had slept for four-and-forty years. As his wife grew older,
she became even a more cheerful and light-hearted little creature; and
it was a common saying among their friends, that it was impossible
to say which looked the happier, Tim as he sat calmly smiling in his
elbow-chair on one side of the fire, or his brisk little wife chatting
and laughing, and constantly bustling in and out of hers, on the other.

Dick, the blackbird, was removed from the counting-house and promoted
to a warm corner in the common sitting-room. Beneath his cage hung two
miniatures, of Mrs. Linkinwater’s execution; one representing herself,
and the other Tim; and both smiling very hard at all beholders. Tim’s
head being powdered like a twelfth cake, and his spectacles copied with
great nicety, strangers detected a close resemblance to him at the first
glance, and this leading them to suspect that the other must be his
wife, and emboldening them to say so without scruple, Mrs. Linkinwater
grew very proud of these achievements in time, and considered them
among the most successful likenesses she had ever painted. Tim had
the profoundest faith in them, likewise; for on this, as on all
other subjects, they held but one opinion; and if ever there were a
‘comfortable couple’ in the world, it was Mr. and Mrs. Linkinwater.

Ralph, having died intestate, and having no relations but those with
whom he had lived in such enmity, they would have become in legal course
his heirs. But they could not bear the thought of growing rich on money
so acquired, and felt as though they could never hope to prosper with
it. They made no claim to his wealth; and the riches for which he had
toiled all his days, and burdened his soul with so many evil deeds, were
swept at last into the coffers of the state, and no man was the better
or the happier for them.

Arthur Gride was tried for the unlawful possession of the will, which
he had either procured to be stolen, or had dishonestly acquired and
retained by other means as bad. By dint of an ingenious counsel, and
a legal flaw, he escaped; but only to undergo a worse punishment;
for, some years afterwards, his house was broken open in the night by
robbers, tempted by the rumours of his great wealth, and he was found
murdered in his bed.

Mrs. Sliderskew went beyond the seas at nearly the same time as Mr
Squeers, and in the course of nature never returned. Brooker died
penitent. Sir Mulberry Hawk lived abroad for some years, courted and
caressed, and in high repute as a fine dashing fellow. Ultimately,
returning to this country, he was thrown into jail for debt, and there
perished miserably, as such high spirits generally do.

The first act of Nicholas, when he became a rich and prosperous
merchant, was to buy his father’s old house. As time crept on, and there
came gradually about him a group of lovely children, it was altered and
enlarged; but none of the old rooms were ever pulled down, no old tree
was ever rooted up, nothing with which there was any association of
bygone times was ever removed or changed.

Within a stone’s throw was another retreat, enlivened by children’s
pleasant voices too; and here was Kate, with many new cares and
occupations, and many new faces courting her sweet smile (and one so
like her own, that to her mother she seemed a child again), the same
true gentle creature, the same fond sister, the same in the love of all
about her, as in her girlish days.

Mrs. Nickleby lived, sometimes with her daughter, and sometimes with her
son, accompanying one or other of them to London at those periods when
the cares of business obliged both families to reside there, and always
preserving a great appearance of dignity, and relating her experiences
(especially on points connected with the management and bringing-up of
children) with much solemnity and importance. It was a very long time
before she could be induced to receive Mrs. Linkinwater into favour, and
it is even doubtful whether she ever thoroughly forgave her.

There was one grey-haired, quiet, harmless gentleman, who, winter and
summer, lived in a little cottage hard by Nicholas’s house, and, when
he was not there, assumed the superintendence of affairs. His chief
pleasure and delight was in the children, with whom he was a child
himself, and master of the revels. The little people could do nothing
without dear Newman Noggs.

The grass was green above the dead boy’s grave, and trodden by feet
so small and light, that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their
pressure. Through all the spring and summertime, garlands of fresh
flowers, wreathed by infant hands, rested on the stone; and, when the
children came to change them lest they should wither and be pleasant
to him no longer, their eyes filled with tears, and they spoke low and
softly of their poor dead cousin.





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