With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose to which extreme circumstances so often give birth, acting2 upon far less excitable and more sluggish3 temperaments4 than that which was the lot of Madeline Bray5’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 ardent6 minds, morning may be the fitting season for exertion7 and activity, it is not always at that time that hope is strongest or the spirit most sanguine8 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 apprehensions9 and beget10 comparative indifference11, 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 brittle12 chain of hope, to rivet13 afresh; our hot enthusiasm subdued14, and cool calm reason substituted in its stead; doubt and misgiving15 revive. As the traveller sees farthest by day, and becomes aware of rugged16 mountains and trackless plains which the friendly darkness had shrouded18 from his sight and mind together, so, the wayfarer19 in the toilsome path of human life sees, with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount21, some new height to be attained22. Distances stretch out before him which, last night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light which gilds23 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 impatience24 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; perfectly25 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 bustle26 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 wretch27, and in such a cause, had seemed a thing too monstrous28 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 tottering29 on; how crafty30 avarice31 grew rich, and manly32 honest hearts were poor and sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses, and how many of those who lay in noisome33 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 luxurious34 and splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched and inadequate35 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 infancy36 to drive most criminal and dreadful trades; how ignorance was punished and never taught; how jail-doors gaped37, and gallows38 loomed39, 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 haughtily40 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 injustice41, misery42, 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 redress43 it; when he thought of all this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on which his thoughts were bent44, he felt, indeed, that there was little ground for hope, and little reason why it should not form an atom in the huge aggregate45 of distress46 and sorrow, and add one small and unimportant unit to swell47 the great amount.
But youth is not prone48 to contemplate49 the darkest side of a picture it can shift at will. By dint50 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 sufficiently51 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 transparent52 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 raven53 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 touching54 than the wildest agony of grief. It was not merely calm and composed, but fixed56 and rigid57, 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 momentary59 expression they had communicated to the features from subsiding60, 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 withered61 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 noted63 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 irritability64 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 spoke65, 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 interfere66, 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!’ sneered67 the invalid68. ‘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 scrap69 of paper purporting70 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 contingency71.
‘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 exulting72 smile, ‘that my daughter, Miss Madeline Bray, condescends73 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 exultation75 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 dependence74 on yours. I have no orders, but I have fears—fears that I will express, chafe76 as you may—fears that you may be consigning77 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 construe78 it well or not.’
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ cried Madeline, interposing in alarm between them. ‘Remember, sir, he is ill.’
‘Ill!’ cried the invalid, gasping79 and catching80 for breath. ‘Ill! Ill! I am bearded and bullied81 by a shop-boy, and she beseeches83 him to pity me and remember I am ill!’
He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder84, 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 agitation85. ‘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 swollen86 and red with weeping, stood by; and to her Nicholas appealed in such passionate87 terms that she opened a side-door, and, supporting her mistress into an adjoining room, beckoned88 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 beseech82 you to contemplate again the fearful course to which you have been impelled89.’
‘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 faltered90 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 rusted91 with tears, if not red with the blood of ruined men, who have fallen desperately92 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 destined93 husband, who are—’
‘I must not hear this,’ cried the young lady, striving to repress a shudder94, occasioned, as it seemed, even by this slight allusion95 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 constrained96 or forced. Report this,’ said Madeline, ‘to my dear friend and benefactor97, and, taking with you my prayers and thanks for him and for yourself, leave me for ever!’
‘Not until I have besought98 you, with all the earnestness and fervour by which I am animated,’ cried Nicholas, ‘to postpone99 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 fully62 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 plighting100 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 degradation101 of yourself in your own esteem102, which must ensue, and must be aggravated103 every day, as his detested104 character opens upon you more and more. Shrink from the loathsome105 companionship of this wretch as you would from corruption106 and disease. Suffer toil20 and labour if you will, but shun107 him, shun him, and be happy. For, believe me, I speak the truth; the most abject108 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 affluence109; 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 feign110 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 delicacy111 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 repent112, nor am I unhappy. I am happy in the prospect113 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 laden114 with so much misery to you. Defer115 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 exhausted116 frame. His eye grew bright, and his face lightened at the thought. I will not defer it for an hour.’
‘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 honourably118 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 blessings120 on his head, and prosper121 and preserve him.’
She was hurrying past Nicholas, when he threw himself before her, and implored122 her to think, but once again, upon the fate to which she was precipitately123 hastening.
‘There is no retreat,’ said Nicholas, in an agony of supplication124; ‘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 unravel125; 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 retract126?’
‘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 heeding127 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 blessing119!’
She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the house, thought of the hurried scene which had just closed upon him, as if it were the phantom128 of some wild, unquiet dream. The day wore on; at night, having been enabled in some measure to collect his thoughts, he issued forth129 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. Peg130 Sliderskew had rendered the accounts of her past housekeeping; the eighteen-pence had been rigidly131 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 contemplated132 his approaching happiness, but that he preferred sitting down and contemplating133 the entries in a dirty old vellum-book with rusty134 clasps.
‘Well-a-day!’ he chuckled135, 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 greasy136 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 delightful137 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 dolorous138 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 depressed139 the old usurer so much, as to wring140 a feeble groan141 or two from his breast, and cause him to declare, with uplifted hands, that he would die in a workhouse. Remembering on further cogitation142, 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 regained143 his equanimity144, and chattered145 and mowed146 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 fowl147,’ 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!’ whined148 Gride. ‘At his expense—you catamaran!’
The last-mentioned tribute to the charms of Mrs. Sliderskew being uttered in a whisper, that lady assented149 to the general proposition by a harsh growl150, which was accompanied by a ring at the street-door.
‘There’s the bell,’ said Arthur.
‘Ay, ay; I know that,’ rejoined Peg.
‘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 intelligible152 to Mrs. Sliderskew’s dull sense of hearing by pantomime expressive153 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 engrossing154 interest of its pages.
The room had no other light than that which it derived155 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 drawn156 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 shroud17 all the rest of the chamber157 in a deep sullen158 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!’ shrieked159 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—’
‘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 reassured161, 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 attentively162, and perceiving that he was a young man of good mien163 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 petrified164 with astonishment165, 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 defrauding166 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 hatred167, can hunt and track you through your windings168; you will yet be called to a dear account for this. We are on the scent169 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 compassion170 or humanity,’ said Nicholas, ‘I would urge upon you to remember the helplessness, the innocence171, the youth, of this lady; her worth and beauty, her filial excellence172, 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. Bate173 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 nuptials174 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 possessed175, 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 accusation176. 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 mere55 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 audacity177, ‘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 odds178 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 contradictory179 premises180, at very cunning deductions181. 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 frightful182 grin, ‘I will!’
‘Wretch!’ cried Nicholas.
‘You’ll bring your threats here, will you?’ said Gride, whom jealousy183 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 doting184 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 bespoke185 by me!’
This taunt186 brought such an expression into the face of Nicholas, that Arthur Gride plainly apprehended187 it to be the forerunner188 of his putting his threat of throwing him into the street in immediate189 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 abide190 the issue of the noise, Nicholas gave vent58 to an indignant defiance191, 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 pettish192 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 gnawing193 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, descended194 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 imprinting195 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.
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1
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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3
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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13
rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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14
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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15
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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16
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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17
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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18
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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19
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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21
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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22
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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23
gilds
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| 把…镀金( gild的第三人称单数 )； 给…上金色； 作多余的修饰（反而破坏原已完美的东西）； 画蛇添足 | |
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24
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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27
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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28
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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29
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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30
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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32
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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33
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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34
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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35
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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38
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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39
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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40
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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41
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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42
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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43
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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46
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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47
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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48
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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49
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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50
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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51
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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52
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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53
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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54
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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57
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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58
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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59
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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60
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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61
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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62
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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63
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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64
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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65
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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66
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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67
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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69
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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70
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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71
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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72
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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73
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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74
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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76
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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77
consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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78
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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80
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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81
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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beseeches
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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85
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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86
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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87
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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88
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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91
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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94
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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98
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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100
plighting
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的现在分词形式） | |
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101
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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103
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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104
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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106
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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107
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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108
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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109
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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110
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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111
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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112
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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113
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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114
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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115
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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116
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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117
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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118
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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119
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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120
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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121
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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122
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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124
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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125
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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126
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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127
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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128
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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129
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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130
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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131
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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132
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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133
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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134
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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135
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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137
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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138
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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139
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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140
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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141
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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142
cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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143
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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144
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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145
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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146
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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148
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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149
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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151
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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152
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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153
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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154
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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155
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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157
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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158
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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159
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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161
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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162
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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163
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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164
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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165
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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166
defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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167
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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168
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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169
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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170
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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171
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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172
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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173
bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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174
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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175
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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176
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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177
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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178
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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179
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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180
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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181
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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182
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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183
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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184
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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185
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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186
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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187
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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188
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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189
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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190
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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191
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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192
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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193
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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194
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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195
imprinting
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| n.胚教，铭记（动物生命早期即起作用的一种学习机能）；印记 | |
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