Chapter 1
 Introduces all the Rest.　　There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county ofDevonshire, one Mr Godfrey Nickleby: a worthygentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in lifethat he must get married, and not being young enough or richenough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded anold flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken himfor the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to playcards 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 bebetter likened to two principals in a sparring match, who, whenfortune is low and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for themere pleasure of the buffeting; and in one respect indeed thiscomparison would hold good; for, as the adventurous pair of theFives’ Court will afterwards send round a hat, and trust to thebounty of the lookers-on for the means of regaling themselves, soMr Godfrey Nickleby and his partner, the honeymoon being over,looked out wistfully into the world, relying in no inconsiderabledegree upon chance for the improvement of their means. MrNickleby’s income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuatedbetween sixty and eighty pounds per annum.
　　There are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and evenin London (where Mr Nickleby dwelt in those days) but fewcomplaints prevail, of the population being scanty. It is extraordinary how long a man may look among the crowd withoutdiscovering the face of a friend, but it is no less true. Mr Nicklebylooked, and looked, till his eyes became sore as his heart, but nofriend appeared; and when, growing tired of the search, he turnedhis eyes homeward, he saw very little there to relieve his wearyvision. A painter who has gazed too long upon some glaringcolour, refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker andmore sombre tint; but everything that met Mr Nickleby’s gazewore so black and gloomy a hue, that he would have been beyonddescription refreshed by the very reverse of the contrast.
　　At length, after five years, when Mrs Nickleby had presentedher husband with a couple of sons, and that embarrassedgentleman, impressed with the necessity of making someprovision for his family, was seriously revolving in his mind a littlecommercial speculation of insuring his life next quarter-day, andthen falling from the top of the Monument by accident, therecame, one morning, by the general post, a black-bordered letter toinform him how his uncle, Mr Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and hadleft him the bulk of his little property, amounting in all to fivethousand pounds sterling.
　　As the deceased had taken no further notice of his nephew inhis lifetime, than sending to his eldest boy (who had beenchristened after him, on desperate speculation) a silver spoon in amorocco case, which, as he had not too much to eat with it,seemed a kind of satire upon his having been born without thatuseful article of plate in his mouth, Mr Godfrey Nickleby could, atfirst, scarcely believe the tidings thus conveyed to him. Onexamination, however, they turned out to be strictly correct. Theamiable old gentleman, it seemed, had intended to leave the whole to the Royal Humane Society, and had indeed executed a will tothat effect; but the Institution, having been unfortunate enough, afew months before, to save the life of a poor relation to whom hepaid a weekly allowance of three shillings and sixpence, he had, ina fit of very natural exasperation, revoked the bequest in a codicil,and left it all to Mr Godfrey Nickleby; with a special mention of hisindignation, not only against the society for saving the poorrelation’s life, but against the poor relation also, for allowinghimself to be saved.
　　With a portion of this property Mr Godfrey Nickleby purchaseda small farm, near Dawlish in Devonshire, whither he retired withhis wife and two children, to live upon the best interest he couldget for the rest of his money, and the little produce he could raisefrom his land. The two prospered so well together that, when hedied, some fifteen years after this period, and some five after hiswife, he was enabled to leave, to his eldest son, Ralph, threethousand pounds in cash, and to his youngest son, Nicholas, onethousand and the farm, which was as small a landed estate as onewould desire to see.
　　These two brothers had been brought up together in a school atExeter; and, being accustomed to go home once a week, had oftenheard, from their mother’s lips, long accounts of their father’ssufferings in his days of poverty, and of their deceased uncle’simportance in his days of affluence: which recitals produced a verydifferent impression on the two: for, while the younger, who was ofa timid and retiring disposition, gleaned from thence nothing butforewarnings to shun the great world and attach himself to thequiet routine of a country life, Ralph, the elder, deduced from theoften-repeated tale the two great morals that riches are the only true source of happiness and power, and that it is lawful and justto compass their acquisition by all means short of felony. ‘And,’
　　reasoned Ralph with himself, ‘if no good came of my uncle’smoney when he was alive, a great deal of good came of it after hewas dead, inasmuch as my father has got it now, and is saving it upfor me, which is a highly virtuous purpose; and, going back to theold gentleman, good did come of it to him too, for he had thepleasure of thinking of it all his life long, and of being envied andcourted by all his family besides.’ And Ralph always wound upthese mental soliloquies by arriving at the conclusion, that therewas nothing like money.
　　Not confining himself to theory, or permitting his faculties torust, even at that early age, in mere abstract speculations, thispromising lad commenced usurer on a limited scale at school;putting out at good interest a small capital of slate-pencil andmarbles, and gradually extending his operations until they aspiredto the copper coinage of this realm, in which he speculated toconsiderable advantage. Nor did he trouble his borrowers withabstract calculations of figures, or references to ready-reckoners;his simple rule of interest being all comprised in the one goldensentence, ‘two-pence for every half-penny,’ which greatlysimplified the accounts, and which, as a familiar precept, moreeasily acquired and retained in the memory than any known ruleof arithmetic, cannot be too strongly recommended to the notice ofcapitalists, both large and small, and more especially of money-brokers and bill-discounters. Indeed, to do these gentlemenjustice, many of them are to this day in the frequent habit ofadopting it, with eminent success.
　　In like manner, did young Ralph Nickleby avoid all those minute and intricate calculations of odd days, which nobody whohas worked sums in simple-interest can fail to have found mostembarrassing, by establishing the one general rule that all sums ofprincipal and interest should be paid on pocket-money day, that isto say, on Saturday: and that whether a loan were contracted onthe Monday, or on the Friday, the amount of interest should be, inboth cases, the same. Indeed he argued, and with great show ofreason, that it ought to be rather more for one day than for five,inasmuch as the borrower might in the former case be very fairlypresumed to be in great extremity, otherwise he would not borrowat all with such odds against him. This fact is interesting, asillustrating the secret connection and sympathy which alwaysexist between great minds. Though Master Ralph Nickleby wasnot at that time aware of it, the class of gentlemen before alludedto, proceed on just the same principle in all their transactions.
　　From what we have said of this young gentleman, and thenatural admiration the reader will immediately conceive of hischaracter, it may perhaps be inferred that he is to be the hero ofthe work which we shall presently begin. To set this point at rest,for once and for ever, we hasten to undeceive them, and stride toits commencement.
　　On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, who had been sometime before placed in a mercantile house in London, appliedhimself passionately to his old pursuit of money-getting, in whichhe speedily became so buried and absorbed, that he quite forgothis brother for many years; and if, at times, a recollection of his oldplayfellow broke upon him through the haze in which he lived—for gold conjures up a mist about a man, more destructive of all hisold senses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes of charcoal—it brought along with it a companion thought, that if they wereintimate he would want to borrow money of him. So, Mr RalphNickleby shrugged his shoulders, and said things were better asthey were.
　　As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estateuntil he grew tired of living alone, and then he took to wife thedaughter of a neighbouring gentleman with a dower of onethousand pounds. This good lady bore him two children, a son anda daughter, and when the son was about nineteen, and thedaughter fourteen, as near as we can guess—impartial records ofyoung ladies’ ages being, before the passing of the new act,nowhere preserved in the registries of this country—Mr Nicklebylooked about him for the means of repairing his capital, now sadlyreduced by this increase in his family, and the expenses of theireducation.
　　‘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, weshall 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’stime he was in the way of doing something for himself; and Katetoo, 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. Iwill speculate, my dear.’
　　 Speculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing oftheir cards at first starting; gains may be great—and so may losses.
　　The run of luck went against Mr Nickleby. A mania prevailed, abubble burst, four stock-brokers took villa residences at Florence,four hundred nobodies were ruined, and among them MrNickleby.
　　‘The very house I live in,’ sighed the poor gentleman, ‘may betaken from me tomorrow. Not an article of my old furniture, butwill be sold to strangers!’
　　The last reflection hurt him so much, that he took at once to hisbed; 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 theclergyman.
　　‘And what no man with a family ought to do,’ added theneighbours.
　　Mr Nickleby shook his head, and motioning them all out of theroom, embraced his wife and children, and having pressed themby turns to his languidly beating heart, sunk exhausted on hispillow. They were concerned to find that his reason went astrayafter this; for he babbled, for a long time, about the generosity andgoodness of his brother, and the merry old times when they wereat school together. This fit of wandering past, he solemnlycommended them to One who never deserted the widow or herfatherless children, and, smiling gently on them, turned upon hisface, 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 StockCompany of vast national Importance.
　　Mr Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what youwould call a merchant, neither was he a banker, nor anattorney, nor a special pleader, nor a notary. He wascertainly not a tradesman, and still less could he lay any claim tothe title of a professional gentleman; for it would have beenimpossible to mention any recognised profession to which hebelonged. Nevertheless, as he lived in a spacious house in GoldenSquare, which, in addition to a brass plate upon the street-door,had another brass plate two sizes and a half smaller upon the lefthand door-post, surrounding a brass model of an infant’s fistgrasping 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 furthercircumstantial evidence, was abundantly demonstrated by thediurnal attendance, between the hours of half-past nine and five,of a sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat upon anuncommonly hard stool in a species of butler’s pantry at the end ofthe passage, and always had a pen behind his ear when heanswered the bell.
　　Although a few members of the graver professions live aboutGolden Square, it is not exactly in anybody’s way to or fromanywhere. It is one of the squares that have been; a quarter of the town that has gone down in the world, and taken to lettinglodgings. Many of its first and second floors are let, furnished, tosingle gentlemen; and it takes boarders besides. It is a great resortof foreigners. The dark-complexioned men who wear large rings,and heavy watch-guards, and bushy whiskers, and whocongregate under the Opera Colonnade, and about the box-officein the season, between four and five in the afternoon, when theygive away the orders,—all live in Golden Square, or within a streetof it. Two or three violins and a wind instrument from the Operaband reside within its precincts. Its boarding-houses are musical,and the notes of pianos and harps float in the evening time roundthe head of the mournful statue, the guardian genius of a littlewilderness of shrubs, in the centre of the square. On a summer’snight, windows are thrown open, and groups of swarthymoustached men are seen by the passer-by, lounging at thecasements, and smoking fearfully. Sounds of gruff voicespractising vocal music invade the evening’s silence; and the fumesof choice tobacco scent the air. There, snuff and cigars, andGerman pipes and flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide thesupremacy between them. It is the region of song and smoke.
　　Street bands are on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerantglee-singers quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices withinits boundaries.
　　This would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transactionof business; but Mr Ralph Nickleby had lived there,notwithstanding, for many years, and uttered no complaint on thatscore. He knew nobody round about, and nobody knew him,although he enjoyed the reputation of being immensely rich. Thetradesmen held that he was a sort of lawyer, and the other neighbours opined that he was a kind of general agent; both ofwhich guesses were as correct and definite as guesses about otherpeople’s affairs usually are, or need to be.
　　Mr Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, readydressed to walk abroad. He wore a bottle-green spencer over ablue coat; a white waistcoat, grey mixture pantaloons, andWellington boots drawn over them. The corner of a small-plaitedshirt-frill struggled out, as if insisting to show itself, from betweenhis chin and the top button of his spencer; and the latter garmentwas not made low enough to conceal a long gold watch-chain,composed of a series of plain rings, which had its beginning at thehandle of a gold repeater in Mr Nickleby’s pocket, and itstermination in two little keys: one belonging to the watch itself,and the other to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling ofpowder upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but ifthat were his purpose, he would perhaps have done better topowder his countenance also, for there was something in its verywrinkles, and in his cold restless eye, which seemed to tell ofcunning that would announce itself in spite of him. However thismight be, there he was; and as he was all alone, neither thepowder, nor the wrinkles, nor the eyes, had the smallest effect,good or bad, upon anybody just then, and are consequently nobusiness 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 abstractionthrough the dirty window. Some London houses have amelancholy little plot of ground behind them, usually fenced in byfour high whitewashed walls, and frowned upon by stacks ofchimneys: in which there withers on, from year to year, a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few leaves late inautumn 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 beparticularly genial, even tempts some rheumatic sparrow tochirrup in its branches. People sometimes call these dark yards‘gardens’; it is not supposed that they were ever planted, butrather that they are pieces of unreclaimed land, with the witheredvegetation of the original brick-field. No man thinks of walking inthis desolate place, or of turning it to any account. A few hampers,half-a-dozen broken bottles, and such-like rubbish, may be thrownthere, when the tenant first moves in, but nothing more; and therethey remain until he goes away again: the damp straw taking justas long to moulder as it thinks proper: and mingling with thescanty box, and stunted everbrowns, and broken flower-pots, thatare scattered mournfully about—a prey to ‘blacks’ and dirt.
　　It was into a place of this kind that Mr Ralph Nickleby gazed, ashe sat with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. Hehad fixed his eyes upon a distorted fir tree, planted by someformer tenant in a tub that had once been green, and left there,years before, to rot away piecemeal. There was nothing veryinviting in the object, but Mr Nickleby was wrapt in a brownstudy, and sat contemplating it with far greater attention than, in amore conscious mood, he would have deigned to bestow upon therarest exotic. At length, his eyes wandered to a little dirty windowon 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 (towhich he had communicated a high polish by countless gettings off and on), and presented himself in Mr Nickleby’s room. He wasa tall man of middle age, with two goggle eyes whereof one was afixture, a rubicund nose, a cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (ifthe term be allowable when they suited him not at all) much theworse for wear, very much too small, and placed upon such a shortallowance of buttons that it was marvellous how he contrived tokeep them on.
　　‘Was that half-past twelve, Noggs?’ said Mr Nickleby, in a sharpand grating voice.
　　‘Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by the—’ Noggs wasgoing to add public-house clock, but recollecting himself,substituted ‘regular time.’
　　‘My watch has stopped,’ said Mr Nickleby; ‘I don’t know fromwhat 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 hispocket; ‘perhaps it is.’
　　Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of alldisputes with his master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and(as he rarely spoke to anybody unless somebody spoke to him) fellinto a grim silence, and rubbed his hands slowly over each other:
　　cracking the joints of his fingers, and squeezing them into allpossible distortions. The incessant performance of this routine onevery occasion, and the communication of a fixed and rigid look tohis unaffected eye, so as to make it uniform with the other, and to render it impossible for anybody to determine where or at what hewas looking, were two among the numerous peculiarities of MrNoggs, which struck an inexperienced observer at first sight.
　　‘I am going to the London Tavern this morning,’ said MrNickleby.
　　‘Public meeting?’ inquired Noggs.
　　Mr Nickleby nodded. ‘I expect a letter from the solicitorrespecting that mortgage of Ruddle’s. If it comes at all, it will behere by the two o’clock delivery. I shall leave the city about thattime and walk to Charing Cross on the left-hand side of the way; ifthere are any letters, come and meet me, and bring them withyou.’
　　Noggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at theoffice bell. The master looked up from his papers, and the clerkcalmly 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 thoughtso!’ and, the ring being repeated, went to the door, whence hepresently returned, ushering in, by the name of Mr Bonney, a palegentleman in a violent hurry, who, with his hair standing up ingreat disorder all over his head, and a very narrow white cravattied loosely round his throat, looked as if he had been knocked upin 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 hishead, ‘there’s not a moment to lose; I have a cab at the door. SirMatthew Pupker takes the chair, and three members ofParliament are positively coming. I have seen two of them safelyout of bed. The third, who was at Crockford’s all night, has justgone home to put a clean shirt on, and take a bottle or two of sodawater, and will certainly be with us, in time to address themeeting. He is a little excited by last night, but never mind that; healways speaks the stronger for it.’
　　‘It seems to promise pretty well,’ said Mr Ralph Nickleby,whose deliberate manner was strongly opposed to the vivacity ofthe other man of business.
　　‘Pretty well!’ echoed Mr Bonney. ‘It’s the finest idea that wasever started. “United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin andCrumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company. Capital, fivemillions, in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each.”
　　Why the very name will get the shares up to a premium in tendays.’
　　‘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 anyman alive, and how to back quietly out at the right time,’ said MrBonney, slapping the capitalist familiarly on the shoulder. ‘By-thebye, what a very remarkable man that clerk of yours is.’
　　‘Yes, poor devil!’ replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. ‘ThoughNewman Noggs kept his horses and hounds once.’
　　‘Ay, ay?’ said the other carelessly.
　　‘Yes,’ continued Ralph, ‘and not many years ago either; but hesquandered his money, invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and in short made first a thorough fool of himself, and then abeggar. He took to drinking, and had a touch of paralysis, and thencame 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 acharitable look, ‘but he is useful enough, poor creature—usefulenough.’
　　The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add that NewmanNoggs, being utterly destitute, served him for rather less than theusual wages of a boy of thirteen; and likewise failed to mention inhis hasty chronicle, that his eccentric taciturnity rendered him anespecially valuable person in a place where much business wasdone, of which it was desirable no mention should be made out ofdoors. The other gentleman was plainly impatient to be gone,however, and as they hurried into the hackney cabrioletimmediately afterwards, perhaps Mr Nickleby forgot to mentioncircumstances so unimportant.
　　There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as theydrew up, and (it being a windy day) half-a-dozen men were tackingacross the road under a press of paper, bearing giganticannouncements that a Public Meeting would be holden at oneo’clock precisely, to take into consideration the propriety ofpetitioning Parliament in favour of the United MetropolitanImproved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual DeliveryCompany, capital five millions, in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each; which sums were duly set forth in fat blackfigures of considerable size. Mr Bonney elbowed his way brisklyupstairs, receiving in his progress many low bows from the waiterswho stood on the landings to show the way; and, followed by MrNickleby, dived into a suite of apartments behind the great publicroom: in the second of which was a business-looking table, andseveral business-looking people.
　　‘Hear!’ cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr Bonneypresented himself. ‘Chair, gentlemen, chair!’
　　The new-comers were received with universal approbation, andMr Bonney bustled up to the top of the table, took off his hat, ranhis fingers through his hair, and knocked a hackney-coachman’sknock on the table with a little hammer: whereat severalgentlemen cried ‘Hear!’ and nodded slightly to each other, asmuch as to say what spirited conduct that was. Just at thismoment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore into the room, andthrowing the door open with a crash, shouted ‘Sir MatthewPupker!’
　　The committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, andwhile they were clapping them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker,attended by two live members of Parliament, one Irish and oneScotch, all smiling and bowing, and looking so pleasant that itseemed a perfect marvel how any man could have the heart to voteagainst them. Sir Matthew Pupker especially, who had a littleround head with a flaxen wig on the top of it, fell into such aparoxysm of bows, that the wig threatened to be jerked off, everyinstant. When these symptoms had in some degree subsided, thegentlemen 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 onspeaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker or the two othermembers, stood lingering, and smiling, and rubbing their hands,in the desperate hope of something turning up which might bringthem into notice. All this time, Sir Matthew Pupker and the twoother members were relating to their separate circles what theintentions of government were, about taking up the bill; with a fullaccount of what the government had said in a whisper the lasttime they dined with it, and how the government had beenobserved to wink when it said so; from which premises they wereat no loss to draw the conclusion, that if the government had oneobject more at heart than another, that one object was the welfareand advantage of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffinand 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 roomwere eyeing, by turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in theMusic Gallery. In these amusements the greater portion of themhad been occupied for a couple of hours before, and as the mostagreeable diversions pall upon the taste on a too protractedenjoyment of them, the sterner spirits now began to hammer thefloor with their boot-heels, and to express their dissatisfaction byvarious hoots and cries. These vocal exertions, emanating from thepeople who had been there longest, naturally proceeded fromthose who were nearest to the platform and furthest from thepolicemen in attendance, who having no great mind to fight theirway through the crowd, but entertaining nevertheless apraiseworthy 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 outvarious smart and tingling blows with their truncheons, after themanner of that ingenious actor, Mr Punch: whose brilliantexample, both in the fashion of his weapons and their use, thisbranch of the executive occasionally follows.
　　Several very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loudshout attracted the attention even of the belligerents, and thenthere poured on to the platform, from a door at the side, a long lineof gentlemen with their hats off, all looking behind them, anduttering vociferous cheers; the cause whereof was sufficientlyexplained when Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other realmembers of Parliament came to the front, amidst deafeningshouts, and testified to each other in dumb motions that they hadnever seen such a glorious sight as that, in the whole course oftheir public career.
　　At length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but SirMatthew Pupker being voted into the chair, they underwent arelapse which lasted five minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupkerwent 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 whatmust be the intelligence of his fellow-countrymen before him, andwhat must be the wealth and respectability of his honourablefriends behind him, and lastly, what must be the importance to thewealth, the happiness, the comfort, the liberty, the very existenceof a free and great people, of such an Institution as the UnitedMetropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking andPunctual 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 careof the gentleman with the double chin (who acted as a species ofbottle-holder to the orators generally), and said he would read tothem the first resolution—’ That this meeting views with alarmand apprehension, the existing state of the Muffin Trade in thisMetropolis and its neighbourhood; that it considers the MuffinBoys, as at present constituted, wholly underserving theconfidence of the public; and that it deems the whole Muffinsystem alike prejudicial to the health and morals of the people,and subversive of the best interests of a great commercial andmercantile community.’ The honourable gentleman made aspeech which drew tears from the eyes of the ladies, andawakened the liveliest emotions in every individual present. Hehad visited the houses of the poor in the various districts ofLondon, and had found them destitute of the slightest vestige of amuffin, which there appeared too much reason to believe some ofthese indigent persons did not taste from year’s end to year’s end.
　　He had found that among muffin-sellers there existeddrunkenness, debauchery, and profligacy, which he attributed tothe debasing nature of their employment as at present exercised;he had found the same vices among the poorer class of people whoought to be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to thedespair engendered by their being placed beyond the reach of thatnutritious article, which drove them to seek a false stimulant inintoxicating liquors. He would undertake to prove before acommittee of the House of Commons, that there existed acombination to keep up the price of muffins, and to give thebellmen a monopoly; he would prove it by bellmen at the bar ofthat 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 thismelancholy state of things that the Company proposed to correct;firstly, by prohibiting, under heavy penalties, all private muffintrading of every description; secondly, by themselves supplyingthe public generally, and the poor at their own homes, withmuffins of first quality at reduced prices. It was with this objectthat a bill had been introduced into Parliament by their patrioticchairman Sir Matthew Pupker; it was this bill that they had met tosupport; it was the supporters of this bill who would conferundying brightness and splendour upon England, under the nameof the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and CrumpetBaking and Punctual Delivery Company; he would add, with acapital of Five Millions, in five hundred thousand shares of tenpounds each.
　　Mr Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and anothergentleman having moved that it be amended by the insertion ofthe words ‘and crumpet’ after the word ‘muffin,’ whenever itoccurred, it was carried triumphantly. Only one man in the crowdcried ‘No!’ and he was promptly taken into custody, andstraightway borne off.
　　The second resolution, which recognised the expediency ofimmediately abolishing ‘all muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all tradersin muffins (or crumpets) of whatsoever description, whether maleor female, boys or men, ringing hand-bells or otherwise,’ wasmoved by a grievous gentleman of semi-clerical appearance, whowent at once into such deep pathetics, that he knocked the firstspeaker clean out of the course in no time. You might have heard apin fall—a pin! a feather—as he described the cruelties inflicted on muffin boys by their masters, which he very wisely urged were inthemselves a sufficient reason for the establishment of thatinestimable company. It seemed that the unhappy youths werenightly turned out into the wet streets at the most inclementperiods of the year, to wander about, in darkness and rain—or itmight 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 andblankets, the boys were wholly unprovided for, and left to theirown miserable resources. (Shame!) The honourable gentlemanrelated one case of a muffin boy, who having been exposed to thisinhuman and barbarous system for no less than five years, atlength fell a victim to a cold in the head, beneath which hegradually sunk until he fell into a perspiration and recovered; thishe could vouch for, on his own authority, but he had heard (and hehad no reason to doubt the fact) of a still more heart-rending andappalling circumstance. He had heard of the case of an orphanmuffin boy, who, having been run over by a hackney carriage, hadbeen removed to the hospital, had undergone the amputation ofhis leg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing hisoccupation on crutches. Fountain of justice, were these things tolast!
　　This was the department of the subject that took the meeting,and this was the style of speaking to enlist their sympathies. Themen shouted; the ladies wept into their pocket-handkerchiefs tillthey were moist, and waved them till they were dry; theexcitement was tremendous; and Mr Nickleby whispered hisfriend that the shares were thenceforth at a premium of five-andtwenty 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 hisenthusiasm have held up both legs also, if he could haveconveniently accomplished it. This done, the draft of the proposedpetition was read at length: and the petition said, as all petitionsDO say, that the petitioners were very humble, and the petitionedvery honourable, and the object very virtuous; therefore (said thepetition) the bill ought to be passed into a law at once, to theeverlasting honour and glory of that most honourable and gloriousCommons of England in Parliament assembled.
　　Then, the gentleman who had been at Crockford’s all night, andwho looked something the worse about the eyes in consequence,came forward to tell his fellow-countrymen what a speech hemeant to make in favour of that petition whenever it should bepresented, and how desperately he meant to taunt the parliamentif they rejected the bill; and to inform them also, that he regrettedhis honourable friends had not inserted a clause rendering thepurchase of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon all classes ofthe community, which he—opposing all half-measures, andpreferring to go the extreme animal—pledged himself to proposeand divide upon, in committee. After announcing thisdetermination, the honourable gentleman grew jocular; and aspatent boots, lemon-coloured kid gloves, and a fur coat collar,assist jokes materially, there was immense laughter and muchcheering, and moreover such a brilliant display of ladies’ pocket-handkerchiefs, as threw the grievous gentleman quite into theshade.
　　And when the petition had been read and was about to beadopted, there came forward the Irish member (who was a young gentleman of ardent temperament,) with such a speech as only anIrish member can make, breathing the true soul and spirit ofpoetry, and poured forth with such fervour, that it made one warmto look at him; in the course whereof, he told them how he woulddemand the extension of that great boon to his native country;how he would claim for her equal rights in the muffin laws as in allother laws; and how he yet hoped to see the day when crumpetsshould be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin bells should ringin her rich green valleys. And, after him, came the Scotchmember, with various pleasant allusions to the probable amountof profits, which increased the good humour that the poetry hadawakened; and all the speeches put together did exactly what theywere intended to do, and established in the hearers’ minds thatthere was no speculation so promising, or at the same time sopraiseworthy, as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffinand Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
　　So, the petition in favour of the bill was agreed upon, and themeeting adjourned with acclamations, and Mr Nickleby and theother directors went to the office to lunch, as they did every day athalf-past one o’clock; and to remunerate themselves for whichtrouble, (as the company was yet in its infancy,) they only chargedthree guineas each man for every such attendance.
Chapter 3
Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of hisBrother, but bears up nobly against the Intelligencecommunicated to him. The Reader is informed howhe liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, andhow kindly he proposed to make his Fortune atonce.
　　Having rendered his zealous assistance towardsdispatching the lunch, with all that promptitude andenergy which are among the most important qualitiesthat men of business can possess, Mr Ralph Nickleby took acordial farewell of his fellow-speculators, and bent his stepswestward in unwonted good humour. As he passed St Paul’s hestepped aside into a doorway to set his watch, and with his handon the key and his eye on the cathedral dial, was intent upon sodoing, when a man suddenly stopped before him. It was NewmanNoggs.
　　‘Ah! Newman,’ said Mr Nickleby, looking up as he pursued hisoccupation. ‘The letter about the mortgage has come, has it? Ithought 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 hispocket. ‘Post-mark, Strand, black wax, black border, woman’shand, C. N. in the corner.’
　　‘Black wax?’ said Mr Nickleby, glancing at the letter. ‘I knowsomething of that hand, too. Newman, I shouldn’t be surprised ifmy 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 acold look upon him, opened, read it, put it in his pocket, andhaving now hit the time to a second, began winding up his watch.
　　‘It is as I expected, Newman,’ said Mr Nickleby, while he wasthus engaged. ‘He is dead. Dear me! Well, that’s sudden thing. Ishouldn’t have thought it, really.’ With these touching expressionsof sorrow, Mr Nickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fittingon his gloves to a nicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowlywestward with his hands behind him.
　　‘Children alive?’ inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.
　　‘Why, that’s the very thing,’ replied Mr Nickleby, as though histhoughts 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 inLondon, confound them; all three here, Newman.’
　　Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face wascuriously 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 ofingenuity 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 werescarcely uttered when Newman darted across the road, slunkamong the crowd, and disappeared in an instant.
　　‘Reasonable, certainly!’ muttered Mr Nickleby to himself, as hewalked on, ‘very reasonable! My brother never did anything forme, and I never expected it; the breath is no sooner out of his bodythan 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, MrNickleby made the best of his way to the Strand, and, referring tohis letter as if to ascertain the number of the house he wanted,stopped at a private door about half-way down that crowdedthoroughfare.
　　A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt framescrewed upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon ablack velvet ground, two portraits of naval dress coats with faceslooking out of them, and telescopes attached; one of a younggentleman in a very vermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre; andone of a literary character with a high forehead, a pen and ink, sixbooks, and a curtain. There was, moreover, a touchingrepresentation of a young lady reading a manuscript in anunfathomable forest, and a charming whole length of a large-headed little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs fore-shortened tothe size of salt-spoons. Besides these works of art, there were agreat many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out of blue and brown skies, and an elegantly written card ofterms with an embossed border.
　　Mr Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt,and gave a double knock, which, having been thrice repeated, wasanswered 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 beingthus corrected, and demanded with much asperity what shemeant; which she was about to state, when a female voiceproceeding from a perpendicular staircase at the end of thepassage, inquired who was wanted.
　　‘Mrs Nickleby,’ said Ralph.
　　‘It’s the second floor, Hannah,’ said the same voice; ‘what astupid thing you are! Is the second floor at home?’
　　‘Somebody went out just now, but I think it was the attic whichhad been a cleaning of himself,’ replied the girl.
　　‘You had better see,’ said the invisible female. ‘Show thegentleman where the bell is, and tell him he mustn’t knock doubleknocks for the second floor; I can’t allow a knock except when thebell’s broke, and then it must be two single ones.’
　　‘Here,’ said Ralph, walking in without more parley, ‘I beg yourpardon; is that Mrs La what’s-her-name?’
　　‘Creevy—La Creevy,’ replied the voice, as a yellow head-dressbobbed over the banisters.
　　‘I’ll speak to you a moment, ma’am, with your leave,’ saidRalph.
　　The voice replied that the gentleman was to walk up; but hehad walked up before it spoke, and stepping into the first floor, was received by the wearer of the yellow head-dress, who had agown to correspond, and was of much the same colour herself.
　　Miss La Creevy was a mincing young lady of fifty, and Miss LaCreevy’s apartment was the gilt frame downstairs on a larger scaleand something dirtier.
　　‘Hem!’ said Miss La Creevy, coughing delicately behind herblack silk mitten. ‘A miniature, I presume. A very strongly-markedcountenance for the purpose, sir. Have you ever sat before?’
　　‘You mistake my purpose, I see, ma’am,’ replied Mr Nickleby, inhis usual blunt fashion. ‘I have no money to throw away onminiatures, 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, aboutsome lodgers here.’
　　Miss La Creevy coughed once more—this cough was to concealher disappointment—and said, ‘Oh, indeed!’
　　‘I infer from what you said to your servant, that the floor abovebelongs to you, ma’am,’ said Mr Nickleby.
　　Yes it did, Miss La Creevy replied. The upper part of the housebelonged to her, and as she had no necessity for the second-floorrooms just then, she was in the habit of letting them. Indeed, therewas a lady from the country and her two children in them, at thatpresent 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 emphasison 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, whatbusiness has a poor widow in such a house as this, ma’am?’
　　 ‘Very true,’ replied Miss La Creevy, not at all displeased withthis implied compliment to the apartments. ‘Exceedingly true.’
　　‘I know her circumstances intimately, ma’am,’ said Ralph; ‘infact, I am a relation of the family; and I should recommend you notto keep them here, ma’am.’
　　‘I should hope, if there was any incompatibility to meet thepecuniary obligations,’ said Miss La Creevy with another cough,‘that the lady’s family would—’
　　‘No they wouldn’t, ma’am,’ interrupted Ralph, hastily. ‘Don’tthink it.’
　　‘If I am to understand that,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘the casewears a very different appearance.’
　　‘You may understand it then, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘and makeyour arrangements accordingly. I am the family, ma’am—at least, Ibelieve I am the only relation they have, and I think it right thatyou should know I can’t support them in their extravagances. Howlong have they taken these lodgings for?’
　　‘Only from week to week,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘MrsNickleby 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 arein everybody’s way here.’
　　‘Certainly,’ said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands, ‘if MrsNickleby took the apartments without the means of paying forthem, it was very unbecoming a lady.’
　　‘Of course it was, ma’am,’ said Ralph.
　　‘And naturally,’ continued Miss La Creevy, ‘I who am, atpresent—hem—an unprotected female, cannot afford to lose by theapartments.’
　　 ‘Of course you can’t, ma’am,’ replied Ralph.
　　‘Though at the same time,’ added Miss La Creevy, who wasplainly wavering between her good-nature and her interest, ‘Ihave nothing whatever to say against the lady, who is extremelypleasant and affable, though, poor thing, she seems terribly low inher spirits; nor against the young people either, for nicer, orbetter-behaved young people cannot be.’
　　‘Very well, ma’am,’ said Ralph, turning to the door, for theseencomiums on poverty irritated him; ‘I have done my duty, andperhaps more than I ought: of course nobody will thank me forsaying what I have.’
　　‘I am sure I am very much obliged to you at least, sir,’ said MissLa Creevy in a gracious manner. ‘Would you do me the favour tolook at a few specimens of my portrait painting?’
　　‘You’re very good, ma’am,’ said Mr Nickleby, making off withgreat speed; ‘but as I have a visit to pay upstairs, and my time isprecious, 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 acard of terms with you? Thank you—good-morning!’
　　‘Good-morning, ma’am,’ said Ralph, shutting the door abruptlyafter him to prevent any further conversation. ‘Now for my sister-in-law. Bah!’
　　Climbing up another perpendicular flight, composed with greatmechanical ingenuity of nothing but corner stairs, Mr RalphNickleby stopped to take breath on the landing, when he wasovertaken by the handmaid, whom the politeness of Miss LaCreevy had dispatched to announce him, and who had apparentlybeen making a variety of unsuccessful attempts, since their last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean, upon an apron muchdirtier.
　　‘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 uponthe arm of a slight but very beautiful girl of about seventeen, whohad been sitting by her. A youth, who appeared a year or twoolder, stepped forward and saluted Ralph as his uncle.
　　‘Oh,’ growled Ralph, with an ill-favoured frown, ‘you areNicholas, I suppose?’
　　‘That is my name, sir,’ replied the youth.
　　‘Put my hat down,’ said Ralph, imperiously. ‘Well, ma’am, howdo you do? You must bear up against sorrow, ma’am; I always do.’
　　‘Mine was no common loss!’ said Mrs Nickleby, applying herhandkerchief to her eyes.
　　‘It was no uncommon loss, ma’am,’ returned Ralph, as he coollyunbuttoned his spencer. ‘Husbands die every day, ma’am, andwives too.’
　　‘And brothers also, sir,’ said Nicholas, with a glance ofindignation.
　　‘Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs likewise,’ replied his uncle,taking a chair. ‘You didn’t mention in your letter what mybrother’s complaint was, ma’am.’
　　‘The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,’ saidMrs Nickleby; shedding tears. ‘We have too much reason to fearthat he died of a broken heart.’
　　 ‘Pooh!’ said Ralph, ‘there’s no such thing. I can understand aman’s dying of a broken neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or abroken head, or a broken leg, or a broken nose; but a brokenheart!—nonsense, it’s the cant of the day. If a man can’t pay hisdebts, he dies of a broken heart, and his widow’s a martyr.’
　　‘Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,’ observedNicholas, quietly.
　　‘How old is this boy, for God’s sake?’ inquired Ralph, wheelingback his chair, and surveying his nephew from head to foot withintense scorn.
　　‘Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,’ replied the widow.
　　‘Nineteen, eh!’ said Ralph; ‘and what do you mean to do foryour bread, sir?’
　　‘Not to live upon my mother,’ replied Nicholas, his heartswelling as he spoke.
　　‘You’d have little enough to live upon, if you did,’ retorted theuncle, eyeing him contemptuously.
　　‘Whatever it be,’ said Nicholas, flushed with anger, ‘I shall notlook to you to make it more.’
　　‘Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,’ remonstrated MrsNickleby.
　　‘Dear Nicholas, pray,’ urged the young lady.
　　‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said Ralph. ‘Upon my word! Finebeginnings, Mrs Nickleby—fine beginnings!’
　　Mrs Nickleby made no other reply than entreating Nicholas bya gesture to keep silent; and the uncle and nephew looked at eachother for some seconds without speaking. The face of the old manwas 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 brightwith the light of intelligence and spirit. His figure was somewhatslight, but manly and well formed; and, apart from all the grace ofyouth and comeliness, there was an emanation from the warmyoung 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 perfectionwith which it strikes to the very soul of him whose inferiority itmarks. It galled Ralph to the heart’s core, and he hated Nicholasfrom that hour.
　　The mutual inspection was at length brought to a close byRalph withdrawing his eyes, with a great show of disdain, andcalling Nicholas ‘a boy.’ This word is much used as a term ofreproach by elderly gentlemen towards their juniors: probablywith the view of deluding society into the belief that if they couldbe young again, they wouldn’t on any account.
　　‘Well, ma’am,’ said Ralph, impatiently, ‘the creditors haveadministered, 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 wayto London, to see what I could do for you?’ pursued Ralph.
　　‘I hoped,’ faltered Mrs Nickleby, ‘that you might have anopportunity of doing something for your brother’s children. It washis dying wish that I should appeal to you in their behalf.’
　　‘I don’t know how it is,’ muttered Ralph, walking up and downthe room, ‘but whenever a man dies without any property of hisown, he always seems to think he has a right to dispose of otherpeople’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 unclestopped 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, Ihope?’
　　‘No, indeed, uncle,’ replied the weeping girl. ‘I will try to doanything that will gain me a home and bread.’
　　‘Well, well,’ said Ralph, a little softened, either by his niece’sbeauty or her distress (stretch a point, and say the latter). ‘Youmust try it, and if the life is too hard, perhaps dressmaking ortambour-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 brotherbrought up his children, ma’am.’
　　‘Nicholas has not long completed such education as his poorfather could give him,’ rejoined Mrs Nickleby, ‘and he wasthinking of—’
　　‘Of making something of him someday,’ said Ralph. ‘The oldstory; always thinking, and never doing. If my brother had been aman of activity and prudence, he might have left you a richwoman, ma’am: and if he had turned his son into the world, as myfather turned me, when I wasn’t as old as that boy by a year and ahalf, he would have been in a situation to help you, instead ofbeing a burden upon you, and increasing your distress. Mybrother was a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs Nickleby, andnobody, 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 onethousand pounds, and then she began to reflect what acomfortable sum it would have been just then; which dismalthoughts made her tears flow faster, and in the excess of thesegriefs she (being a well-meaning woman enough, but weak withal)fell first to deploring her hard fate, and then to remarking, withmany sobs, that to be sure she had been a slave to poor Nicholas,and had often told him she might have married better (as indeedshe had, very often), and that she never knew in his lifetime howthe money went, but that if he had confided in her they might allhave been better off that day; with other bitter recollectionscommon to most married ladies, either during their coverture, orafterwards, or at both periods. Mrs Nickleby concluded bylamenting that the dear departed had never deigned to profit byher advice, save on one occasion; which was a strictly veraciousstatement, inasmuch as he had only acted upon it once, and hadruined himself in consequence.
　　Mr Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half-smile; and whenthe widow had finished, quietly took up the subject where it hadbeen left before the above outbreak.
　　‘Are you willing to work, sir?’ he inquired, frowning on hisnephew.
　　‘Of course I am,’ replied Nicholas haughtily.
　　‘Then see here, sir,’ said his uncle. ‘This caught my eye thismorning, and you may thank your stars for it.’
　　With this exordium, Mr Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper fromhis pocket, and after unfolding it, and looking for a short timeamong the advertisements, read as follows:
　　‘“EDUCATION.—At Mr Wackford Squeers’s Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near GretaBridge 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 theglobes, 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 dietunparalleled. Mr Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from onetill four, at the Saracen’s Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistantwanted. Annual salary 5 pounds. A Master of Arts would bepreferred.”
　　‘There!’ said Ralph, folding the paper again. ‘Let him get thatsituation, 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 unclemust know best.’
　　‘I say,’ repeated Ralph, tartly, ‘let him get that situation, and hisfortune is made. If he don’t like that, let him get one for himself.
　　Without friends, money, recommendation, or knowledge ofbusiness of any kind, let him find honest employment in London,which will keep him in shoe leather, and I’ll give him a thousandpounds. At least,’ said Mr Ralph Nickleby, checking himself, ‘Iwould if I had it.’
　　‘Poor fellow!’ said the young lady. ‘Oh! uncle, must we beseparated so soon!’
　　 ‘Don’t tease your uncle with questions when he is thinking onlyfor our good, my love,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘Nicholas, my dear, Iwish you would say something.’
　　‘Yes, mother, yes,’ said Nicholas, who had hitherto remainedsilent and absorbed in thought. ‘If I am fortunate enough to beappointed 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 providedfor, in that case (not otherwise), by me, and placed in some sphereof life in which they will be able to be independent. That will bemy immediate care; they will not remain as they are, one weekafter your departure, I will undertake.’
　　‘Then,’ said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and wringing his uncle’shand, ‘I am ready to do anything you wish me. Let us try ourfortune with Mr Squeers at once; he can but refuse.’
　　‘He won’t do that,’ said Ralph. ‘He will be glad to have you onmy recommendation. Make yourself of use to him, and you’ll riseto be a partner in the establishment in no time. Bless me, onlythink! if he were to die, why your fortune’s made at once.’
　　‘To be sure, I see it all,’ said poor Nicholas, delighted with athousand visionary ideas, that his good spirits and hisinexperience were conjuring up before him. ‘Or suppose someyoung nobleman who is being educated at the Hall, were to take afancy to me, and get his father to appoint me his travelling tutorwhen 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 wassettled (as he would of course), he might fall in love with Kate, who would be keeping my house, and—and marry her, eh! uncle? Whoknows?’
　　‘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. Katewill be a beautiful woman, and I so proud to hear them say so, andmother so happy to be with us once again, and all these sad timesforgotten, and—’ The picture was too bright a one to bear, andNicholas, fairly overpowered by it, smiled faintly, and burst intotears.
　　This simple family, born and bred in retirement, and whollyunacquainted with what is called the world—a conventionalphrase which, being interpreted, often signifieth all the rascals init—mingled their tears together at the thought of their firstseparation; and, this first gush of feeling over, were proceeding todilate with all the buoyancy of untried hope on the brightprospects before them, when Mr Ralph Nickleby suggested, that ifthey lost time, some more fortunate candidate might depriveNicholas of the stepping-stone to fortune which the advertisementpointed out, and so undermine all their air-built castles. Thistimely reminder effectually stopped the conversation. Nicholas,having carefully copied the address of Mr Squeers, the uncle andnephew issued forth together in quest of that accomplishedgentleman; Nicholas firmly persuading himself that he had donehis relative great injustice in disliking him at first sight; and MrsNickleby being at some pains to inform her daughter that she wassure 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 betterunderstanding, and his implied compliment to her high deserts;and although she had dearly loved her husband, and still doted onher children, he had struck so successfully on one of those littlejarring chords in the human heart (Ralph was well acquaintedwith its worst weaknesses, though he knew nothing of its best),that she had already begun seriously to consider herself theamiable and suffering victim of her late husband’s imprudence.
Chapter 4
Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortunewithout loss of time) wait upon Mr WackfordSqueers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster.
　　S now Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeoplewho see the words emblazoned, in all the legibility of giltletters and dark shading, on the north-country coaches,take Snow Hill to be? All people have some undefined andshadowy notion of a place whose name is frequently before theireyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number of random ideasthere must be perpetually floating about, regarding this sameSnow Hill. The name is such a good one. Snow Hill—Snow Hilltoo, coupled with a Saracen’s Head: picturing to us by a doubleassociation of ideas, something stern and rugged! A bleak desolatetract of country, open to piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms—a dark, cold, gloomy heath, lonely by day, and scarcely to bethought of by honest folks at night—a place which solitarywayfarers shun, and where desperate robbers congregate;—this,or something like this, should be the prevalent notion of SnowHill, in those remote and rustic parts, through which the Saracen’sHead, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and night withmysterious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its swift andheadlong course in all weathers, and seeming to bid defiance tothe very elements themselves.
　　The reality is rather different, but by no means to be despisednotwithstanding. There, at the very core of London, in the heart of its business and animation, in the midst of a whirl of noise andmotion: stemming as it were the giant currents of life that flowceaselessly on from different quarters, and meet beneath its walls:
　　stands Newgate; and in that crowded street on which it frowns sodarkly—within a few feet of the squalid tottering houses—uponthe very spot on which the vendors of soup and fish and damagedfruit are now plying their trades—scores of human beings, amidsta roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a great city is asnothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have been hurriedviolently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has beenrendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyeshave glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; andwhen, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch,in his all-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one—notone—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 onthat particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses goingeastward seriously think of falling down on purpose, and wherehorses in hackney cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fallby accident, is the coach-yard of the Saracen’s Head Inn; its portalguarded by two Saracens’ heads and shoulders, which it was oncethe pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pulldown at night, but which have for some time remained inundisturbed tranquillity; possibly because this species of humouris now confined to St James’s parish, where door knockers arepreferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed asconvenient toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not, therethey are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn itself garnished with another Saracen’s Head, frowns uponyou from the top of the yard; while from the door of the hind bootof all the red coaches that are standing therein, there glares asmall Saracen’s Head, with a twin expression to the largeSaracens’ Heads below, so that the general appearance of the pileis decidedly of the Saracenic order.
　　When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office onyour left, and the tower of St Sepulchre’s church, darting abruptlyup into the sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on bothsides. Just before you, you will observe a long window with thewords ‘coffee-room’ legibly painted above it; and looking out ofthat window, you would have seen in addition, if you had gone atthe right time, Mr Wackford Squeers with his hands in hispockets.
　　Mr Squeers’s appearance was not prepossessing. He had butone eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favour of two. The eyehe had, was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental:
　　being of a greenish grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of astreet door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled andpuckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance,especially when he smiled, at which times his expression borderedclosely on the villainous. His hair was very flat and shiny, save atthe ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low protrudingforehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarsemanner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below themiddle size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suitof 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 inhis 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-roomfire-places, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and dimensions made tosuit the angles of the partition. In a corner of the seat, was a verysmall deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on thetrunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousersdangling in the air—a diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawnup to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glancedtimidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dreadand apprehension.
　　‘Half-past three,’ muttered Mr Squeers, turning from thewindow, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. ‘There willbe nobody here today.’
　　Much vexed by this reflection, Mr Squeers looked at the littleboy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for.
　　As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxedhis ears, and told him not to do it again.
　　‘At Midsummer,’ muttered Mr Squeers, resuming hiscomplaint, ‘I took down ten boys; ten twenties is two hundredpound. I go back at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and have gotonly three—three oughts is an ought—three twos is six—sixtypound. What’s come of all the boys? what’s parents got in theirheads? 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’sthat, sir?’
　　‘Nothing, please sir,’ replied the little boy.
　　‘Nothing, sir!’ exclaimed Mr Squeers.
　　 ‘Please sir, I sneezed,’ rejoined the boy, trembling till the littletrunk shook under him.
　　‘Oh! sneezed, did you?’ retorted Mr Squeers. ‘Then what didyou say “nothing” for, sir?’
　　In default of a better answer to this question, the little boyscrewed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began tocry, wherefore Mr Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blowon one side of the face, and knocked him on again with a blow onthe 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 thatnoise, sir?’
　　‘Ye—ye—yes,’ sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hardwith 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 threateninggesture, and uttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed hisface harder, as if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternatelysniffing and choking, gave no further vent to his emotions.
　　‘Mr Squeers,’ said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; ‘here’sa gentleman asking for you at the bar.’
　　‘Show the gentleman in, Richard,’ replied Mr Squeers, in a softvoice. ‘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 fiercewhisper, when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, MrSqueers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offeringbenevolent 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 youwill have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs Squeers. Atthe delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge inYorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed,furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries—’
　　‘It is the gentleman,’ observed the stranger, stopping theschoolmaster in the rehearsal of his advertisement. ‘Mr Squeers, Ibelieve, sir?’
　　‘The same, sir,’ said Mr Squeers, with an assumption ofextreme surprise.
　　‘The gentleman,’ said the stranger, ‘that advertised in theTimes newspaper?’
　　‘—Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regardingthe Academy called Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village ofDotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,’ added Mr Squeers.
　　‘You come on business, sir. I see by my young friends. How do youdo, my little gentleman? and how do you do, sir?’ With thissalutation Mr Squeers patted the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the applicant had brought with him, andwaited for further communications.
　　‘I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,’ saidthe stranger.
　　Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, ‘And a remarkablypretty name, too.’
　　The stranger continued. ‘I have been thinking, Mr Squeers, ofplacing 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 hadnever considered the proposition before. ‘Let me see; four fives istwenty, double that, and deduct the—well, a pound either wayshall not stand betwixt us. You must recommend me to yourconnection, 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’tconsider the boys’ appetites at our establishment.’ This wasstrictly true; they did not.
　　‘Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,’
　　continued Squeers; ‘every beautiful moral that Mrs Squeers caninstil; every—in short, every comfort of a home that a boy couldwish for, will be theirs, Mr Snawley.’
　　‘I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,’ saidMr Snawley.
　　‘I am glad of that, sir,’ replied the schoolmaster, drawinghimself 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. ‘Iasked 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 youspeak to your new playfellow a minute or two? That is one of myboys, sir. Belling his name is,—a Taunton boy that, sir.’
　　‘Is he, indeed?’ rejoined Mr Snawley, looking at the poor littleurchin as if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity.
　　‘He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,’ said Squeers. ‘That’s hisluggage that he is a sitting upon now. Each boy is required tobring, sir, two suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stockings, twonightcaps, two pocket-handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats,and a razor.’
　　‘A razor!’ exclaimed Mr Snawley, as they walked into the nextbox. ‘What for?’
　　‘To shave with,’ replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.
　　There was not much in these three words, but there must havebeen something in the manner in which they were said, to attractattention; for the schoolmaster and his companion looked steadilyat each other for a few seconds, and then exchanged a verymeaning smile. Snawley was a sleek, flat-nosed man, clad insombre garments, and long black gaiters, and bearing in hiscountenance 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?’ heasked at length.
　　‘Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments tomy agent in town, or until such time as they run away,’ repliedSqueers. ‘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 goodmany of them; that boy’s one.’
　　‘Him in the next box?’ said Snawley.
　　Squeers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took anotherpeep at the little boy on the trunk, and, turning round again,looked as if he were quite disappointed to see him so much likeother boys, and said he should hardly have thought it.
　　‘He is,’ cried Squeers. ‘But about these boys of yours; youwanted to speak to me?’
　　‘Yes,’ replied Snawley. ‘The fact is, I am not their father, MrSqueers. 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 toYorkshire for. Ha! ha! Oh, I understand now.’
　　‘You see I have married the mother,’ pursued Snawley; ‘it’sexpensive keeping boys at home, and as she has a little money inher 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 theirruin, 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 themto some school a good distance off, where there are no holidays—none of those ill-judged coming home twice a year that unsettlechildren’s minds so—and where they may rough it a little—youcomprehend?’
　　‘The payments regular, and no questions asked,’ said Squeers,nodding his head.
　　 ‘That’s it, exactly,’ rejoined the other. ‘Morals strictly attendedto, though.’
　　‘Strictly,’ said Squeers.
　　‘Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?’ said thefather-in-law, hesitating.
　　‘None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were sohappy, and hope they may never be sent for,’ rejoined Squeers.
　　‘Nothing could be better,’ said the father-in-law, rubbing hishands.
　　‘Then, as we understand each other,’ said Squeers, ‘will youallow 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 placethe strongest confidence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality,religious principles, and ability?’
　　‘Certainly I do,’ replied the father-in-law, reciprocating theschoolmaster’s grin.
　　‘Perhaps you won’t object to say that, if I make you areference?’
　　‘Not the least in the world.’
　　‘That’s your sort!’ said Squeers, taking up a pen; ‘this is doingbusiness, and that’s what I like.’
　　Having entered Mr Snawley’s address, the schoolmaster hadnext to perform the still more agreeable office of entering thereceipt of the first quarter’s payment in advance, which he hadscarcely completed, when another voice was heard inquiring forMr 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 advertisementof yours in the papers this morning?’
　　‘There was, sir. This way, if you please,’ said Squeers, who hadby this time got back to the box by the fire-place. ‘Won’t you beseated?’
　　‘Why, I think I will,’ replied Ralph, suiting the action to theword, and placing his hat on the table before him. ‘This is mynephew, sir, Mr Nicholas Nickleby.’
　　‘How do you do, sir?’ said Squeers.
　　Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very muchastonished at the outward appearance of the proprietor ofDotheboys Hall: as indeed he was.
　　‘Perhaps you recollect me?’ said Ralph, looking narrowly at theschoolmaster.
　　‘You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits totown, 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, finishingthe 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; theattention, sir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his illness! Drytoast and warm tea offered him every night and morning when hecouldn’t swallow anything—a candle in his bedroom on the verynight he died—the best dictionary sent up for him to lay his headupon—I don’t regret it though. It is a pleasant thing to reflect thatone 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 thefloor, 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 becomeacquainted. ‘This gentleman, sir, is a parent who is kind enough tocompliment me upon the course of education adopted atDotheboys Hall, which is situated, sir, at the delightful village ofDotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth areboarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money—’
　　‘Yes, we know all about that, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, testily. ‘It’sin the advertisement.’
　　‘You are very right, sir; it is in the advertisement,’ repliedSqueers.
　　‘And in the matter of fact besides,’ interrupted Mr Snawley. ‘Ifeel bound to assure you, sir, and I am proud to have thisopportunity of assuring you, that I consider Mr Squeers agentleman highly virtuous, exemplary, well conducted, and—’
　　‘I make no doubt of it, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, checking thetorrent of recommendation; ‘no doubt of it at all. Suppose we cometo business?’
　　‘With all my heart, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘“Never postponebusiness,” is the very first lesson we instil into our commercialpupils. Master Belling, my dear, always remember that; do youhear?’
　　‘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 theculprit. ‘You and I will perform a little business on our privateaccount 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 Ihope 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, andnothing fermenting in his pocket, is just the man you want.’
　　‘I am afraid,’ said Squeers, perplexed with such an applicationfrom a youth of Nicholas’s figure, ‘I am afraid the young manwon’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 Hallin 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 youobject to my youth, and to my not being a Master of Arts?’
　　‘The absence of a college degree is an objection,’ repliedSqueers, looking as grave as he could, and considerably puzzled,no less by the contrast between the simplicity of the nephew andthe worldly manner of the uncle, than by the incomprehensibleallusion to the young noblemen under his tuition.
　　‘Look here, sir,’ said Ralph; ‘I’ll put this matter in its true lightin 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 ahobbledehoy, or whatever you like to call him, of eighteen ornineteen, or thereabouts,’ said Ralph.
　　‘That I see,’ observed the schoolmaster.
　　‘So do I,’ said Mr Snawley, thinking it as well to back his newfriend occasionally.
　　‘His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has noresources whatever, and wants something to do,’ said Ralph. ‘Irecommend him to this splendid establishment of yours, as anopening which will lead him to fortune if he turns it to properaccount. Do you see that?’
　　‘Everybody must see that,’ replied Squeers, half imitating thesneer with which the old gentleman was regarding hisunconscious 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 castaside this golden opportunity before he has brought it to perfection, I consider myself absolved from extending anyassistance to his mother and sister. Look at him, and think of theuse 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 yourpurpose better than twenty of the kind of people you would getunder ordinary circumstances. Isn’t that a question forconsideration?’
　　‘Yes, it is,’ said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph’s head with anod of his own.
　　‘Good,’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Let me have two words with you.’
　　The two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes MrWackford Squeers announced that Mr Nicholas Nickleby was,from that moment, thoroughly nominated to, and installed in, theoffice of first assistant master at Dotheboys Hall.
　　‘Your uncle’s recommendation has done it, Mr Nickleby,’ saidWackford Squeers.
　　Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle’s handwarmly, and could almost have worshipped Squeers upon thespot.
　　‘He is an odd-looking man,’ thought Nicholas. ‘What of that?
　　Porson was an odd-looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; allthese bookworms are.’
　　‘At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Mr Nickleby,’ saidSqueers, ‘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’llhave 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 findwords to thank him; indeed, he had not found half enough, whenthey took leave of the schoolmaster, and emerged from theSaracen’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 thiskindness.’
　　‘Take care you don’t,’ replied his uncle. ‘You had better gohome now, and pack up what you have got to pack. Do you thinkyou could find your way to Golden Square first?’
　　‘Certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can easily inquire.’
　　‘Leave these papers with my clerk, then,’ said Ralph, producinga small parcel, ‘and tell him to wait till I come home.’
　　Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding hisworthy uncle an affectionate farewell, which that warm-heartedold gentleman acknowledged by a growl, hastened away toexecute his commission.
　　He found Golden Square in due course; Mr Noggs, who hadstepped out for a minute or so to the public-house, was openingthe 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 havethe 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, andthence 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 armshanging, straight down by his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, asfrom a tower of observation.
　　‘There is no answer,’ said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a tablebeside him.
　　Newman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting hishead forward so as to obtain a nearer view of Nicholas’s face,scanned his features closely.
　　‘No answer,’ said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under theimpression that Newman Noggs was deaf.
　　Newman placed his hands upon his knees, and, withoututtering a syllable, continued the same close scrutiny of hiscompanion’s face.
　　This was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utterstranger, and his appearance was so extremely peculiar, thatNicholas, who had a sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, couldnot refrain from breaking into a smile as he inquired whether MrNoggs 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 knowsto this day how he ever came to make it, the other party beingwholly unknown to him, but he drew a long breath and actuallysaid, out loud, without once stopping, that if the young gentlemandid not object to tell, he should like to know what his uncle wasgoing to do for him.
　　Nicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on thecontrary was rather pleased to have an opportunity of talking onthe subject which occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down again, and (his sanguine imagination warming as he spoke) entered intoa fervent and glowing description of all the honours andadvantages to be derived from his appointment at that seat oflearning, Dotheboys Hall.
　　‘But, what’s the matter—are you ill?’ said Nicholas, suddenlybreaking off, as his companion, after throwing himself into avariety of uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the stool, andcracked his finger-joints as if he were snapping all the bones in hishands.
　　Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging hisshoulders and cracking his finger-joints; smiling horribly all thetime, 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, underwhich circumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at once. Helooked back when he had got the street-door open. NewmanNoggs was still indulging in the same extraordinary gestures, andthe cracking of his fingers sounded louder that ever.
Chapter 5
Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. Of his Leave-takingand his Fellow-Travellers, and what befell them onthe Road.
　　If tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve itsowner from sorrow and misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby wouldhave commenced his expedition under most happy auspices.
　　There was so much to be done, and so little time to do it in; somany kind words to be spoken, and such bitter pain in the heartsin which they rose to impede their utterance; that the littlepreparations for his journey were made mournfully indeed. Ahundred things which the anxious care of his mother and sisterdeemed indispensable for his comfort, Nicholas insisted on leavingbehind, as they might prove of some after use, or might beconvertible into money if occasion required. A hundredaffectionate contests on such points as these, took place on the sadnight which preceded his departure; and, as the termination ofevery angerless dispute brought them nearer and nearer to theclose of their slight preparations, Kate grew busier and busier, andwept more silently.
　　The box was packed at last, and then there came supper, withsome little delicacy provided for the occasion, and as a set-offagainst the expense of which, Kate and her mother had feigned todine when Nicholas was out. The poor lady nearly choked himselfby attempting to partake of it, and almost suffocated himself inaffecting 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 totheir real feelings before, for they could not suppress them, dowhat they would. So, they let them have their way, and even thatwas a relief.
　　Nicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or ofwhat was home once—no matter which, for things that arechanged or gone will come back as they used to be, thank God! insleep—and rose quite brisk and gay. He wrote a few lines inpencil, to say the goodbye which he was afraid to pronouncehimself, and laying them, with half his scanty stock of money, athis sister’s door, shouldered his box and crept softly downstairs.
　　‘Is that you, Hannah?’ cried a voice from Miss La Creevy’ssitting-room, whence shone the light of a feeble candle.
　　‘It is I, Miss La Creevy,’ said Nicholas, putting down the boxand looking in.
　　‘Bless us!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting herhand 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 aminiature of an ugly little boy, destined for his grandmother in thecountry, who was expected to bequeath him property if he waslike the family.
　　‘To carry out an idea,’ repeated Miss La Creevy; ‘and that’s thegreat convenience of living in a thoroughfare like the Strand.
　　When I want a nose or an eye for any particular sitter, I have onlyto 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,’ repliedMiss La Creevy. ‘Snubs and Romans are plentiful enough, andthere are flats of all sorts and sizes when there’s a meeting atExeter 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 waydown 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, whensomebody drives. Necessity is my driver, and that is only anothername for the same gentleman.’
　　‘Well, I am very sorry for it; that’s all I can say,’ said Miss LaCreevy; ‘as much on your mother’s and sister’s account as onyours. Your sister is a very pretty young lady, Mr Nickleby, andthat is an additional reason why she should have somebody toprotect her. I persuaded her to give me a sitting or two, for thestreet-door case. ‘Ah! she’ll make a sweet miniature.’ As Miss LaCreevy spoke, she held up an ivory countenance intersected withvery perceptible sky-blue veins, and regarded it with so muchcomplacency, that Nicholas quite envied her.
　　‘If you ever have an opportunity of showing Kate some littlekindness,’ 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 LaCreevy one little kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindlydisposed towards those he was leaving behind. So, he gave herthree or four with a kind of jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevyevinced no greater symptoms of displeasure than declaring, as sheadjusted her yellow turban, that she had never heard of such athing, and couldn’t have believed it possible.
　　Having terminated the unexpected interview in this satisfactorymanner, Nicholas hastily withdrew himself from the house. By thetime 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 veryprobably with not half as light a heart in his breast as the manhad, although he had no waistcoat to cover it with, and hadevidently, from the appearance of his other garments, beenspending the night in a stable, and taking his breakfast at a pump.
　　Regarding, with no small curiosity and interest, all the busypreparations for the coming day which every street and almostevery house displayed; and thinking, now and then, that it seemedrather hard that so many people of all ranks and stations couldearn a livelihood in London, and that he should be compelled tojourney so far in search of one; Nicholas speedily arrived at theSaracen’s Head, Snow Hill. Having dismissed his attendant, andseen the box safely deposited in the coach-office, he looked intothe coffee-room in search of Mr Squeers.
　　He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with thethree little boys before noticed, and two others who had turned upby some lucky chance since the interview of the previous day,ranged in a row on the opposite seat. Mr Squeers had before him asmall measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast forthe 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 toget 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 MrSqueers, 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 willbe drownded.’
　　‘Never you mind that,’ replied Mr Squeers. ‘Serve it right forbeing 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 oftime. Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t be eager aftervittles.’ As he uttered this moral precept, Mr Squeers took a largebite out of the cold beef, and recognised Nicholas.
　　‘Sit down, Mr Nickleby,’ said Squeers. ‘Here we are, abreakfasting you see!’
　　Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting, except MrSqueers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked ascheerful 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 boyslooked 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 wouldbe glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn’t it, MrNickleby?’
　　‘Very shocking, sir,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘When I say number one,’ pursued Mr Squeers, putting the mugbefore the children, ‘the boy on the left hand nearest the windowmay take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next himwill 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 hisbreakfast; ‘keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue yourappetites, my dears, and you’ve conquered human nature. This isthe way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr Nickleby,’ said theschoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his mouthvery 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 breadand butter (which had by this time arrived), and every morselwhich Mr Squeers took into his mouth, remained with strainedeyes in torments of expectation.
　　‘Thank God for a good breakfast,’ said Squeers, when he hadfinished. ‘Number one may take a drink.’
　　Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunkenough to make him wish for more, when Mr Squeers gave thesignal for number two, who gave up at the same interestingmoment to number three; and the process was repeated until themilk and water terminated with number five.
　　 ‘And now,’ said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butterfor three into as many portions as there were children, ‘you hadbetter look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in aminute or two, and then every boy leaves off.’
　　Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eatvoraciously, and in desperate haste: while the schoolmaster (whowas in high good humour after his meal) picked his teeth with afork, and looked smilingly on. In a very short time, the horn washeard.
　　‘I thought it wouldn’t be long,’ said Squeers, jumping up andproducing a little basket from under the seat; ‘put what youhaven’t had time to eat, in here, boys! You’ll want it on the road!’
　　Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economicalarrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for thelittle boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and their boxeshad to be brought out and put in, and Mr Squeers’s luggage was tobe seen carefully deposited in the boot, and all these offices werein his department. He was in the full heat and bustle of concludingthese operations, when his uncle, Mr Ralph Nickleby, accostedhim.
　　‘Oh! here you are, sir!’ said Ralph. ‘Here are your mother andsister, sir.’
　　‘Where?’ cried Nicholas, looking hastily round.
　　‘Here!’ replied his uncle. ‘Having too much money and nothingat 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 wentaway from us,’ said Mrs Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless ofthe unconcerned lookers-on in the coach-yard.
　　 ‘Very good, ma’am,’ returned Ralph, ‘you’re the best judge ofcourse. I merely said that you were paying a hackney coach. Inever pay a hackney coach, ma’am; I never hire one. I haven’tbeen in a hackney coach of my own hiring, for thirty years, and Ihope I shan’t be for thirty more, if I live as long.’
　　‘I should never have forgiven myself if I had not seen him,’ saidMrs Nickleby. ‘Poor dear boy—going away without his breakfasttoo, because he feared to distress us!’
　　‘Mighty fine certainly,’ said Ralph, with great testiness. ‘When Ifirst went to business, ma’am, I took a penny loaf and a ha’porth ofmilk for my breakfast as I walked to the city every morning; whatdo you say to that, ma’am? Breakfast! Bah!’
　　‘Now, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, coming up at the momentbuttoning his greatcoat; ‘I think you’d better get up behind. I’mafraid of one of them boys falling off and then there’s twentypound 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 inhis 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, andwe had you for a teacher. I don’t know, though, whether shemightn’t grow jealous if we had. Ha! ha! ha!’
　　 If the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could have known what waspassing in his assistant’s breast at that moment, he would havediscovered, with some surprise, that he was as near being soundlypummelled as he had ever been in his life. Kate Nickleby, having aquicker perception of her brother’s emotions, led him gently aside,and thus prevented Mr Squeers from being impressed with thefact in a peculiarly disagreeable manner.
　　‘My dear Nicholas,’ said the young lady, ‘who is this man? Whatkind of place can it be that you are going to?’
　　‘I hardly know, Kate,’ replied Nicholas, pressing his sister’shand. ‘I suppose the Yorkshire folks are rather rough anduncultivated; that’s all.’
　　‘But this person,’ urged Kate.
　　‘Is my employer, or master, or whatever the proper name maybe,’ replied Nicholas quickly; ‘and I was an ass to take hiscoarseness ill. They are looking this way, and it is time I was in myplace. Bless you, love, and goodbye! Mother, look forward to ourmeeting again someday! Uncle, farewell! Thank you heartily for allyou 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 werecomparing notes for the last time before starting, on the subject ofthe way-bill; when porters were screwing out the last reluctantsixpences, itinerant newsmen making the last offer of a morningpaper, and the horses giving the last impatient rattle to theirharness; Nicholas felt somebody pulling softly at his leg. He lookeddown, and there stood Newman Noggs, who pushed up into hishand a dirty letter.
　　 ‘What’s this?’ inquired Nicholas.
　　‘Hush!’ rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr Ralph Nickleby, whowas 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 ofthe vehicle to one side, as the heavy coachman, and still heavierguard, climbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few notes fromthe horn, a hasty glance of two sorrowful faces below, and the hardfeatures of Mr Ralph Nickleby—and the coach was gone too, andrattling over the stones of Smithfield.
　　The little boys’ legs being too short to admit of their feet restingupon anything as they sat, and the little boys’ bodies beingconsequently 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 attendantupon this task, he was not a little relieved when the coach stoppedat the Peacock at Islington. He was still more relieved when ahearty-looking gentleman, with a very good-humoured face, and avery fresh colour, got up behind, and proposed to take the othercorner of the seat.
　　‘If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,’ said thenewcomer, ‘they’ll be safer in case of their going to sleep; eh?’
　　‘If you’ll have the goodness, sir,’ replied Squeers, ‘that’ll be thevery thing. Mr Nickleby, take three of them boys between you andthe gentleman. Belling and the youngest Snawley can sit betweenme 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-colouredgentleman; ‘I have a brother who wouldn’t object to book his sixchildren as two at any butcher’s or baker’s in the kingdom, I daresay. 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 thatbasket. Let me give you a card, sir, of an establishment wherethose six boys can be brought up in an enlightened, liberal, andmoral manner, with no mistake at all about it, for twenty guineas ayear each—twenty guineas, sir—or I’d take all the boys togetherupon a average right through, and say a hundred pound a year forthe lot.’
　　‘Oh!’ said the gentleman, glancing at the card, ‘you are the MrSqueers mentioned here, I presume?’
　　‘Yes, I am, sir,’ replied the worthy pedagogue; ‘Mr WackfordSqueers 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—MrNickleby, a gentleman’s son, and a good scholar, mathematical,classical, and commercial. We don’t do things by halves at ourshop. All manner of learning my boys take down, sir; the expenseis never thought of; and they get paternal treatment and washingin.’
　　‘Upon my word,’ said the gentleman, glancing at Nicholas witha half-smile, and a more than half expression of surprise, ‘theseare advantages indeed.’
　　‘You may say that, sir,’ rejoined Squeers, thrusting his handsinto 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 aquarter, 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,’ rejoinedSqueers. ‘Snawley, junior, if you don’t leave off chattering yourteeth, and shaking with the cold, I’ll warm you with a severethrashing 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—ifcoaches be feminine—amidst a loud flourish from the guard’shorn, and the calm approval of all the judges of coaches andcoach-horses congregated at the Peacock, but more especially ofthe helpers, who stood, with the cloths over their arms, watchingthe coach till it disappeared, and then lounged admiringlystablewards, bestowing various gruff encomiums on the beauty ofthe turn-out.
　　When the guard (who was a stout old Yorkshireman) had blownhimself quite out of breath, he put the horn into a little tunnel of abasket fastened to the coach-side for the purpose, and givinghimself a plentiful shower of blows on the chest and shoulders,observed it was uncommon cold; after which, he demanded ofevery person separately whether he was going right through, andif not, where he was going. Satisfactory replies being made tothese queries, he surmised that the roads were pretty heavy afterthat fall last night, and took the liberty of asking whether any ofthem gentlemen carried a snuff-box. It happening that nobody did, he remarked with a mysterious air that he had heard a medicalgentleman as went down to Grantham last week, say how thatsnuff-taking was bad for the eyes; but for his part he had neverfound it so, and what he said was, that everybody should speak asthey found. Nobody attempting to controvert this position, he tooka small brown-paper parcel out of his hat, and putting on a pair ofhorn spectacles (the writing being crabbed) read the directionhalf-a-dozen times over; having done which, he consigned theparcel to its old place, put up his spectacles again, and stared ateverybody in turn. After this, he took another blow at the horn byway of refreshment; and, having now exhausted his usual topics ofconversation, folded his arms as well as he could in so many coats,and falling into a solemn silence, looked carelessly at the familiarobjects which met his eye on every side as the coach rolled on; theonly things he seemed to care for, being horses and droves ofcattle, which he scrutinised with a critical air as they were passedupon the road.
　　The weather was intensely and bitterly cold; a great deal ofsnow fell from time to time; and the wind was intolerably keen. MrSqueers got down at almost every stage—to stretch his legs as hesaid—and as he always came back from such excursions with avery red nose, and composed himself to sleep directly, there isreason to suppose that he derived great benefit from the process.
　　The little pupils having been stimulated with the remains of theirbreakfast, and further invigorated by sundry small cups of acurious cordial carried by Mr Squeers, which tasted very liketoast-and-water put into a brandy bottle by mistake, went to sleep,woke, shivered, and cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholasand the good-tempered man found so many things to talk about, that between conversing together, and cheering up the boys, thetime passed with them as rapidly as it could, under such adversecircumstances.
　　So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good coachdinner, of which the box, the four front outsides, the one inside,Nicholas, the good-tempered man, and Mr Squeers, partook; whilethe five little boys were put to thaw by the fire, and regaled withsandwiches. A stage or two further on, the lamps were lighted, anda great to-do occasioned by the taking up, at a roadside inn, of avery fastidious lady with an infinite variety of cloaks and smallparcels, who loudly lamented, for the behoof of the outsides, thenon-arrival of her own carriage which was to have taken her on,and made the guard solemnly promise to stop every green chariothe saw coming; which, as it was a dark night and he was sittingwith his face the other way, that officer undertook, with manyfervent asseverations, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, findingthere was a solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lightedwhich she carried in reticule, and being after much trouble shutin, the horses were put into a brisk canter and the coach was oncemore in rapid motion.
　　The night and the snow came on together, and dismal enoughthey were. There was no sound to be heard but the howling of thewind; for the noise of the wheels, and the tread of the horses’ feet,were rendered inaudible by the thick coating of snow whichcovered the ground, and was fast increasing every moment. Thestreets of Stamford were deserted as they passed through thetown; and its old churches rose, frowning and dark, from thewhitened ground. Twenty miles further on, two of the frontoutside passengers, wisely availing themselves of their arrival at one of the best inns in England, turned in, for the night, at theGeorge at Grantham. The remainder wrapped themselves moreclosely in their coats and cloaks, and leaving the light and warmthof the town behind them, pillowed themselves against the luggage,and prepared, with many half-suppressed moans, again toencounter the piercing blast which swept across the open country.
　　They were little more than a stage out of Grantham, or abouthalfway between it and Newark, when Nicholas, who had beenasleep for a short time, was suddenly roused by a violent jerkwhich nearly threw him from his seat. Grasping the rail, he foundthat the coach had sunk greatly on one side, though it was stilldragged forward by the horses; and while—confused by theirplunging and the loud screams of the lady inside—he hesitated, foran instant, whether to jump off or not, the vehicle turned easilyover, and relieved him from all further uncertainty by flinging himinto the road.
Chapter 6
In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentionedin the last Chapter, affords an Opportunity to acouple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against eachother.
　　‘W o ho!’ cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, andrunning to the leaders’ heads. ‘Is there ony genelmenthere 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, carset’coorch is over. Here, can’t ye len’ a hond? Dom it, I’d ha’ dean itif all my boans were brokken.’
　　‘Here!’ cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, ‘I’m ready. I’monly a little abroad, that’s all.’
　　‘Hoold ’em toight,’ cried the guard, ‘while ar coot treaces. Hangon 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 trottedback, 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 thecoach-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’ thishere squealing inside. Cumin’, cumin’. Dean’t make that noise,wooman.’
　　As the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench open the uppermostdoor of the coach, while Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke theechoes far and wide with one of the most extraordinaryperformances on that instrument ever heard by mortal ears. It hadits effect, however, not only in rousing such of their fall, but insummoning assistance to their relief; for lights gleamed in thedistance, and people were already astir.
　　In fact, a man on horseback galloped down, before thepassengers were well collected together; and a carefulinvestigation being instituted, it appeared that the lady inside hadbroken her lamp, and the gentleman his head; that the two frontoutsides had escaped with black eyes; the box with a bloody nose;the coachman with a contusion on the temple; Mr Squeers with aportmanteau bruise on his back; and the remaining passengerswithout any injury at all—thanks to the softness of the snow-driftin which they had been overturned. These facts were no soonerthoroughly ascertained, than the lady gave several indications offainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carriedon some gentleman’s shoulders to the nearest public-house, sheprudently thought better of it, and walked back with the rest.
　　They found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with novery great accommodation in the way of apartments—that portionof its resources being all comprised in one public room with asanded floor, and a chair or two. However, a large faggot and aplentiful supply of coals being heaped upon the fire, theappearance of things was not long in mending; and, by the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late accident, theroom was warm and light, which was a most agreeable exchangefor the cold and darkness out of doors.
　　‘Well, Mr Nickleby,’ said Squeers, insinuating himself into thewarmest corner, ‘you did very right to catch hold of them horses. Ishould have done it myself if I had come to in time, but I am veryglad you did it. You did it very well; very well.’
　　‘So well,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, who did not seem toapprove very much of the patronising tone adopted by Squeers,‘that if they had not been firmly checked when they were, youwould most probably have had no brains left to teach with.’
　　This remark called up a discourse relative to the promptitudeNicholas had displayed, and he was overwhelmed withcompliments 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 ofmy charges had been hurt—if I had been prevented from restoringany one of these little boys to his parents whole and sound as Ireceived him—what would have been my feelings? Why the wheela-top of my head would have been far preferable to it.’
　　‘Are they all brothers, sir?’ inquired the lady who had carriedthe ‘Davy’ or safety-lamp.
　　‘In one sense they are, ma’am,’ replied Squeers, diving into hisgreatcoat pocket for cards. ‘They are all under the same parentaland affectionate treatment. Mrs Squeers and myself are a motherand father to every one of ’em. Mr Nickleby, hand the lady themcards, and offer these to the gentleman. Perhaps they might knowof some parents that would be glad to avail themselves of theestablishment.’
　　 Expressing himself to this effect, Mr Squeers, who lost noopportunity of advertising gratuitously, placed his hands upon hisknees, and looked at the pupils with as much benignity as he couldpossibly affect, while Nicholas, blushing with shame, handedround the cards as directed.
　　‘I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma’am?’
　　said the merry-faced gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, asthough 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 thelady with strong emotion; ‘and I beg you as a gentleman, not torefer to it.’
　　‘Dear me,’ said the merry-faced gentleman, looking merrierstill, ‘I merely intended to inquire—’
　　‘I hope no inquiries will be made,’ said the lady, ‘or I shall becompelled to throw myself on the protection of the othergentlemen. Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside thedoor—and if a green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham,to stop it instantly.’
　　The people of the house were evidently overcome by thisrequest, and when the lady charged the boy to remember, as ameans of identifying the expected green chariot, that it would havea coachman with a gold-laced hat on the box, and a footman, mostprobably in silk stockings, behind, the attentions of the goodwoman of the inn were redoubled. Even the box-passenger caughtthe infection, and growing wonderfully deferential, immediatelyinquired whether there was not very good society in thatneighbourhood, to which the lady replied yes, there was: in a manner which sufficiently implied that she moved at the verytiptop and summit of it all.
　　‘As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to getanother coach,’ said the good-tempered gentleman when they hadbeen all sitting round the fire, for some time, in silence, ‘and as hemust be gone a couple of hours at the very least, I propose a bowlof hot punch. What say you, sir?’
　　This question was addressed to the broken-headed inside, whowas a man of very genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. Hewas not past the middle age, but his hair was grey; it seemed tohave been prematurely turned by care or sorrow. He readilyacceded to the proposal, and appeared to be prepossessed by thefrank good-nature of the individual from whom it emanated.
　　This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapsterwhen the punch was ready, and after dispensing it all round, ledthe conversation to the antiquities of York, with which both he andthe grey-haired gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. Whenthis topic flagged, he turned with a smile to the grey-headedgentleman, 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-humouredcountenance. ‘Is there nobody here who can sing a song to lightenthe time?’
　　The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; thatthey wished they could; that they couldn’t remember the words ofanything without the book; and so forth.
　　‘Perhaps the lady would not object,’ said the president withgreat respect, and a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘Some little Italianthing 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 herhead contemptuously, and murmured some further expression ofsurprise regarding the absence of the green chariot, one or twovoices urged upon the president himself, the propriety of makingan attempt for the general benefit.
　　‘I would if I could,’ said he of the good-tempered face; ‘for I holdthat in this, as in all other cases where people who are strangers toeach other are thrown unexpectedly together, they shouldendeavour to render themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake ofthe 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’tsing, 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 beso. I fear the turn of my thoughts is not calculated to lighten thetime you must pass here; but you have brought this uponyourselves, and shall judge. We were speaking of York Minsterjust now. My story shall have some reference to it. Let us call itTHE FIVE SISTERS OF YORKAfter a murmur of approbation from the other passengers,during which the fastidious lady drank a glass of punchunobserved, 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 thethrone of England—there dwelt, in the ancient city of York, fivemaiden sisters, the subjects of my tale.
　　‘These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest wasin her twenty-third year, the second a year younger, the third ayear younger than the second, and the fourth a year younger thanthe third. They were tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyesand hair of jet; dignity and grace were in their every movement;and the fame of their great beauty had spread through all thecountry round.
　　‘But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was theyoungest, a fair creature of sixteen! The blushing tints in the softbloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the flower, are notmore exquisite than was the blending of the rose and lily in hergentle face, or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegantluxuriance, is not more graceful than were the clusters of richbrown hair that sported round her brow.
　　‘If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in thebosoms of the young and beautiful, what a heaven this earthwould be! If, while our bodies grow old and withered, our heartscould but retain their early youth and freshness, of what availwould be our sorrows and sufferings! But, the faint image of Edenwhich is stamped upon them in childhood, chafes and rubs in ourrough struggles with the world, and soon wears away: too often toleave 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 allbeautiful things in nature, were its pure affections. Her gleesomevoice and merry laugh were the sweetest music of their home. She was its very light and life. The brightest flowers in the garden werereared by her; the caged birds sang when they heard her voice,and pined when they missed its sweetness. Alice, dear Alice; whatliving thing within the sphere of her gentle witchery, could fail tolove her!
　　‘You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisterslived, for their very names have passed away, and dustyantiquaries tell of them as of a fable. But they dwelt in an oldwooden house—old even in those days—with overhanging gablesand balconies of rudely-carved oak, which stood within a pleasantorchard, and was surrounded by a rough stone wall, whence astout archer might have winged an arrow to St Mary’s Abbey. Theold abbey flourished then; and the five sisters, living on its fairdomains, paid yearly dues to the black monks of St Benedict, towhich fraternity it belonged.
　　‘It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time ofsummer, when one of those black monks emerged from the abbeyportal, and bent his steps towards the house of the fair sisters.
　　Heaven above was blue, and earth beneath was green; the riverglistened like a path of diamonds in the sun; the birds pouredforth their songs from the shady trees; the lark soared high abovethe waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air.
　　Everything looked gay and smiling; but the holy man walkedgloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the ground. The beauty of theearth is but a breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathyshould a holy preacher have with either?
　　‘With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough toprevent his stumbling over such obstacles as lay in his way, thereligious man moved slowly forward until he reached a small postern in the wall of the sisters’ orchard, through which hepassed, closing it behind him. The noise of soft voices inconversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon his ears ere he hadadvanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher than was hishumble wont, he descried, at no great distance, the five sistersseated on the grass, with Alice in the centre: all busily plying theircustomary task of embroidering.
　　‘“Save you, fair daughters!” said the friar; and fair in truth theywere. Even a monk might have loved them as choice masterpiecesof his Maker’s hand.
　　‘The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, andthe eldest motioned him to a mossy seat beside them. But the goodfriar shook his head, and bumped himself down on a very hardstone,—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 eldestsister, passing her fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.
　　‘“And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to seeall nature beaming in brightness and sunshine, father,” addedAlice, blushing beneath the stern look of the recluse.
　　‘The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination of thehead, 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 precioushours on this vain trifling. Alas, alas! that the few bubbles on thesurface of eternity—all that Heaven wills we should see of thatdark 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 occupationis a blameless one?’
　　‘“See here,” said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, “anintricate winding of gaudy colours, without purpose or object,unless it be that one day it is destined for some vain ornament, tominister to the pride of your frail and giddy sex. Day after day hasbeen employed upon this senseless task, and yet it is not halfaccomplished. The shade of each departed day falls upon ourgraves, and the worm exults as he beholds it, to know that we arehastening thither. Daughters, is there no better way to pass thefleeting hours?”
　　‘The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed by theholy man’s reproof, but Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly onthe 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 whenthese 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 passedthose hours together, they would prove the happiest and mostpeaceful of our lives, and that if, in later times, we went forth intothe world, and mingled with its cares and trials—if, allured by itstemptations and dazzled by its glitter, we ever forgot that love andduty which should bind, in holy ties, the children of one lovedparent—a glance at the old work of our common girlhood wouldawaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften our hearts toaffection and love.”
　　 ‘“Alice speaks truly, father,” said the elder sister, somewhatproudly. And so saying she resumed her work, as did the others.
　　‘It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister hadbefore her; the device was of a complex and intricate description,and the pattern and colours of all five were the same. The sistersbent gracefully over their work; the monk, resting his chin uponhis hands, looked from one to the other in silence.
　　‘“How much better,” he said at length, “to shun all suchthoughts 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 yourfaces steadily towards that goal, avoid the cloud which takes itsrise among the pleasures of the world, and cheats the senses oftheir votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil!”
　　‘“Never, sisters,” cried Alice. “Barter not the light and air ofheaven, and the freshness of earth and all the beautiful thingswhich breathe upon it, for the cold cloister and the cell. Nature’sown blessings are the proper goods of life, and we may share themsinlessly together. To die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us diewith life about us; when our cold hearts cease to beat, let warmhearts be beating near; let our last look be upon the bounds whichGod has set to his own bright skies, and not on stone walls andbars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in thisgreen garden’s compass; only shun the gloom and sadness of acloister, and we shall be happy.”
　　‘The tears fell fast from the maiden’s eyes as she closed herimpassioned 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 sayyou, sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or forme.”
　　‘The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was casttogether, and that there were dwellings for peace and virtuebeyond the convent’s walls.
　　‘“Father,” said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, “you hearour final resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey ofSt Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directedthat no constraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, butthat we should be free to live according to our choice. Let us hearno more of this, we pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us takeshelter until evening!” With a reverence to the friar, the lady roseand walked towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the othersisters followed.
　　‘The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, buthad never met with so direct a repulse, walked some little distancebehind, with his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving as ifin 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, anddirecting an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister.
　　“Stay, and hear from me what these recollections are, which youwould cherish above eternity, and awaken—if in mercy theyslumbered—by means of idle toys. The memory of earthly things ischarged, in after life, with bitter disappointment, affliction, death;with dreary change and wasting sorrow. The time will one daycome, when a glance at those unmeaning baubles will tear opendeep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives—and, mark me, come itwill—turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge whichyou spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fireof mortals grows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and thereweep for the dreams of youth. These things are Heaven’s will, notmine,” said the friar, subduing his voice as he looked round uponthe shrinking girls. “The Virgin’s blessing be upon you,daughters!”
　　‘With these words he disappeared through the postern; and thesisters hastening into the house were seen no more that day.
　　‘But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next daythe sun shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And inthe morning’s glare, and the evening’s soft repose, the five sistersstill walked, or worked, or beguiled the time by cheerfulconversation, in their quiet orchard.
　　‘Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed thanmany 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 treescast their pleasant shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters toowere there, and lovely as at first, but a change had come over theirdwelling. Sometimes, there was the clash of armour, and thegleaming of the moon on caps of steel; and, at others, jadedcoursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female form glidedhurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the wearymessenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one nightwithin the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of thefair sisters among them. Then, horsemen began to come lessfrequently, and seemed to bring bad tidings when they did, and atlength 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, andwhen morning came, there were sounds of woe and wailing in thesisters’ house; and after this, a mournful silence fell upon it, andknight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no more.
　　‘There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had goneangrily down, tinting the dull clouds with the last traces of hiswrath, when the same black monk walked slowly on, with foldedarms, within a stone’s-throw of the abbey. A blight had fallen onthe trees and shrubs; and the wind, at length beginning to breakthe unnatural stillness that had prevailed all day, sighed heavilyfrom time to time, as though foretelling in grief the ravages of thecoming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights through theheavy air, and the ground was alive with crawling things, whoseinstinct brought them forth to swell and fatten in the rain.
　　‘No longer were the friar’s eyes directed to the earth; they werecast abroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom anddesolation of the scene found a quick response in his own bosom.
　　Again he paused near the sisters’ house, and again he entered bythe postern.
　　‘But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, orhis eyes rest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All wassilent and deserted. The boughs of the trees were bent andbroken, and the grass had grown long and rank. No light feet hadpressed it for many, many a day.
　　‘With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed tothe change, the monk glided into the house, and entered a low,dark room. Four sisters sat there. Their black garments madetheir pale faces whiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were stately yet; but the flush and pride of beautywere 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 furrowsin their blanched faces which years could never plough. He tookhis seat in silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.
　　‘“They are here, sisters,” said the elder lady in a tremblingvoice. “I have never borne to look upon them since, and now Iblame myself for my weakness. What is there in her memory thatwe should dread? To call up our old days shall be a solemnpleasure yet.”
　　‘She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet,brought forth the five frames of work, completed long before. Herstep was firm, but her hand trembled as she produced the last one;and, when the feelings of the other sisters gushed forth at sight ofit, her pent-up tears made way, and she sobbed “God bless her!”
　　‘The monk rose and advanced towards them. “It was almost thelast 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 uponthy very breath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime,lies buried on a plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rustyfragments of armour, once brightly burnished, lie rotting on theground, and are as little distinguishable for his, as are the bonesthat 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 andsplendour. The same policy, and the restless ambition of—proudand fiery men, have sent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbledoutcasts. 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, “tofritter away the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the paleghosts of hopes of early years. Bury them, heap penance andmortification on their heads, keep them down, and let the conventbe their grave!”
　　‘The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, thatnight, as though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud for theirdead joys. But, morning came again, and though the boughs of theorchard trees drooped and ran wild upon the ground, it was thesame orchard still. The grass was coarse and high, but there wasyet the spot on which they had so often sat together, when changeand sorrow were but names. There was every walk and nookwhich Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave was one flatstone beneath which she slept in peace.
　　‘And could they, remembering how her young heart hadsickened at the thought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave, ingarbs which would chill the very ashes within it? Could they bowdown in prayer, and when all Heaven turned to hear them, bringthe 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 stainedglass, a faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These werefitted 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, thefamiliar patterns were reflected in their original colours, andthrowing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmlyon the name of Alice.
　　‘For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up anddown the nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Onlythree were seen in the customary place, after many years; then buttwo, and, for a long time afterwards, but one solitary female bentwith age. At length she came no more, and the stone bore fiveplain Christian names.
　　‘That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, andmany generations have come and gone since then. Time hassoftened down the colours, but the same stream of light still fallsupon the forgotten tomb, of which no trace remains; and, to thisday, the stranger is shown in York Cathedral, an old windowcalled 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 suchsorrows,’ returned the other, courteously, but in a grave and sadtone of voice.
　　‘There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, ifwe choose to contemplate them,’ said the gentleman with themerry face. ‘The youngest sister in your tale was always lighthearted.’
　　‘And died early,’ said the other, gently.
　　‘She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been lesshappy,’ said the first speaker, with much feeling. ‘Do you think thesisters who loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her lifehad been one of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a heavy loss, it would be—with me—thereflection, that those I mourned, by being innocently happy here,and loving all about them, had prepared themselves for a purerand happier world. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth tomeet frowning eyes, depend upon it.’
　　‘I believe you are right,’ said the gentleman who had told thestory.
　　‘Believe!’ retorted the other, ‘can anybody doubt it? Take anysubject of sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it isassociated. The recollection of past pleasure may become pain—’
　　‘It does,’ interposed the other.
　　‘Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot berestored, is pain, but of a softened kind. Our recollections areunfortunately mingled with much that we deplore, and with manyactions which we bitterly repent; still in the most chequered life Ifirmly think there are so many little rays of sunshine to look backupon, that I do not believe any mortal (unless he had put himselfwithout the pale of hope) would deliberately drain a goblet of thewaters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.’
　　‘Possibly you are correct in that belief,’ said the grey-hairedgentleman after a short reflection. ‘I am inclined to think you are.’
　　‘Why, then,’ replied the other, ‘the good in this state ofexistence preponderates over the bad, let miscalled philosopherstell us what they will. If our affections be tried, our affections areour consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is thebest 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 sentround the punch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately apprehensive that he was going to relatesomething improper, beganTHE BARON OF GROGZWIG‘The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was aslikely a young baron as you would wish to see. I needn’t say thathe lived in a castle, because that’s of course; neither need I saythat he lived in an old castle; for what German baron ever lived ina new one? There were many strange circumstances connectedwith this venerable building, among which, not the least startlingand mysterious were, that when the wind blew, it rumbled in thechimneys, or even howled among the trees in the neighbouringforest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way throughcertain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some partsof the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others ingloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron’s ancestors, beingshort of money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who calledone night to ask his way, and it was supposed that thesemiraculous occurrences took place in consequence. And yet Ihardly know how that could have been, either, because the baron’sancestor, who was an amiable man, felt very sorry afterwards forhaving been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a quantity ofstone and timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapelas an apology, and so took a receipt from Heaven, in full of alldemands.
　　‘Talking of the baron’s ancestor puts me in mind of the baron’sgreat claims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid tosay, 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 Ionly wish that he had lived in these latter days, that he might havehad more. It is a very hard thing upon the great men of pastcenturies, 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 relationsbefore him, as a man who is born now. The last man, whoever heis—and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught weknow—will have a longer pedigree than the greatest noblemannow alive; and I contend that this is not fair.
　　‘Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was afine swarthy fellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, whorode a-hunting in clothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots onhis feet, and a bugle slung over his shoulder like the guard of along stage. When he blew this bugle, four-and-twenty othergentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln green a little coarser, andrusset boots with a little thicker soles, turned out directly: andaway galloped the whole train, with spears in their hands likelacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or perhapsencounter 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 merrierstill for the baron’s retainers, who drank Rhine wine every nighttill 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 thetable, require a little variety; especially when the same five-andtwenty 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 hisgentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of them every day afterdinner. This was a pleasant change at first; but it becamemonotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out ofsorts, and cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.
　　‘One night, after a day’s sport in which he had outdone Nimrodor Gillingwater, and slaughtered “another fine bear,” and broughthim home in triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily atthe head of his table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with adiscontended aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers of wine, but themore he swallowed, the more he frowned. The gentlemen who hadbeen honoured with the dangerous distinction of sitting on hisright and left, imitated him to a miracle in the drinking, andfrowned at each other.
　　‘“I will!” cried the baron suddenly, smiting the table with hisright hand, and twirling his moustache with his left. “Fill to theLady of Grogzwig!”
　　‘The four-and-twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with theexception of their four-and-twenty noses, which wereunchangeable.
　　‘“I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,” repeated the baron, lookinground the board.
　　‘“To the Lady of Grogzwig!” shouted the Lincoln greens; anddown their four-and-twenty throats went four-and-twenty imperialpints of such rare old hock, that they smacked their eight-andforty lips, and winked again.
　　‘“The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen,” saidKoeldwethout, condescending to explain. “We will demand her in marriage of her father, ere the sun goes down tomorrow. If herefuse our suit, we will cut off his nose.”
　　‘A hoarse murmur arose from the company; every mantouched, 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 thedaughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen had pleaded apreoccupied heart, or fallen at her father’s feet and corned them insalt tears, or only fainted away, and complimented the oldgentleman in frantic ejaculations, the odds are a hundred to onebut Swillenhausen Castle would have been turned out at window,or rather the baron turned out at window, and the castledemolished. The damsel held her peace, however, when an earlymessenger bore the request of Von Koeldwethout next morning,and modestly retired to her chamber, from the casement of whichshe watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue. She was nosooner assured that the horseman with the large moustachios washer proffered husband, than she hastened to her father’s presence,and expressed her readiness to sacrifice herself to secure hispeace. The venerable baron caught his child to his arms, and sheda wink of joy.
　　‘There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four-andtwenty Lincoln greens of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows ofeternal friendship with twelve Lincoln greens of VonSwillenhausen, and promised the old baron that they would drinkhis wine “Till all was blue”—meaning probably until their wholecountenances had acquired the same tint as their noses.
　　Everybody slapped everybody else’s back, when the time forparting came; and the Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers rode gaily home.
　　‘For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. Thehouses of Koeldwethout and Swillenhausen were united; thespears rusted; and the baron’s bugle grew hoarse for lack ofblowing.
　　‘Those were great times for the four-and-twenty; but, alas! theirhigh and palmy days had taken boots to themselves, and werealready 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, tothe courtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln greenswere taking a copious stirrup-cup, preparatory to issuing forthafter 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 swoonedaway at the baron’s feet.
　　‘What could the baron do? He called for the lady’s maid, androared for the doctor; and then, rushing into the yard, kicked thetwo Lincoln greens who were the most used to it, and cursing theothers all round, bade them go—but never mind where. I don’tknow 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 Imay have my private opinion on the subject, and may think thatno Member of Parliament ought to be married, inasmuch as threemarried members out of every four, must vote according to theirwives’ consciences (if there be such things), and not according totheir own. All I need say, just now, is, that the Baroness VonKoeldwethout somehow or other acquired great control over theBaron 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 somedisputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby;and that by the time he was a fat hearty fellow of forty-eight orthereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, andno hunting—nothing in short that he liked, or used to have; andthat, although he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold as brass, hewas decidedly snubbed and put down, by his own lady, in his owncastle 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 lustyyoung baron, in whose honour a great many fireworks were let off,and a great many dozens of wine drunk; but next year there camea young baroness, and next year another young baron, and so on,every year, either a baron or baroness (and one year bothtogether), until the baron found himself the father of a smallfamily of twelve. Upon every one of these anniversaries, thevenerable Baroness Von Swillenhausen was nervously sensitivefor the well-being of her child the Baroness Von Koeldwethout;and although it was not found that the good lady ever did anythingmaterial towards contributing to her child’s recovery, still shemade it a point of duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogzwig, and to divide her time between moral observations onthe baron’s housekeeping, and bewailing the hard lot of herunhappy daughter. And if the Baron of Grogzwig, a little hurt andirritated at this, took heart, and ventured to suggest that his wifewas at least no worse off than the wives of other barons, theBaroness Von Swillenhausen begged all persons to take notice,that nobody but she, sympathised with her dear daughter’ssufferings; upon which, her relations and friends remarked, that tobe sure she did cry a great deal more than her son-in-law, and thatif there were a hard-hearted brute alive, it was that Baron ofGrogzwig.
　　‘The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when hecould bear it no longer lost his appetite and his spirits, and sathimself gloomily and dejectedly down. But there were worsetroubles yet in store for him, and as they came on, his melancholyand sadness increased. Times changed. He got into debt. TheGrogzwig coffers ran low, though the Swillenhausen family hadlooked upon them as inexhaustible; and just when the baronesswas on the point of making a thirteenth addition to the familypedigree, Von Koeldwethout discovered that he had no means ofreplenishing them.
　　‘“I don’t see what is to be done,” said the baron. “I think I’ll killmyself.”
　　‘This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting-knifefrom 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 sharpenough.”
　　‘The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was arrested by a loud screaming among the youngbarons and baronesses, who had a nursery in an upstairs towerwith iron bars outside the window, to prevent their tumbling outinto the moat.
　　‘“If I had been a bachelor,” said the baron sighing, “I mighthave done it fifty times over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Puta flask of wine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted roombehind the hall.”
　　‘One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed thebaron’s order in the course of half an hour or so, and VonKoeldwethout being apprised thereof, strode to the vaulted room,the walls of which, being of dark shining wood, gleamed in thelight of the blazing logs which were piled upon the hearth. Thebottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole, the place lookedvery comfortable.
　　‘“Leave the lamp,” said the baron.
　　‘“Anything else, my lord?” inquired the domestic.
　　‘“The room,” replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and thebaron 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 tossingoff a goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig threw himselfback in his chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffedaway.
　　‘He thought about a great many things—about his presenttroubles and past days of bachelorship, and about the Lincolngreens, long since dispersed up and down the country, no oneknew whither: with the exception of two who had beenunfortunately beheaded, and four who had killed themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and boars, when, inthe process of draining his glass to the bottom, he raised his eyes,and saw, for the first time and with unbounded astonishment, thathe was not alone.
　　‘No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there satwith folded arms a wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk andbloodshot eyes, and an immensely long cadaverous face,shadowed by jagged and matted locks of coarse black hair. Hewore a kind of tunic of a dull bluish colour, which, the baronobserved, on regarding it attentively, was clasped or ornamenteddown the front with coffin handles. His legs, too, were encased incoffin plates as though in armour; and over his left shoulder hewore a short dusky cloak, which seemed made of a remnant ofsome pall. He took no notice of the baron, but was intently eyeingthe fire.
　　‘“Halloa!” said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.
　　‘“Halloa!” replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards thebaron, but not his face or himself “What now?”
　　‘“What now!” replied the baron, nothing daunted by his hollowvoice and lustreless eyes. “I should ask that question. How did youget 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, asif composing himself for a talk—and, what was very remarkable,was, that he threw his cloak aside, and displaying a stake, whichwas 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 walkingstick.
　　‘“Now,” said the figure, glancing at the hunting-knife, “are youready 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 prettybrisk 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 thebowl of his pipe.
　　‘“Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,” rejoined thefigure, drily.
　　‘“Never in moderation?” asked the baron.
　　‘“Never,” replied the figure, with a shudder, “that breedscheerfulness.”
　　‘The baron took another look at his new friend, whom hethought an uncommonly queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took any active part in such little proceedings as thatwhich 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, andexamining the ferule. “Be as quick as you can, will you, for there’sa young gentleman who is afflicted with too much money andleisure 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 longday.)‘“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 asmuch as you please: that does me good.”
　　‘The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; thefigure, brightening up again, handed him the hunting-knife withmost winning politeness.
　　‘“It’s not a bad idea though,” said the baron, feeling the edge ofthe weapon; “a man killing himself because he has too muchmoney.”
　　‘“Pooh!” said the apparition, petulantly, “no better than aman’s killing himself because he has none or little.”
　　‘Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself insaying this, or whether he thought the baron’s mind was sothoroughly made up that it didn’t matter what he said, I have nomeans 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 newlight had come upon him for the first time.
　　‘“Why, certainly,” said Von Koeldwethout, “nothing is too badto 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 heshould 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 verygrim, “because a joke, without any figure of speech, IS the death ofme. Come! Quit this dreary world at once.”
　　‘“I don’t know,” said the baron, playing with the knife; “it’s adreary one certainly, but I don’t think yours is much better, foryou have not the appearance of being particularly comfortable.
　　That puts me in mind—what security have I, that I shall be any thebetter for going out of the world after all!” he cried, starting up; “Inever 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 thebears again; and if that don’t do, I’ll talk to the baroness soundly, and cut the Von Swillenhausens dead.’ With this the baron fellinto his chair, and laughed so loud and boisterously, that the roomrang with it.
　　‘The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baronmeanwhile with a look of intense terror, and when he had ceased,caught up the stake, plunged it violently into its body, uttered afrightful howl, and disappeared.
　　‘Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made uphis mind to action, he soon brought the baroness and the VonSwillenhausens to reason, and died many years afterwards: not arich man that I am aware of, but certainly a happy one: leavingbehind him a numerous family, who had been carefully educatedin bear and boar-hunting under his own personal eye. And myadvice to all men is, that if ever they become hipped andmelancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they lookat both sides of the question, applying a magnifying-glass to thebest one; and if they still feel tempted to retire without leave, thatthey smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit bythe 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 greathurry, and prevented any discussion relative to the last story. MrSqueers was observed to draw the grey-headed gentleman on oneside, and to ask a question with great apparent interest; it borereference to the Five Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquirywhether he could inform him how much per annum the Yorkshireconvents 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-hairedgentleman had got down and were gone. The day dragged onuncomfortably enough. At about six o’clock that night, he and MrSqueers, and the little boys, and their united luggage, were all putdown 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 theboys standing with the luggage in the road, to amusethemselves by looking at the coach as it changedhorses, 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 ashort hiccup afforded any criterion; and at the same time therecame out of the yard a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by twolabouring men.
　　‘Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,’ said Squeers, rubbinghis hands; ‘and this young man and me will go on in the chaise.
　　Get in, Nickleby.’
　　Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing thepony to obey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infantmisery to follow at leisure.
　　‘Are you cold, Nickleby?’ inquired Squeers, after they hadtravelled some distance in silence.
　　‘Rather, sir, I must say.’
　　‘Well, I don’t find fault with that,’ said Squeers; ‘it’s a longjourney this weather.’
　　‘Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘About three mile from here,’ replied Squeers. ‘But you needn’tcall 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 intelligencemuch astonished.
　　‘No,’ replied Squeers. ‘We call it a Hall up in London, because itsounds 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 ofParliament against that, I believe?’
　　‘I believe not, sir,’ rejoined Nicholas.
　　Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this littledialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appearedin nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, contentedhimself with lashing the pony until they reached their journey’send.
　　‘Jump out,’ said Squeers. ‘Hallo there! Come and put this horseup. Be quick, will you!’
　　While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatientcries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long,cold-looking house, one storey high, with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapseof a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gatewas heard, and presently a tall lean boy, with a lantern in hishand, 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, withhumility.
　　‘Fire! what fire? Where’s there a fire?’ demanded theschoolmaster, sharply.
　　 ‘Only in the kitchen, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘Missus said as I wassitting up, I might go in there for a warm.’
　　‘Your missus is a fool,’ retorted Squeers. ‘You’d have been adeuced deal more wakeful in the cold, I’ll engage.’
　　By this time Mr Squeers had dismounted; and after orderingthe boy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn’t anymore corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-door aminute while he went round and let him in.
　　A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowdingupon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged into his mindwith redoubled force when he was left alone. His great distancefrom home and the impossibility of reaching it, except on foot,should he feel ever so anxious to return, presented itself to him inmost alarming colours; and as he looked up at the dreary houseand dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered withsnow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had neverexperienced 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, fitto knock a man off his legs.’
　　Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr Squeers, having bolted thedoor to keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantilyfurnished with a few chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall,and a couple of tables; one of which bore some preparations forsupper; while, on the other, a tutor’s assistant, a Murray’sgrammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and a worn letter directedto Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in picturesque confusion.
　　They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, whena female bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr Squeers by thethroat, gave him two loud kisses: one close after the other, like apostman’s knock. The lady, who was of a large raw-boned figure,was about half a head taller than Mr Squeers, and was dressed ina dimity night-jacket; with her hair in papers; she had also a dirtynightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton handkerchief which tied itunder the chin.
　　‘How is my Squeery?’ said this lady in a playful manner, and avery 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 greatcoat. ‘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 atsomething 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, andnothing 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 bedone.’
　　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 toremain where he was. He was now relieved from his perplexity byMr Squeers.
　　‘This is the new young man, my dear,’ said that gentleman.
　　‘Oh,’ replied Mrs Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, andeyeing him coldly from top to toe.
　　‘He’ll take a meal with us tonight,’ said Squeers, ‘and go amongthe 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’tmuch 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 wasconsidered 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 andmistress relative to the success of Mr Squeers’s trip and the peoplewho had paid, and the people who had made default in payment, ayoung servant girl brought in a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef,which being set upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a jugof ale.
　　Mr Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters todifferent boys, and other small documents, which he had broughtdown in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious and timidexpression, at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one amongthem might relate to him. The look was a very painful one, andwent to Nicholas’s heart at once; for it told a long and very sadhistory.
　　It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments whichformed his dress. Although he could not have been less thaneighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore askeleton suit, such as is usually put upon very little boys, andwhich, though most absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quitewide enough for his attenuated frame. In order that the lower partof his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular dress, hehad a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, whichmight have been once worn by some stout farmer, but were nowtoo patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven knows how long hehad been there, but he still wore the same linen which he had firsttaken down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child’s frill, onlyhalf concealed by a coarse, man’s neckerchief. He was lame; andas he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at theletters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, thatNicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
　　‘What are you bothering about there, Smike?’ cried MrsSqueers; ‘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, asthough 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 isa 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 nonotice taken, nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It’s a prettysort of thing that I should have to feed a great fellow like you, andnever hope to get one penny for it, isn’t it?’
　　The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effortto recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at hisquestioner, gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
　　‘I’ll tell you what, Squeers,’ remarked his wife as the doorclosed, ‘I think that young chap’s turning silly.’
　　‘I hope not,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘for he’s a handy fellow outof doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should thinkhe’d have wit enough for us though, if he was. But come; let’s havesupper, 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 uphis 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 youngman take, my dear?’
　　‘Whatever he likes that’s present,’ rejoined Squeers, in a mostunusual 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. ‘Avery little, for I’m not hungry.’
　　Well, it’s a pity to cut the pie if you’re not hungry, isn’t it?’ saidMrs Squeers. ‘Will you try a bit of the beef?’
　　‘Whatever you please,’ replied Nicholas abstractedly; ‘it’s all thesame to me.’
　　 Mrs Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; andnodding to Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find theyoung man knew his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meatwith her own fair hands.
　　‘Ale, Squeery?’ inquired the lady, winking and frowning to givehim to understand that the question propounded, was, whetherNicholas should have ale, and not whether he (Squeers) wouldtake any.
　　‘Certainly,’ said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner.
　　‘A glassful.’
　　So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his ownreflections, drank it, in happy innocence of all the foregoneproceedings.
　　‘Uncommon juicy steak that,’ said Squeers, as he laid down hisknife and fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.
　　‘It’s prime meat,’ rejoined his lady. ‘I bought a good large pieceof it myself on purpose for—’
　　‘For what!’ exclaimed Squeers hastily. ‘Not for the—’
　　‘No, no; not for them,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers; ‘on purpose foryou against you came home. Lor! you didn’t think I could havemade such a mistake as that.’
　　‘Upon my word, my dear, I didn’t know what you were going tosay,’ 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; butpopular rumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr Squeers,being amiably opposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequentlypurchased for by consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death; possibly he was apprehensive of havingunintentionally devoured some choice morsel intended for theyoung gentlemen.
　　Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with ahungry eye, Mrs Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take intosafe custody the clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, andwho were half-way up the troublesome flight of steps which leadsto death’s door, in consequence of exposure to the cold. They werethen regaled with a light supper of porridge, and stowed away,side by side, in a small bedstead, to warm each other, and dreamof a substantial meal with something hot after it, if their fancies setthat way: which it is not at all improbable they did.
　　Mr Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy andwater, made on the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for thedissolution of the sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholasthe ghost of a small glassful of the same compound. This done, Mrand Mrs Squeers drew close up to the fire, and sitting with theirfeet on the fender, talked confidentially in whispers; whileNicholas, taking up the tutor’s assistant, read the interestinglegends in the miscellaneous questions, and all the figures into thebargain, with as much thought or consciousness of what he wasdoing, as if he had been in a magnetic slumber.
　　At length, Mr Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it washigh time to go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs Squeers and thegirl 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, Nickleby,’
　　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’tat this moment call to mind where it is. However, we’ll have thatall settled tomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o’clock in themorning, mind.’
　　‘I shall be ready, sir,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Good-night.’
　　‘I’ll come in myself and show you where the well is,’ saidSqueers. ‘You’ll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchenwindow; that belongs to you.’
　　Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers wasagain 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, MrsSqueers will arrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don’tforget.’
　　‘I’ll take care,’ replied Mrs Squeers; ‘and mind you take care,young man, and get first wash. The teacher ought always to haveit; but they get the better of him if they can.’
　　Mr Squeers then nudged Mrs Squeers to bring away thebrandy bottle, lest Nicholas should help himself in the night; andthe lady having seized it with great precipitation, they retiredtogether.
　　Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and downthe room in a condition of much agitation and excitement; but,growing gradually calmer, sat himself down in a chair, andmentally resolved that, come what come might, he wouldendeavour, for a time, to bear whatever wretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering the helplessness of hismother and sister, he would give his uncle no plea for desertingthem in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of producingsome good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew lessdesponding, and—so sanguine and buoyant is youth—even hopedthat affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than theypromised.
　　He was preparing for bed, with something like renewedcheerfulness, when a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In thehurry of leaving London, it had escaped his attention, and had notoccurred to him since, but it at once brought back to him therecollection 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 asfollows:—My dear young Man.
　　I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not havedone 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, Ionce thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign ofthe Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner ofSilver Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. Youcan 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 withthem.
　　NEWMAN NOGGS.
　　P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale atthe King’s Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will notcharge you for it. You may say Mr Noggs there, for I was agentleman then. I was indeed.
　　It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but afterhe had folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, NicholasNickleby’s eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might havebeen taken for tears.
Chapter 8
Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall.
　　Aride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, isone of the best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity candevise. Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams, for thosewhich hovered over the rough couch of Nicholas, and whisperedtheir airy nothings in his ear, were of an agreeable and happykind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed, when the faintglimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a voicehe had no difficulty in recognising as part and parcel of MrSqueers, 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’ atonce, 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 becontent with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in thewell, and can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don’t stand staringat me, but do look sharp, will you?’
　　 Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on hisclothes. Squeers, meanwhile, opened the shutters and blew thecandle out; when the voice of his amiable consort was heard in thepassage, demanding admittance.
　　‘Come in, my love,’ said Squeers.
　　Mrs Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night-jacketwhich had displayed the symmetry of her figure on the previousnight, and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet of someantiquity, which she wore, with much ease and lightness, on thetop of the nightcap before mentioned.
　　‘Drat the things,’ said the lady, opening the cupboard; ‘I can’tfind the school spoon anywhere.’
　　‘Never mind it, my dear,’ observed Squeers in a soothingmanner; ‘it’s of no consequence.’
　　‘No consequence, why how you talk!’ retorted Mrs Squeerssharply; ‘isn’t it brimstone morning?’
　　‘I forgot, my dear,’ rejoined Squeers; ‘yes, it certainly is. Wepurify the boys’ bloods now and then, Nickleby.’
　　‘Purify fiddlesticks’ ends,’ said his lady. ‘Don’t think, youngman, that we go to the expense of flower of brimstone andmolasses, just to purify them; because if you think we carry on thebusiness in that way, you’ll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell youplainly.’
　　‘My dear,’ said Squeers frowning. ‘Hem!’
　　‘Oh! nonsense,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers. ‘If the young man comesto be a teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don’twant any foolery about the boys. They have the brimstone andtreacle, partly because if they hadn’t something or other in theway of medicine they’d be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their appetites and comescheaper than breakfast and dinner. So, it does them good and usgood at the same time, and that’s fair enough I’m sure.’
　　Having given this explanation, Mrs Squeers put her head intothe closet and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, in whichMr Squeers assisted. A few words passed between them while theywere thus engaged, but as their voices were partially stifled by thecupboard, all that Nicholas could distinguish was, that Mr Squeerssaid what Mrs Squeers had said, was injudicious, and that MrsSqueers said what Mr Squeers said, was ‘stuff.’
　　A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it provingfruitless, Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs Squeers, andboxed by Mr Squeers; which course of treatment brightening hisintellects, enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs Squeers mighthave the spoon in her pocket, as indeed turned out to be the case.
　　As Mrs Squeers had previously protested, however, that she wasquite certain she had not got it, Smike received another box on theear for presuming to contradict his mistress, together with apromise of a sound thrashing if he were not more respectful infuture; so that he took nothing very advantageous by his motion.
　　‘A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,’ said Squeers whenhis 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 samebustling, lively, active, saving creetur that you see her now.’
　　Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeabledomestic 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,’ continuedSqueers, ‘that to them boys she is a mother. But she is more than amother to them; ten times more. She does things for them boys,Nickleby, that I don’t believe half the mothers going, would do fortheir own sons.’
　　‘I should think they would not, sir,’ answered Nicholas.
　　Now, the fact was, that both Mr and Mrs Squeers viewed theboys in the light of their proper and natural enemies; or, in otherwords, they held and considered that their business andprofession was to get as much from every boy as could bypossibility be screwed out of him. On this point they were bothagreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The only differencebetween them was, that Mrs Squeers waged war against theenemy openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers covered hisrascality, even at home, with a spice of his habitual deceit; as if hereally had a notion of someday or other being able to take himselfin, and persuade his own mind that he was a very good fellow.
　　‘But come,’ said Squeers, interrupting the progress of somethoughts to this effect in the mind of his usher, ‘let’s go to theschoolroom; 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; andSqueers, 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; ‘thisis our shop, Nickleby!’
　　It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects toattract attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the placeresolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple ofwindows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainderbeing stopped up with old copy-books and paper. There were acouple of long old rickety desks, cut and notched, and inked, anddamaged, in every possible way; two or three forms; a detacheddesk for Squeers; and another for his assistant. The ceiling wassupported, like that of a barn, by cross-beams and rafters; and thewalls were so stained and discoloured, that it was impossible to tellwhether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.
　　But the pupils—the young noblemen! How the last faint tracesof hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived fromhis efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as helooked in dismay around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bonyfigures, children with the countenances of old men, deformitieswith irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted growth, and otherswhose long meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies,all crowded on the view together; there were the bleared eye, thehare-lip, the crooked foot, and every ugliness or distortion thattold of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their offspring,or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, hadbeen one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect. There werelittle faces which should have been handsome, darkened with thescowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there was childhood with thelight of its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessnessalone remaining; there were vicious-faced boys, brooding, withleaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail; and there were youngcreatures 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 sympathyand affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthyfeeling flogged and starved down, with every revengeful passionthat can fester in swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core insilence, 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 haveprovoked a smile. Mrs Squeers stood at one of the desks, presidingover an immense basin of brimstone and treacle, of whichdelicious compound she administered a large instalment to eachboy in succession: using for the purpose a common wooden spoon,which might have been originally manufactured for some gigantictop, and which widened every young gentleman’s mouthconsiderably: they being all obliged, under heavy corporalpenalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In anothercorner, huddled together for companionship, were the little boyswho had arrived on the preceding night, three of them in verylarge leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a somethingtighter fit than drawers are usually worn; at no great distance fromthese was seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr Squeers—astriking likeness of his father—kicking, with great vigour, underthe hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new bootsthat bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which the leastof the little boys had worn on the journey down—as the little boyhimself seemed to think, for he was regarding the appropriationwith a look of most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was along row of boys waiting, with countenances of no pleasantanticipation, to be treacled; and another file, who had just escapedfrom 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 beenirresistibly 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, ‘isthat 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 torestore him. ‘Here, you Smike; take away now. Look sharp!’
　　Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs Squeers havingcalled up a little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands uponit, hurried out after him into a species of wash-house, where therewas a small fire and a large kettle, together with a number of littlewooden bowls which were arranged upon a board.
　　Into these bowls, Mrs Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant,poured a brown composition, which looked like dilutedpincushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A minutewedge of brown bread was inserted in each bowl, and when theyhad eaten their porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate thebread itself, and had finished their breakfast; whereupon MrSqueers said, in a solemn voice, ‘For what we have received, maythe Lord make us truly thankful!’—and went away to his own.
　　Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, formuch the same reason which induces some savages to swallowearth—lest they should be inconveniently hungry when there isnothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread andbutter, 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 allseemed to be. There was none of the noise and clamour of aschoolroom; none of its boisterous play, or hearty mirth. Thechildren sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to lackthe spirit to move about. The only pupil who evinced the slightesttendency towards locomotion or playfulness was Master Squeers,and as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other boys’ toesin his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable thanotherwise.
　　After some half-hour’s delay, Mr Squeers reappeared, and theboys took their places and their books, of which latter commoditythe average might be about one to eight learners. A few minuteshaving elapsed, during which Mr Squeers looked very profound,as if he had a perfect apprehension of what was inside all thebooks, and could say every word of their contents by heart if heonly chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called up the firstclass.
　　Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front ofthe schoolmaster’s desk, half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees andelbows, one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath hislearned 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 thetemporary head of the philosophical class.
　　‘So he is, to be sure,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We go upon thepractical mode of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright, to scour. W-in, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a casement. When the boy knows thisout of book, he goes and does it. It’s just the same principle as theuse 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 meansa 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 ofhis 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 throughthe grammar knows, or else where’s the use of having grammarsat 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 youdown. The rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebodytells you to leave off, for it’s washing-day tomorrow, and they wantthe coppers filled.’
　　So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments inpractical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunningand 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 scarcelyperceptible, and said he saw it was.
　　‘And a very good way it is, too,’ said Squeers. ‘Now, just takethem fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because,you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about here won’tdo.’
　　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 hisassistant 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 recitalof those stories of engrossing interest which are to be found in themore antiquated spelling-books.
　　In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. Atone o’clock, the boys, having previously had their appetitesthoroughly taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in thekitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciouslypermitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk, to eat itthere in peace. After this, there was another hour of crouching inthe schoolroom and shivering with cold, and then school beganagain.
　　It was Mr Squeer’s custom to call the boys together, and make asort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis,regarding the relations and friends he had seen, the news he hadheard, the letters he had brought down, the bills which had beenpaid, the accounts which had been left unpaid, and so forth. Thissolemn proceeding always took place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the boys acquiredstrength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or, possibly,because Mr Squeers himself acquired greater sternness andinflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was wont toindulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys wererecalled from house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, andthe school were assembled in full conclave, when Mr Squeers,with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and Mrs S. followingwith a pair of canes, entered the room and proclaimed silence.
　　‘Let any boy speak a word without leave,’ said Mr Squeersmildly, ‘and I’ll take the skin off his back.’
　　This special proclamation had the desired effect, and adeathlike silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which MrSqueers went on to say:
　　‘Boys, I’ve been to London, and have returned to my family andyou, as strong and well as ever.’
　　According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeblecheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sights of extrastrength 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 sonsare 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 allparties.’
　　Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeerssaid this, but the greater part of the young gentlemen having noparticular parents to speak of, were wholly uninterested in thething 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. Boysare 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 eyesimploringly to Squeers’s face; his own, quite white from the rapidbeating of his heart.
　　‘Bolder,’ said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he wasconsidering, as the saying goes, where to have him. ‘Bolder, if youfather thinks that because—why, what’s this, sir?’
　　As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy’s hand by the cuff ofhis jacket, and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror anddisgust.
　　‘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 willcome; it’s the dirty work I think, sir—at least I don’t know what itis, sir, but it’s not my fault.’
　　‘Bolder,’ said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, andmoistening the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of thecane, ‘you’re an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the lastthrashing did you no good, we must see what another will dotowards beating it out of you.’
　　With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, MrSqueers 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’thold that noise, won’t you? Put him out, Smike.’
　　The drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitateabout obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side-door, andMr Squeers perched himself again on his own stool, supported byMrs 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 whileSqueers made a mental abstract of the same.
　　‘Oh!’ said Squeers: ‘Cobbey’s grandmother is dead, and hisuncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sistersends, except eighteenpence, which will just pay for that brokensquare of glass. Mrs Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?’
　　The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a mostbusiness-like air, and Squeers passed on to the next boy, as coollyas possible.
　　‘Graymarsh,’ said Squeers, ‘he’s the next. Stand up,Graymarsh.’
　　Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over theletter as before.
　　‘Graymarsh’s maternal aunt,’ said Squeers, when he hadpossessed himself of the contents, ‘is very glad to hear he’s so welland happy, and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs Squeers,and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks Mr Squeersis too good for this world; but hopes he may long be spared tocarry on the business. Would have sent the two pair of stockings asdesired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, andhopes 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 loveMaster Squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which noChristian should. Ah!’ said Squeers, folding it up, ‘a delightfulletter. Very affecting indeed.’
　　It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh’s maternal auntwas strongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to be noother than his maternal parent; Squeers, however, withoutalluding to this part of the story (which would have soundedimmoral before boys), proceeded with the business by calling out‘Mobbs,’ whereupon another boy rose, and Graymarsh resumedhis seat.
　　‘Mobbs’s step-mother,’ said Squeers, ‘took to her bed onhearing 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, ifhe quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turnup his nose at the cow’s-liver broth, after his good master hadasked a blessing on it. This was told her in the Londonnewspapers—not by Mr Squeers, for he is too kind and too good toset anybody against anybody—and it has vexed her so much,Mobbs can’t think. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which issinful and horrid, and hopes Mr Squeers will flog him into ahappier state of mind; with which view, she has also stopped hishalfpenny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knifewith a corkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had boughton 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 inanticipation of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwardsretired by the side-door, with as good cause as a boy need have.
　　Mr Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collectionof letters; some enclosing money, which Mrs Squeers ‘took careof;’ and others referring to small articles of apparel, as caps and soforth, all of which the same lady stated to be too large, or too small,and calculated for nobody but young Squeers, who would appearindeed to have had most accommodating limbs, since everythingthat came into the school fitted him to a nicety. His head, inparticular, must have been singularly elastic, for hats and caps ofall dimensions were alike to him.
　　This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons wereperformed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas totake care of the boys in the school-room, which was very cold, andwhere a meal of bread and cheese was served out shortly afterdark.
　　There was a small stove at that corner of the room which wasnearest to the master’s desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, sodepressed and self-degraded by the consciousness of his position,that if death could have come upon him at that time, he wouldhave been almost happy to meet it. The cruelty of which he hadbeen an unwilling witness, the coarse and ruffianly behaviour ofSqueers even in his best moods, the filthy place, the sights andsounds about him, all contributed to this state of feeling; but whenhe recollected that, being there as an assistant, he actuallyseemed—no matter what unhappy train of circumstances hadbrought him to that pass—to be the aider and abettor of a system which filled him with honest disgust and indignation, he loathedhimself, and felt, for the moment, as though the mereconsciousness of his present situation must, through all time tocome, prevent his raising his head again.
　　But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolutionhe had formed on the preceding night remained undisturbed. Hehad written to his mother and sister, announcing the safeconclusion of his journey, and saying as little about DotheboysHall, and saying that little as cheerfully, as he possibly could. Hehoped that by remaining where he was, he might do some good,even there; at all events, others depended too much on his uncle’sfavour, to admit of his awakening his wrath just then.
　　One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfishconsiderations arising out of his own position. This was theprobable destination of his sister Kate. His uncle had deceivedhim, and might he not consign her to some miserable place whereher youth and beauty would prove a far greater curse thanugliness 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 livingin the world, and of it. He was willing to believe that RalphNickleby had conceived a personal dislike to himself. Havingpretty good reason, by this time, to reciprocate it, he had no greatdifficulty in arriving at this conclusion, and tried to persuadehimself that the feeling extended no farther than between them.
　　As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at onceencountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his kneesbefore the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth andplanting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrunk back, asif 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 Nicholascould not help exclaiming, ‘Poor fellow!’
　　If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away withouta word. But, now, he burst into tears.
　　‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ he cried, covering his face with his crackedand horny hands. ‘My heart will break. It will, it will.’
　　‘Hush!’ said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. ‘Be aman; 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 thatare here now! Where are they all!’
　　‘Whom do you speak of?’ inquired Nicholas, wishing to rousethe poor half-witted creature to reason. ‘Tell me.’
　　‘My friends,’ he replied, ‘myself—my—oh! what sufferings minehave been!’
　　‘There is always hope,’ said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.
　　‘No,’ rejoined the other, ‘no; none for me. Do you remember theboy that died here?’
　　‘I was not here, you know,’ said Nicholas gently; ‘but what ofhim?’
　　‘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 tosee 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 cannotcome from home; they would frighten me, if they did, for I don’tknow what it is, and shouldn’t know them. Pain and fear, pain andfear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!’
　　The bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding at the sound intohis usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. Itwas with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards—no, notretired; there was no retirement there—followed—to his dirty andcrowded dormitory.
Chapter 9
Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, andMr Squeers; and of various Matters and Personsconnected no less with the Squeerses than NicholasNickleby.
　　When Mr Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, hebetook himself, as has been before remarked, to hisown fireside, which was situated—not in the room inwhich Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival, but in asmaller apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady wife,his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the fullenjoyment of each other’s society; Mrs Squeers being engaged inthe matronly pursuit of stocking-darning; and the young lady andgentleman being occupied in the adjustment of some youthfuldifferences, by means of a pugilistic contest across the table,which, on the approach of their honoured parent, subsided into anoiseless exchange of kicks beneath it.
　　And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, thatMiss Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. If therebe any one grace or loveliness inseparable from that particularperiod of life, Miss Squeers may be presumed to have beenpossessed of it, as there is no reason to suppose that she was asolitary exception to an universal rule. She was not tall like hermother, but short like her father; from the former she inherited avoice of harsh quality; from the latter a remarkable expression ofthe right eye, something akin to having none at all.
　　 Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with aneighbouring friend, and had only just returned to the parentalroof. To this circumstance may be referred, her having heardnothing of Nicholas, until Mr Squeers himself now made him thesubject of conversation.
　　‘Well, my dear,’ said Squeers, drawing up his chair, ‘what doyou think of him by this time?’
　　‘Think of who?’ inquired Mrs Squeers; who (as she oftenremarked) 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 hatehim.’
　　‘What do you hate him for, my dear?’ asked Squeers.
　　‘What’s that to you?’ retorted Mrs Squeers. ‘If I hate him, that’senough, ain’t it?’
　　‘Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much Idare say, if he knew it,’ replied Squeers in a pacific tone. ‘I onlyask from curiosity, my dear.’
　　‘Well, then, if you want to know,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers, ‘I’ll tellyou. Because he’s a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-upnosed peacock.’
　　Mrs Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use stronglanguage, and, moreover, to make use of a plurality of epithets,some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock, andfurthermore the allusion to Nicholas’s nose, which was notintended to be taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear alatitude of construction according to the fancy of the hearers.
　　Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, somuch 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 anovelty 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?’ repliedhis wife.
　　‘But we do want him,’ urged Squeers.
　　‘I don’t see that you want him any more than the dead,’ saidMrs Squeers. ‘Don’t tell me. You can put on the cards and in theadvertisements, “Education by Mr Wackford Squeers and ableassistants,” without having any assistants, can’t you? Isn’t it doneevery day by all the masters about? I’ve no patience with you.’
　　‘Haven’t you!’ said Squeers, sternly. ‘Now I’ll tell you what, MrsSqueers. In this matter of having a teacher, I’ll take my own way, ifyou please. A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a manunder him, to see that his blacks don’t run away, or get up arebellion; and I’ll have a man under me to do the same with ourblacks, till such time as little Wackford is able to take charge of theschool.’
　　‘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, avicious 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 theinteresting child, grasping his father’s cane. ‘Oh, father, won’t Imake ’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 aforeshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed a penny into hishand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wifealso), in a shout of approving laughter. The infantine appeal totheir common sympathies, at once restored cheerfulness to theconversation, and harmony to the company.
　　‘He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that’s what I consider him,’ saidMrs Squeers, reverting to Nicholas.
　　‘Supposing he is,’ said Squeers, ‘he is as well stuck up in ourschoolroom as anywhere else, isn’t he?—especially as he don’t likeit.’
　　‘Well,’ observed Mrs Squeers, ‘there’s something in that. I hopeit’ll bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of mine if itdon’t.’
　　Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a veryextraordinary and unaccountable thing to hear of,—any usher atall being a novelty; but a proud one, a being of whose existence thewildest imagination could never have dreamed—that MissSqueers, who seldom troubled herself with scholastic matters,inquired with much curiosity who this Knuckleboy was, that gavehimself such airs.
　　‘Nickleby,’ said Squeers, spelling the name according to someeccentric system which prevailed in his own mind; ‘your motheralways calls things and people by their wrong names.’
　　‘No matter for that,’ said Mrs Squeers; ‘I see them with righteyes, and that’s quite enough for me. I watched him when youwere laying on to little Bolder this afternoon. He looked as blackas thunder, all the while, and, one time, started up as if he hadmore 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 thefamily was about to reply. ‘Who is the man?’
　　‘Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he’sthe son of a poor gentleman that died the other day,’ said MrsSqueers.
　　‘The son of a gentleman!’
　　‘Yes; but I don’t believe a word of it. If he’s a gentleman’s son atall, he’s a fondling, that’s my opinion.’
　　‘Mrs Squeers intended to say ‘foundling,’ but, as she frequentlyremarked when she made any such mistake, it would be all thesame a hundred years hence; with which axiom of philosophy,indeed, she was in the constant habit of consoling the boys whenthey laboured under more than ordinary ill-usage.
　　‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ said Squeers, in answer to the aboveremark, ‘for his father was married to his mother years before hewas born, and she is alive now. If he was, it would be no businessof ours, for we make a very good friend by having him here; and ifhe likes to learn the boys anything besides minding them, I haveno objection I am sure.’
　　‘I say again, I hate him worse than poison,’ said Mrs Squeersvehemently.
　　‘If you dislike him, my dear,’ returned Squeers, ‘I don’t knowanybody who can show dislike better than you, and of coursethere’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 abouthim, as I think he has, I don’t believe there’s woman in all Englandthat can bring anybody’s spirit down, as quick as you can, my love.’
　　Mrs Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flatteringcompliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed a high spirit ortwo in her day. It is but due to her character to say, that inconjunction with her estimable husband, she had broken manyand many a one.
　　Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and muchmore conversation on the same subject, until she retired for thenight, when she questioned the hungry servant, minutely,regarding the outward appearance and demeanour of Nicholas; towhich queries the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, coupledwith so many laudatory remarks touching his beautiful dark eyes,and his sweet smile, and his straight legs—upon which last-namedarticles she laid particular stress; the general run of legs atDotheboys Hall being crooked—that Miss Squeers was not long inarriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a veryremarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it,‘something quite out of the common.’ And so Miss Squeers madeup her mind that she would take a personal observation ofNicholas the very next day.
　　In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched theopportunity 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, sheblushed very deeply, and exhibited great confusion.
　　‘I beg your pardon,’ faltered Miss Squeers; ‘I thought my fatherwas—or might be—dear me, how very awkward!’
　　‘Mr Squeers is out,’ said Nicholas, by no means overcome bythe apparition, unexpected though it was.
　　 ‘Do you know will he be long, sir?’ asked Miss Squeers, withbashful hesitation.
　　‘He said about an hour,’ replied Nicholas—politely of course,but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by MissSqueers’s charms.
　　‘I never knew anything happen so cross,’ exclaimed the younglady. ‘Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn’tthought my father was here, I wouldn’t upon any account have—itis very provoking—must look so very strange,’ murmured MissSqueers, blushing once more, and glancing, from the pen in herhand, to Nicholas at his desk, and back again.
　　‘If that is all you want,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, andsmiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of theschoolmaster’s daughter, ‘perhaps I can supply his place.’
　　Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the proprietyof advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round theschoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by thepresence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas anddelivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixture ofreserve and condescension.
　　‘Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?’ inquired Nicholas, smiling toprevent 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, Ideclare,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘Oh! as soft as possible, if youplease.’ With which words, Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, togive Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that thepen was wanted to match.
　　 Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gaveit to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stoopedto pick it up, Miss Squeers stopped also, and they knocked theirheads 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 theyoung lady’s retreat.
　　‘Not at all, sir,’ replied Miss Squeers; ‘it was my fault. It was allmy foolish—a—a—good-morning!’
　　‘Goodbye,’ said Nicholas. ‘The next I make for you, I hope willbe made less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.’
　　‘Really,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘so embarrassing that I scarcelyknow what I—very sorry to give you so much trouble.’
　　‘Not the least trouble in the world,’ replied Nicholas, closing theschoolroom door.
　　‘I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!’ said MissSqueers, as she walked away.
　　In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.
　　To account for the rapidity with which this young lady hadconceived a passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, thatthe friend from whom she had so recently returned, was a miller’sdaughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto theson of a small corn-factor, resident in the nearest market town.
　　Miss Squeers and the miller’s daughter, being fast friends, hadcovenanted together some two years before, according to a customprevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first engaged tobe married, should straightway confide the mighty secret to thebosom 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 wasformed, 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-fiveminutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushedinto Miss Squeers’s bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now,Miss Squeers being five years older, and out of her teens (which isalso a great matter), had, since, been more than commonlyanxious to return the compliment, and possess her friend with asimilar secret; but, either in consequence of finding it hard toplease herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had neverhad an opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she had no such secretto disclose. The little interview with Nicholas had no soonerpassed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers, puttingon her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to herfriend’s house, and, upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows ofsecrecy, revealed how that she was—not exactly engaged, butgoing to be—to a gentleman’s son—(none of your corn-factors, buta gentleman’s son of high descent)—who had come down asteacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most mysterious and remarkablecircumstances—indeed, as Miss Squeers more than once hintedshe had good reason to believe, induced, by the fame of her manycharms, 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 saidto you?’
　　‘Don’t ask me what he said, my dear,’ rejoined Miss Squeers. ‘Ifyou had only seen his looks and smiles! I never was so overcome inall 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 byno 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 ofNicholas, and that of the corn-factor, grew so exceedinglyconfidential, that she intrusted her friend with a vast number ofthings Nicholas had not said, which were all so verycomplimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated on thefearful hardship of having a father and mother strenuouslyopposed to her intended husband; on which unhappycircumstance she dwelt at great length; for the friend’s father andmother were quite agreeable to her being married, and the wholecourtship was in consequence as flat and common-place an affairas it was possible to imagine.
　　‘How I should like to see him!’ exclaimed the friend.
　　‘So you shall, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘I should considermyself one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. Ithink mother’s going away for two days to fetch some boys; andwhen she does, I’ll ask you and John up to tea, and have him tomeet you.’
　　This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, thefriends parted.
　　It so fell out, that Mrs Squeers’s journey, to some distance, tofetch three new boys, and dun the relations of two old ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed that very afternoon, for thenext day but one; and on the next day but one, Mrs Squeers got upoutside the coach, as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, takingwith her a small bundle containing something in a bottle, andsome sandwiches, and carrying besides a large white top-coat towear in the night-time; with which baggage she went her way.
　　Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it wasSqueers’s custom to drive over to the market town, every evening,on pretence of urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven o’clockat a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in his way,therefore, but rather afforded a means of compromise with MissSqueers, he readily yielded his full assent thereunto, and willinglycommunicated to Nicholas that he was expected to take his tea inthe parlour that evening, at five o’clock.
　　To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the timeapproached, and to be sure she was dressed out to the bestadvantage: with her hair—it had more than a tinge of red, and shewore it in a crop—curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top ofher head, and arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to saynothing of the blue sash which floated down her back, or theworked apron or the long gloves, or the green gauze scarf wornover one shoulder and under the other; or any of the numerousdevices which were to be as so many arrows to the heart ofNicholas. She had scarcely completed these arrangements to herentire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity-brownparcel—flat and three-cornered—containing sundry smalladornments which were to be put on upstairs, and which thefriend 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 entiresatisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with the long gloveson, all ready for company.
　　‘Where’s John, ’Tilda?’ said Miss Squeers.
　　‘Only gone home to clean himself,’ replied the friend. ‘He willbe 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. Whilethey 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 ofhis conquest. ‘I understood from Mr Squeers that—’
　　‘Oh yes; it’s all right,’ interposed Miss Squeers. ‘Father don’ttea with us, but you won’t mind that, I dare say.’ (This was saidarchly.)Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter offvery coolly—not caring, particularly, about anything just then—and went through the ceremony of introduction to the miller’sdaughter with so much grace, that that young lady was lost inadmiration.
　　‘We are only waiting for one more gentleman,’ said MissSqueers, 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 werewaiting for one gentleman or twenty, so he received theintelligence with perfect unconcern; and, being out of spirits, andnot seeing any especial reason why he should make himselfagreeable, looked out of the window and sighed involuntarily.
　　As luck would have it, Miss Squeers’s friend was of a playfulturn, and hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head to rallythe lovers on their lowness of spirits.
　　‘But if it’s caused by my being here,’ said the young lady, ‘don’tmind me a bit, for I’m quite as bad. You may go on just as youwould 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 avariety of giggles, and glanced from time to time, over the tops oftheir pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state ofunmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressiblelaughter—occasioned, partly by the bare notion of his being inlove with Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterousappearance and behaviour of the two girls. These two causes ofmerriment, taken together, struck him as being so keenlyridiculous, that, despite his miserable condition, he laughed till hewas thoroughly exhausted.
　　‘Well,’ thought Nicholas, ‘as I am here, and seem expected, forsome reason or other, to be amiable, it’s of no use looking like agoose. 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 formedthis resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the friend with great gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea-table, began tomake himself more at home than in all probability an usher hasever done in his employer’s house since ushers were firstinvented.
　　The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour onthe part of Mr Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, with hishair very damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt, whereofthe collar might have belonged to some giant ancestor, forming,together with a white waistcoat of similar dimensions, the chiefornament of his person.
　　‘Well, John,’ said Miss Matilda Price (which, by-the-bye, wasthe name of the miller’s daughter).
　　‘Weel,’ said John with a grin that even the collar could notconceal.
　　‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to dothe 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 belowit.
　　‘Yours to command, sir,’ replied Nicholas, making fearfulravages on the bread and butter.
　　Mr Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversationalpowers, so he grinned twice more, and having now bestowed hiscustomary 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 hismouth 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 breadand butter with increased vigour. It was quite a sight to beholdhow 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 timeover the empty plate.
　　Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear theremark.
　　‘Ecod,’ said Mr Browdie, laughing boisterously, ‘they dean’t puttoo much intiv’em. Ye’ll be nowt but skeen and boans if you stophere 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 lastteacher’s leanness seemed to afford Mr Browdie the mostexquisite delight, for he laughed until he found it necessary toapply 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 areoffensive,’ said Nicholas in a towering passion, ‘but if they are,have the goodness to—’
　　‘If you say another word, John,’ shrieked Miss Price, stoppingher admirer’s mouth as he was about to interrupt, ‘only half aword, 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 ’ungang 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 shookhands across the table with much gravity; and such was theimposing nature of the ceremonial, that Miss Squeers wasovercome 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, MrNickleby?’
　　‘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 thelittle kitchen, and come back presently?’
　　‘Not on any account,’ rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at theproposition. ‘What on earth should you do that for?’
　　‘Well,’ said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking withsome degree of contempt—‘you are a one to keep company.’
　　‘What do you mean?’ said Nicholas; ‘I am not a one to keepcompany at all—here at all events. I can’t make this out.’
　　‘No, nor I neither,” rejoined Miss Price; ‘but men are alwaysfickle, and always were, and always will be; that I can make out,very easily.’
　　‘Fickle!’ cried Nicholas; ‘what do you suppose? You don’t meanto 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—reallyalmost handsome. I am ashamed at you.’
　　‘My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressingbeautifully 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 smallway, and Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him theproperty of somebody else, which were all reasons why she shouldbe gratified to think she had made an impression on him,—‘orFanny will be saying it’s my fault. Come; we’re going to have agame at cards.’ Pronouncing these last words aloud, she trippedaway and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.
　　This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no otherdistinct impression on his mind at the moment, than that MissSqueers was an ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss Price apretty 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, lookingslyly 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 onecommon heap those portions of a Dotheboys Hall card of terms,which represented his own counters, and those allotted to MissPrice, respectively.
　　‘Mr Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers hysterically, ‘shall we make abank against them?’
　　The Yorkshireman assented—apparently quite overwhelmedby the new usher’s impudence—and Miss Squeers darted aspiteful 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 totake 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 wasthinking you seemed out of sorts.’
　　‘Me!’ cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling withvery jealousy. ‘Oh no!’
　　‘That’s well,’ remarked Miss Price. ‘Your hair’s coming out ofcurl, dear.’
　　‘Never mind me,’ tittered Miss Squeers; ‘you had better attendto your partner.’
　　‘Thank you for reminding her,’ said Nicholas. ‘So she had.’
　　The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with hisclenched fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an opportunity ofexercising it upon the features of some other gentleman; and MissSqueers tossed her head with such indignation, that the gust ofwind raised by the multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew thecandle out.
　　‘I never had such luck, really,’ exclaimed coquettish Miss Price,after another hand or two. ‘It’s all along of you, Mr Nickleby, Ithink. 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,’ saidMiss Price.
　　‘Not if your wish is gratified,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I am sure I shallhave a good one in that case.’
　　To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn-factorflattened his nose, while this conversation was carrying on! It would have been worth a small annuity to have beheld that; letalone Miss Price’s evident joy at making them jealous, andNicholas Nickleby’s happy unconsciousness of making anybodyuncomfortable.
　　‘We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,’ said Nicholas,looking good-humouredly round the table as he took up the cardsfor a fresh deal.
　　‘You do it so well,’ tittered Miss Squeers, ‘that it would be a pityto interrupt, wouldn’t it, Mr Browdie? He! he! he!’
　　‘Nay,’ said Nicholas, ‘we do it in default of having anybody elseto talk to.’
　　‘We’ll talk to you, you know, if you’ll say anything,’ said MissPrice.
　　‘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 saysomething?’
　　‘Say summat?’ repeated the Yorkshireman.
　　‘Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.’
　　‘Weel, then!’ said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavilywith his fist, ‘what I say’s this—Dang my boans and boddy, if Istan’ this ony longer. Do ye gang whoam wi’ me, and do yon loightan’ toight young whipster look sharp out for a brokken head, nexttime he cums under my hond.’
　　‘Mercy on us, what’s all this?’ cried Miss Price, in affectedastonishment.
　　‘Cum whoam, tell ’e, cum whoam,’ replied the Yorkshireman,sternly. And as he delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into ashower of tears; arising in part from desperate vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate somebody’s countenancewith her fair finger-nails.
　　This state of things had been brought about by divers meansand workings. Miss Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring tothe high state and condition of being matrimonially engaged,without good grounds for so doing; Miss Price had brought itabout, by indulging in three motives of action: first, a desire topunish her friend for laying claim to a rivalship in dignity, havingno good title: secondly, the gratification of her own vanity, inreceiving the compliments of a smart young man: and thirdly, awish to convince the corn-factor of the great danger he ran, indeferring the celebration of their expected nuptials; whileNicholas had brought it about, by half an hour’s gaiety andthoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid the imputationof inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means employed, andthe end produced, were alike the most natural in the world; foryoung ladies will look forward to being married, and will jostleeach other in the race to the altar, and will avail themselves of allopportunities of displaying their own attractions to the bestadvantage, down to the very end of time, as they have done fromits beginning.
　　‘Why, and here’s Fanny in tears now!’ exclaimed Miss Price, asif in fresh amazement. ‘What can be the matter?’
　　‘Oh! you don’t know, miss, of course you don’t know. Pray don’ttrouble yourself to inquire,’ said Miss Squeers, producing thatchange 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?’ retortedMiss 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 youare, ma’am, however,’ rejoined Miss Price, ‘because that’s quiteunnecessary.’
　　Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God thatshe hadn’t got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, inrejoinder, congratulated herself upon not being possessed of theenvious feeling of other people; whereupon Miss Squeers madesome general remark touching the danger of associating with lowpersons; in which Miss Price entirely coincided: observing that itwas 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 MissPrice, tying her bonnet strings with a jerk. ‘You’ll cry your eyesout, 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,’ answeredthe 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 withNicholas, at parting, that peculiarly expressive scowl with whichthe cut-and-thrust counts, in melodramatic performances, informeach other they will meet again. They were no sooner gone, thanMiss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of her quondam friend bygiving vent to a most copious burst of tears, and uttering variousdismal lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do, but feelinguncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced, orscratched, and considering that either infliction would be equallyagreeable, he walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers wasmoaning in her pocket-handkerchief.
　　‘This is one consequence,’ thought Nicholas, when he hadgroped his way to the dark sleeping-room, ‘of my cursed readinessto adapt myself to any society in which chance carries me. If I hadsat mute and motionless, as I might have done, this would nothave happened.’
　　He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.
　　‘I was glad,’ he murmured, ‘to grasp at any relief from the sightof this dreadful place, or the presence of its vile master. I have setthese people by the ears, and made two new enemies, where,Heaven knows, I needed none. Well, it is a just punishment forhaving forgotten, even for an hour, what is around me now!’
　　So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-heartedsleepers, and crept into his poor bed.
Chapter 10
How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece andSister-in-Law.
　　O n the second morning after the departure of Nicholas forYorkshire, Kate Nickleby sat in a very faded chair raisedupon a very dusty throne in Miss La Creevy’s room, givingthat lady a sitting for the portrait upon which she was engaged;and towards the full perfection of which, Miss La Creevy had hadthe street-door case brought upstairs, in order that she might bethe better able to infuse into the counterfeit countenance of MissNickleby, a bright salmon flesh-tint which she had originally hitupon while executing the miniature of a young officer thereincontained, and which bright salmon flesh-tint was considered, byMiss La Creevy’s chief friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty inart: as indeed it was.
　　‘I think I have caught it now,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘The veryshade! This will be the sweetest portrait I have ever done,certainly.’
　　‘It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,’ repliedKate, 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, ofcourse, 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 themain you are right there; though I don’t allow that it is of such very great importance in the present case. Ah! The difficulties ofArt, my dear, are great.’
　　‘They must be, I have no doubt,’ said Kate, humouring hergood-natured little friend.
　　‘They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conceptionof,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘What with bringing out eyes with allone’s power, and keeping down noses with all one’s force, andadding to heads, and taking away teeth altogether, you have noidea 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 LaCreevy; ‘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 melook, Miss La Creevy!” and at others, “La, Miss La Creevy, howvery smirking!” when the very essence of a good portrait is, that itmust 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 theone or the other,’ replied Miss La Creevy. ‘Look at the RoyalAcademy! All those beautiful shiny portraits of gentlemen in blackvelvet waistcoats, with their fists doubled up on round tables, ormarble slabs, are serious, you know; and all the ladies who areplaying with little parasols, or little dogs, or little children—it’s thesame 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 thesmirk; 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 LaCreevy went on painting and talking, with immovablecomplacency.
　　‘What a number of officers you seem to paint!’ said Kate,availing herself of a pause in the discourse, and glancing round theroom.
　　‘Number of what, child?’ inquired Miss La Creevy, looking upfrom her work. ‘Character portraits, oh yes—they’re not realmilitary men, you know.’
　　‘No!’
　　‘Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire auniform coat to be painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag.
　　Some artists,’ said Miss La Creevy, ‘keep a red coat, and chargeseven-and-sixpence extra for hire and carmine; but I don’t do thatmyself, for I don’t consider it legitimate.’
　　Drawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly uponnot resorting to these lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy appliedherself, more intently, to her task: only raising her headoccasionally, to look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touchshe had just put in: and now and then giving Miss Nickleby tounderstand what particular feature she was at work upon, at themoment; ‘not,’ she expressly observed, ‘that you should make it upfor painting, my dear, but because it’s our custom sometimes totell sitters what part we are upon, in order that if there’s anyparticular 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, aninterval 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 worsethan 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 thathe 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 ofshrewdness and simplicity. ‘When a man’s a bear, he is generallypretty independent.’
　　‘His manner is rough,’ said Kate.
　　‘Rough!’ cried Miss La Creevy, ‘a porcupine’s a featherbed tohim! I never met with such a cross-grained old savage.’
　　‘It is only his manner, I believe,’ observed Kate, timidly; ‘he wasdisappointed in early life, I think I have heard, or has had histemper soured by some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill ofhim until I knew he deserved it.’
　　‘Well; that’s very right and proper,’ observed the miniaturepainter, ‘and Heaven forbid that I should be the cause of yourdoing so! But, now, mightn’t he, without feeling it himself, makeyou and your mama some nice little allowance that would keepyou both comfortable until you were well married, and be a littlefortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred a year forinstance, 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 youwill not hear an indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, soundsoddly enough, I confess.’
　　‘I dare say it does,’ replied Kate, speaking more gently, ‘indeedI am sure it must. I—I—only mean that with the feelings andrecollection of better times upon me, I could not bear to live onanybody’s bounty—not his particularly, but anybody’s.’
　　Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubtedwhether Ralph himself were not the subject of dislike, but seeingthat her young friend was distressed, made no remark.
　　‘I only ask of him,’ continued Kate, whose tears fell while shespoke, ‘that he will move so little out of his way, in my behalf, as toenable me by his recommendation—only by hisrecommendation—to earn, literally, my bread and remain with mymother. Whether we shall ever taste happiness again, dependsupon the fortunes of my dear brother; but if he will do this, andNicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I shall becontented.’
　　As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screenwhich stood between her and the door, and some person knockedat the wainscot.’
　　‘Come in, whoever it is!’ cried Miss La Creevy.
　　The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave toview the form and features of no less an individual than Mr RalphNickleby himself.
　　‘Your servant, ladies,’ said Ralph, looking sharply at them byturns. ‘You were talking so loud, that I was unable to make youhear.’
　　 When the man of business had a more than commonly vicioussnarl lurking at his heart, he had a trick of almost concealing hiseyes under their thick and protruding brows, for an instant, andthen displaying them in their full keenness. As he did so now, andtried to keep down the smile which parted his thin compressedlips, and puckered up the bad lines about his mouth, they both feltcertain that some part, if not the whole, of their recentconversation, had been overheard.
　　‘I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting tofind you here,’ said Ralph, addressing his niece, and lookingcontemptuously at the portrait. ‘Is that my niece’s portrait,ma’am?’
　　‘Yes it is, Mr Nickleby,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a verysprightly air, ‘and between you and me and the post, sir, it will bea 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 pencilend of her brush in her mouth. ‘Two sittings more will—’
　　‘Have them at once, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘She’ll have no time toidle over fooleries after tomorrow. Work, ma’am, work; we must allwork. 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 thisweek, or if they do, can’t pay for them. Now, my dear, if you’reready, we’ll lose no more time.’
　　With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon himeven than his usual manner, Mr Ralph Nickleby motioned to theyoung lady to precede him, and bowing gravely to Miss La Creevy, closed the door and followed upstairs, where Mrs Nicklebyreceived him with many expressions of regard. Stopping themsomewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with an impatientgesture, 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 onlyjust what I have expected of you. “Depend upon it,” I said to Kate,only yesterday morning at breakfast, “that after your uncle hasprovided, in that most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will notleave us until he has done at least the same for you.” These weremy very words, as near as I remember. Kate, my dear, why don’tyou thank your—’
　　‘Let me proceed, ma’am, pray,’ said Ralph, interrupting hissister-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 betterallow your uncle to say what he has to say, without interruption,’
　　observed Mrs Nickleby, with many small nods and frowns. ‘Youruncle’s time is very valuable, my dear; and however desirous youmay be—and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affectionaterelations who have seen so little of your uncle as we have, mustnaturally be to protract the pleasure of having him among us, still,we are bound not to be selfish, but to take into consideration theimportant nature of his occupations in the city.’
　　‘I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,’ said Ralph with ascarcely perceptible sneer. ‘An absence of business habits in thisfamily leads, apparently, to a great waste of words beforebusiness—when it does come under consideration—is arrived at, at all.’
　　‘I fear it is so indeed,’ replied Mrs Nickleby with a sigh. ‘Yourpoor brother—’
　　‘My poor brother, ma’am,’ interposed Ralph tartly, ‘had no ideawhat business was—was unacquainted, I verily believe, with thevery meaning of the word.’
　　‘I fear he was,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with her handkerchief to hereyes. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, I don’t know what would havebecome of him.’
　　What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfullythrown out by Ralph, on their first interview, was dangling on thehook yet. At every small deprivation or discomfort whichpresented itself in the course of the four-and-twenty hours toremind her of her straitened and altered circumstances, peevishvisions of her dower of one thousand pounds had arisen beforeMrs Nickleby’s mind, until, at last, she had come to persuadeherself that of all her late husband’s creditors she was the worstused and the most to be pitied. And yet, she had loved him dearlyfor many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is theusual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. Adecent annuity would have restored her thoughts to their oldtrain, at once.
　　‘Repining is of no use, ma’am,’ said Ralph. ‘Of all fruitlesserrands, sending a tear to look after a day that is gone is the mostfruitless.’
　　‘So it is,’ sobbed Mrs Nickleby. ‘So it is.’
　　‘As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, theconsequences of inattention to business, ma’am,’ said Ralph, ‘I amsure 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. ‘Sadexperience, you know, brother-in-law.—Kate, my dear, put thatdown in the next letter to Nicholas, or remind me to do it if Iwrite.’
　　Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had nowmade pretty sure of the mother, in case the daughter objected tohis proposition, went on to say:
　　‘The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma’am, iswith—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, whoare so well acquainted with all matters in the ordinary routine oflife, make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become persons ofgreat wealth and fortune.’
　　Now, the first idea called up in Mrs Nickleby’s mind by thewords milliner and dressmaker were connected with certainwicker baskets lined with black oilskin, which she remembered tohave seen carried to and fro in the streets; but, as Ralphproceeded, these disappeared, and were replaced by visions oflarge houses at the West end, neat private carriages, and abanker’s book; all of which images succeeded each other with suchrapidity, that he had no sooner finished speaking, than she noddedher head and said ‘Very true,’ with great appearance ofsatisfaction.
　　‘What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,’ said MrsNickleby. ‘I recollect when your poor papa and I came to townafter we were married, that a young lady brought me home a chip cottage-bonnet, with white and green trimming, and green persianlining, in her own carriage, which drove up to the door fullgallop;—at least, I am not quite certain whether it was her owncarriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well that thehorse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that yourpoor papa said he hadn’t had any corn for a fortnight.’
　　This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence ofmilliners, was not received with any great demonstration offeeling, inasmuch as Kate hung down her head while it wasrelating, and Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms ofextreme 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 herthere directly.’
　　‘Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?’ inquired MrsNickleby.
　　‘A great deal,’ replied Kate; ‘but not now. I would rather speakto him when we are alone;—it will save his time if I thank him andsay what I wish to say to him, as we walk along.’
　　With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces ofemotion that were stealing down her face, and to prepare herselffor the walk, while Mrs Nickleby amused her brother-in-law bygiving him, with many tears, a detailed account of the dimensionsof a rosewood cabinet piano they had possessed in their days ofaffluence, together with a minute description of eight drawing-room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs to matchthe 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 returnin her walking dress, when Ralph, who had been fretting andfuming during the whole time of her absence, lost no time, andused very little ceremony, in descending into the street.
　　‘Now,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘walk as fast as you can, andyou’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 affectedbesides. Let me see no more of it.’
　　Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a youngand sensitive female, about to make her first entry on an entirelynew scene of life, among cold and uninterested strangers; but ithad its effect notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathedquickly for a few moments, and then walked on with a firmer andmore determined step.
　　It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girlshrunk through the crowd that hurried up and down the streets,giving way to the press of people, and clinging closely to Ralph asthough she feared to lose him in the throng; and how the stern andhard-featured man of business went doggedly on, elbowing thepassengers aside, and now and then exchanging a gruff salutationwith some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed towonder at the ill-assorted companionship. But, it would have beena stranger contrast still, to have read the hearts that were beatingside by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence of the one, andthe rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the guilelessthoughts of the affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among allthe wily plots and calculations of the old man, there should not beone word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. Butso it was; and stranger still—though this is a thing of every day—the warm young heart palpitated with a thousand anxieties andapprehensions, while that of the old worldly man lay rusting in itscell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yieldingno one throb of hope, or fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.
　　‘Uncle,’ said Kate, when she judged they must be near theirdestination, ‘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 frommorning till night—occasionally perhaps till morning again.’
　　‘But at night, I mean,’ said Kate; ‘I cannot leave her, uncle. Imust have some place that I can call a home; it will be wherevershe is, you know, and may be a very humble one.’
　　‘May be!’ said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatienceprovoked by the remark; ‘must be, you mean. May be a humbleone! Is the girl mad?’
　　‘The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,’ urgedKate.
　　‘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. Ispoke of you as an out-of-door worker; so you will go to this homethat may be humble, every night.’
　　There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks forher uncle’s consideration, which Ralph received as if he haddeserved them all, and they arrived without any furtherconversation at the dressmaker’s door, which displayed a verylarge plate, with Madame Mantalini’s name and occupation, andwas approached by a handsome flight of steps. There was a shopto 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 factwhich was notified to the nobility and gentry by the casualexhibition, near the handsomely curtained windows, of two orthree elegant bonnets of the newest fashion, and some costlygarments in the most approved taste.
　　A liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph’sinquiry whether Madame Mantalini was at home, ushered them,through a handsome hall and up a spacious staircase, into theshow saloon, which comprised two spacious drawing-rooms, andexhibited an immense variety of superb dresses and materials fordresses: some arranged on stands, others laid carelessly on sofas,and others again, scattered over the carpet, hanging on the chevalglasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the rich furniture ofvarious descriptions, which was profusely displayed.
　　They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to MrRalph Nickleby, who eyed the gaudy frippery about him with verylittle concern, and was at length about to pull the bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeingsomebody 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 themouth, displaying a very long row of very white teeth, uttered in amincing tone the words, ‘Demmit. What, Nickleby! oh, demmit!’
　　Having uttered which ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, andshook hands with Ralph, with great warmth. He was dressed in agorgeous morning gown, with a waistcoat and Turkish trousers ofthe same pattern, a pink silk neckerchief, and bright greenslippers, and had a very copious watch-chain wound round hisbody. Moreover, he had whiskers and a moustache, both dyedblack 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 roundto 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 theknuckle 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 thisfashion, the gentleman led the way to a private sitting-room on thesecond floor, scarcely less elegantly furnished than the apartmentbelow, 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 MissNickleby out of countenance, and then grinning in delight at theachievement. ‘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 thegentleman, ‘the demdest, longest-headed, queerest-tempered oldcoiner of gold and silver ever was—demmit.’
　　Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rangthe bell, and stared at Miss Nickleby until it was answered, whenhe left off to bid the man desire his mistress to come directly; afterwhich, he began again, and left off no more until MadameMantalini appeared.
　　The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed andrather good-looking, but much older than the gentleman in theTurkish trousers, whom she had wedded some six months before.
　　His name was originally Muntle; but it had been converted, by aneasy transition, into Mantalini: the lady rightly considering that anEnglish appellation would be of serious injury to the business. Hehad married on his whiskers; upon which property he hadpreviously subsisted, in a genteel manner, for some years; andwhich he had recently improved, after patient cultivation by theaddition of a moustache, which promised to secure him an easyindependence: his share in the labours of the business being atpresent confined to spending the money, and occasionally, whenthat 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,’ saidMadame Mantalini.
　　‘Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman mustbe, 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, ifyou will not correct the man?’
　　‘Correct the man, my soul’s delight!’
　　‘Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,’ saidMadame, pouting.
　　‘Then do not vex itself,’ said Mr Mantalini; ‘he shall be horsewhipped till he cries out demnebly.’ With this promise MrMantalini kissed Madame Mantalini, and, after that performance,Madame Mantalini pulled Mr Mantalini playfully by the ear: whichdone, they descended to business.
　　‘Now, ma’am,’ said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, withsuch scorn as few men can express in looks, ‘this is my niece.’
　　‘Just so, Mr Nickleby,’ replied Madame Mantalini, surveyingKate from head to foot, and back again. ‘Can you speak French,child?’
　　‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she feltthat the eyes of the odious man in the dressing-gown weredirected towards her.
　　‘Like a demd native?’ asked the husband.
　　Miss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned herback upon the questioner, as if addressing herself to make answerto what his wife might demand.
　　 ‘We keep twenty young women constantly employed in theestablishment,’ 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,’ saidhis wife. ‘What can Mr Nickleby think when he hears you?’
　　‘Oh! Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘I know hisamiable nature, and yours,—mere little remarks that give a zest toyour daily intercourse—lovers’ quarrels that add sweetness tothose domestic joys which promise to last so long—that’s all; that’sall.’
　　If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges,and to make a firm resolution to open with slow obstinacy, andgrind them to powder in the process, it would emit a pleasantersound in so doing, than did these words in the rough and bittervoice in which they were uttered by Ralph. Even Mr Mantalini felttheir influence, and turning affrighted round, exclaimed: ‘What ademd horrid croaking!’
　　‘You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr Mantalinisays,’ 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 youngwomen,’ continued Madame, looking at her husband, andspeaking 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 nothere. He was never even in the room. I do not allow it. What hoursof 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 thenegotiation.
　　‘I hope so,’ returned Madame Mantalini; ‘our hours are fromnine to nine, with extra work when we’re very full of business, forwhich I allow payment as overtime.’
　　Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and wassatisfied.
　　‘Your meals,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘that is, dinner andtea, you will take here. I should think your wages would averagefrom five to seven shillings a week; but I can’t give you any certaininformation 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 hadbetter begin on Monday morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knagthe forewoman shall then have directions to try you with someeasy 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 thisnatural conclusion, she looked at the door, as if she wished to begone, but hesitated notwithstanding, as though unwilling to leaveto Mr Mantalini the sole honour of showing them downstairs.
　　Ralph relieved her from her perplexity by taking his departurewithout delay: Madame Mantalini making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them; and Mr Mantalini anathematisingthe stairs with great volubility as he followed them down, in thehope of inducing Kate to look round,—a hope, however, which wasdestined to remain ungratified.
　　‘There!’ said Ralph when they got into the street; ‘now you’reprovided for.’
　　Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.
　　‘I had some idea,’ he said, ‘of providing for your mother in apleasant part of the country—(he had a presentation to somealmshouses on the borders of Cornwall, which had occurred tohim more than once)—but as you want to be together, I must dosomething 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. Youleave your lodgings on Saturday?’
　　‘You told us to do so, uncle.’
　　‘Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can putyou into till it is let, and then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps Ishall 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 theEast end; but I’ll send my clerk down to you, at five o’clock onSaturday, to take you there. Goodbye. You know your way?
　　Straight on.’
　　Coldly shaking his niece’s hand, Ralph left her at the top ofRegent Street, and turned down a by-thoroughfare, intent onschemes of money-getting. Kate walked sadly back to theirlodgings in the Strand.
Chapter 11
Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby intotheir New Dwelling in the City.
　　Miss Nickleby’s reflections, as she wended her wayhomewards, were of that desponding nature which theoccurrences of the morning had been sufficientlycalculated to awaken. Her uncle’s was not a manner likely todispel any doubts or apprehensions she might have formed, in theoutset, neither was the glimpse she had had of MadameMantalini’s establishment by any means encouraging. It was withmany gloomy forebodings and misgivings, therefore, that shelooked forward, with a heavy heart, to the opening of her newcareer.
　　If her mother’s consolations could have restored her to apleasanter and more enviable state of mind, there were abundanceof them to produce the effect. By the time Kate reached home, thegood lady had called to mind two authentic cases of milliners whohad been possessed of considerable property, though whetherthey had acquired it all in business, or had had a capital to startwith, or had been lucky and married to advantage, she could notexactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked, theremust have been some young person in that way of business whohad made a fortune without having anything to begin with, andthat being taken for granted, why should not Kate do the same?
　　Miss La Creevy, who was a member of the little council, venturedto insinuate some doubts relative to the probability of Miss Nickleby’s arriving at this happy consummation in the compass ofan ordinary lifetime; but the good lady set that question entirely atrest, by informing them that she had a presentiment on thesubject—a species of second-sight with which she had been in thehabit 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 firstbegan to paint, and I remember that they were all very pale andsickly.’
　　‘Oh! that’s not a general rule by any means,’ observed MrsNickleby; ‘for I remember, as well as if it was only yesterday,employing one that I was particularly recommended to, to makeme a scarlet cloak at the time when scarlet cloaks werefashionable, 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 fornothing.’
　　In this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did theworthy matron meet every little objection that presented itself tothe new scheme of the morning. Happy Mrs Nickleby! A projecthad but to be new, and it came home to her mind, brightlyvarnished and gilded as a glittering toy.
　　This question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle’sdesire about the empty house, to which Mrs Nickleby assentedwith equal readiness, characteristically remarking, that, on thefine evenings, it would be a pleasant amusement for her to walk to the West end to fetch her daughter home; and no lesscharacteristically forgetting, that there were such things as wetnights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every week ofthe year.
　　‘I shall be sorry—truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend,’ saidKate, on whom the good feeling of the poor miniature painter hadmade 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 youvery often, and come and hear how you get on; and if, in allLondon, or all the wide world besides, there is no other heart thattakes an interest in your welfare, there will be one little lonelywoman 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 toboot, after making a great many extraordinary faces which wouldhave secured her an ample fortune, could she have transferredthem to ivory or canvas, sat down in a corner, and had what shetermed ‘a real good cry.’
　　But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep offthe dreaded Saturday afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who,punctual to his time, limped up to the door, and breathed a whiffof cordial gin through the keyhole, exactly as such of the churchclocks in the neighbourhood as agreed among themselves aboutthe time, struck five. Newman waited for the last stroke, and thenknocked.
　　‘From Mr Ralph Nickleby,’ said Newman, announcing hiserrand, 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, thinkingyou mightn’t be ready. I think of a great many things. Nobody canprevent that.’
　　‘Oh yes, I understand you, Mr Noggs,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘Ourthoughts are free, of course. Everybody’s thoughts are their own,clearly.’
　　‘They wouldn’t be, if some people had their way,’ mutteredNewman.
　　‘Well, no more they would, Mr Noggs, and that’s very true,’
　　rejoined Mrs Nickleby. ‘Some people to be sure are such—how’syour master?’
　　Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with astrong emphasis on the last word of his answer, that Mr RalphNickleby was well, and sent his love.
　　‘I am sure we are very much obliged to him,’ observed MrsNickleby.
　　‘Very,’ said Newman. ‘I’ll tell him so.’
　　It was no very easy matter to mistake Newman Noggs, afterhaving once seen him, and as Kate, attracted by the singularity ofhis manner (in which on this occasion, however, there wassomething respectful and even delicate, notwithstanding theabruptness of his speech), looked at him more closely, she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that strange figurebefore.
　　‘Excuse my curiosity,’ she said, ‘but did I not see you in thecoachyard, 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 timeI’ve been out for three weeks. I’ve had the gout.’
　　Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of agouty subject, and so Kate could not help thinking; but theconference was cut short by Mrs Nickleby’s insisting on having thedoor shut, lest Mr Noggs should take cold, and further persistingin sending the servant girl for a coach, for fear he should bring onanother attack of his disorder. To both conditions, Newman wascompelled to yield. Presently, the coach came; and, after manysorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running backwards andforwards across the pavement on the part of Miss La Creevy, inthe course of which the yellow turban came into violent contactwith sundry foot-passengers, it (that is to say the coach, not theturban) went away again, with the two ladies and their luggageinside; and Newman, despite all Mrs Nickleby’s assurances that itwould 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 thathour with vehicles of every kind, stopped in front of a large olddingy house in Thames Street: the door and windows of whichwere so bespattered with mud, that it would have appeared tohave been uninhabited for years.
　　 The door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a keywhich he took out of his hat—in which, by-the-bye, in consequenceof 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 ofthe mansion.
　　Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and darkwere the rooms, once so bustling with life and enterprise. Therewas a wharf behind, opening on the Thames. An empty dog-kennel, some bones of animals, fragments of iron hoops, andstaves 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 asif some blight had fallen on it. If I were superstitious, I should bealmost inclined to believe that some dreadful crime had beenperpetrated within these old walls, and that the place had neverprospered since. How frowning and how dark it looks!’
　　‘Lord, my dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, ‘don’t talk in that way, oryou’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 toyourself, 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 keepus company or borrowed a dog, or a thousand things—but italways was the way, and was just the same with your poor dearfather. Unless I thought of everything—’ This was Mrs Nickleby’susual commencement of a general lamentation, running through adozen or so of complicated sentences addressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched until her breath wasexhausted.
　　Newman appeared not to hear these remarks, but precededthem to a couple of rooms on the first floor, which some kind ofattempt had been made to render habitable. In one, were a fewchairs, a table, an old hearth-rug, and some faded baize; and a firewas ready laid in the grate. In the other stood an old tentbedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber furniture.
　　‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, trying to be pleased, ‘nowisn’t this thoughtful and considerate of your uncle? Why, weshould not have had anything but the bed we bought yesterday, tolie down upon, if it hadn’t been for his thoughtfulness!’
　　‘Very kind, indeed,’ replied Kate, looking round. NewmanNoggs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture theysaw, from attic and cellar; or that he had taken in thehalfpennyworth of milk for tea that stood upon a shelf, or filled therusty kettle on the hob, or collected the woodchips from the wharf,or begged the coals. But the notion of Ralph Nickleby havingdirected it to be done, tickled his fancy so much, that he could notrefrain from cracking all his ten fingers in succession: at whichperformance Mrs Nickleby was rather startled at first, butsupposing it to be in some remote manner connected with thegout, 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 agentleman than the miserable wretch he seemed, placed his handupon his breast, and, pausing for a moment, with the air of a manwho struggles to speak but is uncertain what to say, quitted theroom.
　　As the jarring echoes of the heavy house-door, closing on itslatch, reverberated dismally through the building, Kate felt halftempted to call him back, and beg him to remain a little while; butshe was ashamed to own her fears, and Newman Noggs was on hisroad homewards.
Chapter 12
Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace thefurther course of Miss Fanny Squeer’s Love, and toascertain whether it ran smooth or otherwise.
　　It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, thatwhen her worthy papa returned home on the night of thesmall tea-party, he was what the initiated term ‘too far gone’
　　to observe the numerous tokens of extreme vexation of spiritwhich were plainly visible in her countenance. Being, however, ofa rather violent and quarrelsome mood in his cups, it is notimpossible that he might have fallen out with her, either on this orsome imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with a foresightand prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose, tobear the first brunt of the good gentleman’s anger; which, havingvented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently toadmit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with hisboots on, and an umbrella under his arm.
　　The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own roomaccording to custom, to curl her hair, perform the other littleoffices of her toilet, and administer as much flattery as she couldget up, for the purpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough(and sufficiently vain and frivolous withal) to have been a finelady; and it was only the arbitrary distinctions of rank and stationwhich prevented her from being one.
　　‘How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!’ said thehandmaiden. ‘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 atall surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part of MissSqueers. Having a half-perception of what had occurred in thecourse of the evening, she changed her mode of making herselfagreeable, 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 MissPrice 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 beinga friend of your’n, and all; but she do dress herself out so, and goon in such a manner to get noticed, that—oh—well, if people onlysaw themselves!’
　　‘What do you mean, Phib?’ asked Miss Squeers, looking in herown little glass, where, like most of us, she saw—not herself, butthe reflection of some pleasant image in her own brain. ‘How youtalk!’
　　‘Talk, miss! It’s enough to make a Tom cat talk Frenchgrammar, only to see how she tosses her head,’ replied thehandmaid.
　　‘She does toss her head,’ observed Miss Squeers, with an air ofabstraction.
　　‘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,’ pursuedthe 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 takecopy by a friend—oh! if she only knew how wrong she was, andwould but set herself right by you, what a nice young woman shemight be in time!’
　　‘Phib,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, ‘it’s not properfor me to hear these comparisons drawn; they make ’Tilda look acoarse improper sort of person, and it seems unfriendly in me tolisten to them. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at thesame time, I must say, that if ’Tilda Price would take pattern bysomebody—not me particularly—’
　　‘Oh yes; you, miss,’ interposed Phib.
　　‘Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,’ said Miss Squeers. ‘I mustsay, that if she would, she would be all the better for it.’
　　‘So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,’ said the girlmysteriously.
　　‘What do you mean?’ demanded Miss Squeers.
　　‘Never mind, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘I know what I know; that’sall.’
　　‘Phib,’ said Miss Squeers dramatically, ‘I insist upon yourexplaining yourself. What is this dark mystery? Speak.’
　　‘Why, if you will have it, miss, it’s this,’ said the servant girl. ‘MrJohn Browdie thinks as you think; and if he wasn’t too far gone todo it creditable, he’d be very glad to be off with Miss Price, and onwith 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 ofunconsciously destroying the peace and happiness of my own’Tilda. What is the reason that men fall in love with me, whether Ilike it or not, and desert their chosen intendeds for my sake?’
　　‘Because they can’t help it, miss,’ replied the girl; ‘the reason’splain.’ (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 herwell, and above all I wish her married; for I think it highlydesirable—most desirable from the very nature of her failings—that she should be married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let herhave Mr Browdie. I may pity him, poor fellow; but I have a greatregard for ’Tilda, and only hope she may make a better wife than Ithink she will.’
　　With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.
　　Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble offeelings, and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in thelanguage. Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts thatwhat the miserable serving-girl had said was sheer, coarse, lyingflattery, as did the girl herself; yet the mere opportunity of ventinga little ill-nature against the offending Miss Price, and affecting tocompassionate her weaknesses and foibles, though only in thepresence of a solitary dependant, was almost as great a relief toher spleen as if the whole had been gospel truth. Nay, more. Wehave such extraordinary powers of persuasion when they areexerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high-mindedand great after her noble renunciation of John Browdie’s hand, and looked down upon her rival with a kind of holy calmness andtranquillity, that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffledfeelings.
　　This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing abouta reconciliation; for, when a knock came at the front-door nextday, and the miller’s daughter was announced, Miss Squeersbetook 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 cometo see you, although we had some words last night.’
　　‘I pity your bad passions, ’Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, ‘but Ibear no malice. I am above it.’
　　‘Don’t be cross, Fanny,’ said Miss Price. ‘I have come to tell yousomething that I know will please you.’
　　‘What may that be, ’Tilda?’ demanded Miss Squeers; screwingup 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 Johnand I had a dreadful quarrel.’
　　‘That doesn’t please me,’ said Miss Squeers—relaxing into asmile 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 seeeach other any more,’ continued Miss Price, ‘we made it up, andthis morning John went and wrote our names down to be put up,for the first time, next Sunday, so we shall be married in threeweeks, and I give you notice to get your frock made.’
　　 There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. Theprospect of the friend’s being married so soon was the gall, andthe certainty of her not entertaining serious designs upon Nicholaswas the honey. Upon the whole, the sweet greatly preponderatedover the bitter, so Miss Squeers said she would get the frock made,and that she hoped ’Tilda might be happy, though at the sametime she didn’t know, and would not have her build too muchupon it, for men were strange creatures, and a great many marriedwomen were very miserable, and wished themselves single againwith all their hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers addedothers equally calculated to raise her friend’s spirits and promoteher cheerfulness of mind.
　　‘But come now, Fanny,’ said Miss Price, ‘I want to have a wordor two with you about young Mr Nickleby.’
　　‘He is nothing to me,’ interrupted Miss Squeers, with hystericalsymptoms. ‘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 awretched, neglected, miserable castaway.
　　‘I hate everybody,’ said Miss Squeers, ‘and I wish thateverybody was dead—that I do.’
　　‘Dear, dear,’ said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal ofmisanthropical sentiments. ‘You are not serious, I am sure.’
　　‘Yes, I am,’ rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in herpocket-handkerchief and clenching her teeth. ‘And I wish I wasdead too. There!’
　　‘Oh! you’ll think very differently in another five minutes,’ said Matilda. ‘How much better to take him into favour again, than tohurt 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! Iwouldn’t have believed it of you, if anybody had told me.’
　　‘Heyday!’ exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. ‘One would suppose Ihad 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 tomake people civil to me,’ cried Miss Price. ‘Persons don’t maketheir own faces, and it’s no more my fault if mine is a good onethan 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 besorry for it!’
　　It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each younglady was in some slight degree affected by the tone of herconversation, and that a dash of personality was infused into thealtercation, in consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slightbeginnings, rose to a considerable height, and was assuming avery violent complexion, when both parties, falling into a greatpassion of tears, exclaimed simultaneously, that they had neverthought 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 andvowed eternal friendship; the occasion in question making thefifty-second time of repeating the same impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth.
　　Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturallyensued upon the number and nature of the garments which wouldbe indispensable for Miss Price’s entrance into the holy state ofmatrimony, when Miss Squeers clearly showed that a great manymore than the miller could, or would, afford, were absolutelynecessary, and could not decently be dispensed with. The younglady then, by an easy digression, led the discourse to her ownwardrobe, and after recounting its principal beauties at somelength, took her friend upstairs to make inspection thereof. Thetreasures of two drawers and a closet having been displayed, andall the smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss Price to returnhome; and as she had been in raptures with all the frocks, and hadbeen stricken quite dumb with admiration of a new pink scarf,Miss Squeers said in high good humour, that she would walk partof the way with her, for the pleasure of her company; and off theywent together: Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked along, uponher father’s accomplishments: and multiplying his income by ten,to give her friend some faint notion of the vast importance andsuperiority of her family.
　　It happened that that particular time, comprising the shortdaily interval which was suffered to elapse between what waspleasantly called the dinner of Mr Squeers’s pupils, and theirreturn to the pursuit of useful knowledge, was precisely the hourwhen Nicholas was accustomed to issue forth for a melancholywalk, and to brood, as he sauntered listlessly through the village,upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this perfectly well, buthad perhaps forgotten it, for when she caught sight of that younggentleman advancing towards them, she evinced many symptoms of surprise and consternation, and assured her friend that she ‘feltfit 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 throughwith it, and I will!’
　　As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made ahigh moral resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or twochokes and catchings of breath, indicative of feelings at a highpressure, her friend made no further remark, and they borestraight down upon Nicholas, who, walking with his eyes bentupon the ground, was not aware of their approach until they wereclose upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken shelterhimself.
　　‘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 alarmat her friend’s threat, but really actuated by a malicious wish tohear what Nicholas would say; ‘come back, Mr Nickleby!’
　　Mr Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, ashe inquired whether the ladies had any commands for him.
　　‘Don’t stop to talk,’ urged Miss Price, hastily; ‘but support heron the other side. How do you feel now, dear?’
　　‘Better,’ sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of areddish brown with a green veil attached, on Mr Nickleby’sshoulder. ‘This foolish faintness!’
　　‘Don’t call it foolish, dear,’ said Miss Price: her bright eyedancing 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 beashamed.’
　　‘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 thewicked Miss Price. ‘Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hastywith him? He says it was not his fault. You hear; I think that’sapology enough.’
　　‘You will not understand me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Pray dispensewith this jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to bethe 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 hisshoulder 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 mostunfeigned astonishment a look of tender reproach from MissSqueers, shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach of the fairburden, and went on to say:
　　‘I am very sorry—truly and sincerely sorry—for having been thecause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself,most bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause thedissension that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, mostunwittingly and heedlessly.’
　　‘Well; that’s not all you have got to say surely,’ exclaimed MissPrice as Nicholas paused.
　　‘I fear there is something more,’ stammered Nicholas with ahalf-smile, and looking towards Miss Squeers, ‘it is a most awkward thing to say—but—the very mention of such asupposition makes one look like a puppy—still—may I ask if thatlady supposes that I entertain any—in short, does she think that Iam in love with her?’
　　‘Delightful embarrassment,’ thought Miss Squeers, ‘I havebrought him to it, at last. Answer for me, dear,’ she whispered toher friend.
　　‘Does she think so?’ rejoined Miss Price; ‘of course she does.’
　　‘She does!’ exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance asmight have been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.
　　‘Certainly,’ replied Miss Price‘If Mr Nickleby has doubted that, ’Tilda,’ said the blushing MissSqueers in soft accents, ‘he may set his mind at rest. Hissentiments are recipro—’
　　‘Stop,’ cried Nicholas hurriedly; ‘pray hear me. This is thegrossest and wildest delusion, the completest and most signalmistake, that ever human being laboured under, or committed. Ihave scarcely seen the young lady half-a-dozen times, but if I hadseen her sixty times, or am destined to see her sixty thousand, itwould 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, notto hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the real state of myown—unless it be the one object, dear to my heart as life itself, ofbeing 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—butwith loathing and disgust.’
　　With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration,which he made with all the vehemence that his indignant andexcited feelings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more, retreated.
　　But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; therapid succession of bitter and passionate feelings that whirledthrough her mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by ateacher, picked up by advertisement, at an annual salary of fivepounds payable at indefinite periods, and ‘found’ in food andlodging like the very boys themselves; and this too in the presenceof a little chit of a miller’s daughter of eighteen, who was going tobe married, in three weeks’ time, to a man who had gone down onhis very knees to ask her. She could have choked in right goodearnest, 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 thenarrowness of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendantof the house of Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and thatwas, that every hour in every day she could wound his pride, andgoad him with the infliction of some slight, or insult, ordeprivation, which could not but have some effect on the mostinsensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so sensitive asNicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind, MissSqueers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observingthat Mr Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violenttemper, that she feared she should be obliged to give him up; andparted from her.
　　And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, havingbestowed her affections (or whatever it might be that, in theabsence of anything better, represented them) on NicholasNickleby, had never once seriously contemplated the possibility ofhis being of a different opinion from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and beautiful, andthat her father was master, and Nicholas man, and that her fatherhad saved money, and Nicholas had none, all of which seemed toher conclusive arguments why the young man should feel only toomuch honoured by her preference. She had not failed to recollect,either, how much more agreeable she could render his situation ifshe were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she werehis enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlementhan Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had itbeen only for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However,he had thought proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers wasoutrageous.
　　‘Let him see,’ said the irritated young lady, when she hadregained her own room, and eased her mind by committing anassault on Phib, ‘if I don’t set mother against him a little morewhen she comes back!’
　　It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was asgood as her word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirtylodging, and the being compelled to witness one dull unvaryinground of squalid misery, was treated with every special indignitythat malice could suggest, or the most grasping cupidity put uponhim.
　　Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system ofannoyance which made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild,by its injustice and cruelty.
　　The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas hadspoken kindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to andfro, with an ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipatingsuch little wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near him. He would sit beside him for hours, lookingpatiently into his face; and a word would brighten up his careworn visage, and call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness.
　　He was an altered being; he had an object now; and that objectwas, to show his attachment to the only person—that person astranger—who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but likea human creature.
　　Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that couldnot be vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgerywould have been nothing—Smike was well used to that. Buffetingsinflicted without cause, would have been equally a matter ofcourse; for to them also he had served a long and wearyapprenticeship; but it was no sooner observed that he had becomeattached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and blows,morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers wasjealous of the influence which his man had so soon acquired, andhis family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it,and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage andcowardly attack.
　　He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and onenight, as he paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, hisswollen heart almost bursting to think that his protection andcountenance should have increased the misery of the wretchedbeing whose peculiar destitution had awakened his pity, hepaused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the object of histhoughts.
　　The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with thetraces of recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring tomaster some task which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, tothe addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed andhopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, patiently conning the pageagain and again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he was thecommon jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects thatcongregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire toplease his solitary friend.
　　Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
　　‘I can’t do it,’ said the dejected creature, looking up with bitterdisappointment 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 wasweeping.
　　‘Do not for God’s sake,’ said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; ‘Icannot 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 hishead 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 ownthoughts, 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 isbefore me, after all.’
　　‘Tell me,’ urged Smike, ‘is the world as bad and dismal as thisplace?’
　　‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his ownthoughts; ‘its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.’
　　‘Should I ever meet you there?’ demanded the boy, speakingwith 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 youas 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 soundswhich were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and heshrunk back into his old corner.
Chapter 13
Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by amost vigorous and remarkable proceeding, whichleads to Consequences of some Importance.
　　The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing inat the windows of the common sleeping-room, whenNicholas, raising himself on his arm, looked among theprostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though insearch of some particular object.
　　It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled massof sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closelypacked together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with their patchedand ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharpoutlines of pale faces, over which the sombre light shed the samedull heavy colour; with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth:
　　its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in allits shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their backswith upturned faces and clenched hands, just visible in the leadenlight, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of living creatures;and there were others coiled up into strange and fantasticpostures, such as might have been taken for the uneasy efforts ofpain to gain some temporary relief, rather than the freaks ofslumber. A few—and these were among the youngest of thechildren—slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces,dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavysigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day; and, asmorning 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 sporton earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of thesun, which lights grim care and stern reality on their dailypilgrimage through the world.
　　Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of onewho gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lostnone of its sorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, witha more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man would whomissed something his eye was accustomed to meet, and hadexpected to rest upon. He was still occupied in this search, andhad half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his quest, when thevoice 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 isoccasioned by the lacing of stays.
　　‘We shall be down directly, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Down directly!’ said Squeers. ‘Ah! you had better be downdirectly, or I’ll be down upon some of you in less. Where’s thatSmike?’
　　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 thestair-rail impatiently with his cane. ‘Nickleby!’
　　‘Well, sir.’
　　‘Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don’t you hear mecalling?’
　　‘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’llfind 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 thecorner where the lean body of the drudge was usually stretched atnight. The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. Therewas nobody there.
　　‘What does this mean?’ said Squeers, turning round with a verypale face. ‘Where have you hid him?’
　　‘I have seen nothing of him since last night,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Come,’ said Squeers, evidently frightened, though heendeavoured to look otherwise, ‘you won’t save him this way.
　　Where is he?’
　　‘At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,’ rejoinedNicholas in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the master’sface.
　　‘Damn you, what do you mean by that?’ retorted Squeers ingreat perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired of theboys whether any one among them knew anything of their missingschoolmate.
　　 There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst ofwhich, one shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybodythought):
　　‘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 Squeersmade a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive, caught a very littleboy, habited still in his night-gear, and the perplexed expression ofwhose countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed tointimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he was about to bepunished or rewarded for the suggestion. He was not long indoubt.
　　‘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 bythe arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dexterousmanner, ‘what reason have you to suppose that any boy wouldwant to run away from this establishment? Eh, sir?’
　　The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and MrSqueers, throwing himself into the most favourable attitude forexercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in hiswrithings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifullyallowed him to roll away, as he best could.
　　‘There,’ said Squeers. ‘Now if any other boy thinks Smike hasrun away, I shall be glad to have a talk with him.’
　　There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholasshowed his disgust as plainly as looks could show it.
　　‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. ‘YOUthink 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 hehas?’
　　‘I know nothing of the kind.’
　　‘He didn’t tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?’ sneeredSqueers.
　　‘He did not,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I am very glad he did not, for itwould then have been my duty to have warned you in time.’
　　‘Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,’ saidSqueers in a taunting fashion.
　　‘I should indeed,’ replied Nicholas. ‘You interpret my feelingswith great accuracy.’
　　Mrs Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottomof the stairs; but, now losing all patience, she hastily assumed hernight-jacket, and made her way to the scene of action.
　　‘What’s all this here to-do?’ said the lady, as the boys fell offright and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a passage withher 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 befound.’
　　‘Well, I know that,’ said the lady, ‘and where’s the wonder? Ifyou get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set the youngdogs a rebelling, what else can you look for? Now, young man, youjust have the kindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, andtake the boys off with you, and don’t you stir out of there till youhave leave given you, or you and I may fall out in a way that’ll spoilyour beauty, handsome as you think yourself, and so I tell you.’
　　‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas.
　　 ‘Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,’ said theexcited lady; ‘and I wouldn’t keep such as you in the houseanother 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 shecould, the voice and manner of the usher. ‘Follow your leader,boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare. See what he’ll get forhimself, when he is brought back; and, mind! I tell you that youshall have as bad, and twice as bad, if you so much as open yourmouths about him.’
　　‘If I catch him,’ said Squeers, ‘I’ll only stop short of flaying himalive. I give you notice, boys.’
　　‘IF you catch him,’ retorted Mrs Squeers, contemptuously; ‘youare 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 alittle light skirmishing with those in the rear who were pressingforward to get out of the way, but were detained for a fewmoments 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 arelocked 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 apublic road too.’
　　‘Why must he?’ inquired Squeers.
　　‘Stupid!’ said Mrs Squeers angrily. ‘He hadn’t any money, hadhe?’
　　‘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 anythingto 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 hecould 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 chaiseand go one road, and I borrow Swallow’s chaise, and go the other,what with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one orother of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him.’
　　The worthy lady’s plan was adopted and put in executionwithout a moment’s delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and theprosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of whichseemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers startedforth 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 inanother chaise and another direction, taking with her a good-sizedbludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout labouringman: all provided and carried upon the expedition, with the soleobject of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring thesafe custody of the unfortunate Smike.
　　Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible thatwhatever might be the upshot of the boy’s flight, nothing butpainful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it.
　　Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best thatcould be expected from the protracted wandering of so poor andhelpless a creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choosebetween this fate and a return to the tender mercies of theYorkshire school; but the unhappy being had established a holdupon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache atthe prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. Helingered on, in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities,until the evening of next day, when Squeers returned, alone, andunsuccessful.
　　‘No news of the scamp!’ said the schoolmaster, who hadevidently been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a fewtimes during the journey. ‘I’ll have consolation for this out ofsomebody, Nickleby, if Mrs Squeers don’t hunt him down; so Igive you warning.’
　　‘It is not in my power to console you, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘It isnothing 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 comehome with a hack cob, that’ll cost fifteen shillings besides otherexpenses,’ 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 usualharsh crafty manner changed to open bullying ‘None of yourwhining vapourings here, Mr Puppy, but be off to your kennel, forit’s past your bedtime! Come! Get out!’
　　Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for hisfinger-ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that theman 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 littlenettled, however, to observe that Miss Squeers and MasterSqueers, and the servant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snugcorner; the two former indulging in many edifying remarks aboutthe presumption of poor upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal oflaughter, in which even the most miserable of all miserableservant girls joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew overhis head such bedclothes as he had, and sternly resolved that theoutstanding account between himself and Mr Squeers should besettled rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
　　Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when heheard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped.
　　The voice of Mrs Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering aglass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient signthat something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardlydared to look out of the window; but he did so, and the very firstobject that met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so bedabbledwith mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but forhis 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 hiseyes, in silence, upon the culprit. ‘Bring him in; bring him in!’
　　‘Take care,’ cried Mrs Squeers, as her husband proffered hisassistance. ‘We tied his legs under the apron and made ’em fast tothe chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.’
　　With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened thecord; and Smike, to all appearance more dead than alive, wasbrought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar, untilsuch 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 bematter of surprise to some persons, that Mr and Mrs Squeersshould have taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of anincumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; buttheir surprise will cease when they are informed that the manifoldservices of the drudge, if performed by anybody else, would havecost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings per week in theshape of wages; and furthermore, that all runaways were, as amatter of policy, made severe examples of, at Dotheboys Hall,inasmuch as, in consequence of the limited extent of itsattractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerfulimpulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number oflegs and the power of using them, to remain.
　　The news that Smike had been caught and brought back intriumph, ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, andexpectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it wasdestined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers,having refreshed himself with his dinner, and furtherstrengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made hisappearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with acountenance of portentous import, and a fearful instrument offlagellation, 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, soSqueers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eyedrooped, 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 satisfactionthe universal start which it never failed to occasion. ‘Nickleby! toyour desk, sir.’
　　It was remarked by more than one small observer, that therewas a very curious and unusual expression in the usher’s face; buthe took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, castinga triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of mostcomprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortlyafterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar—or rather bythat fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where hiscollar 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 compassionand remonstrance. It had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats; and a few of the boldest venturedto steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity.
　　They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastenedon the luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in suchcases, 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, onNicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look wasriveted on his desk.
　　‘Have you anything to say?’ demanded Squeers again: givinghis right arm two or three flourishes to try its power andsuppleness. ‘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 anotherimploring look about him.
　　‘Driven to do it, were you?’ said Squeers. ‘Oh! it wasn’t yourfault; it was mine, I suppose—eh?’
　　‘A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneakingdog,’ exclaimed Mrs Squeers, taking Smike’s head under her arm,and administering a cuff at every epithet; ‘what does he mean bythat?’
　　‘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 hadfallen on his body—he was wincing from the lash and uttering ascream of pain—it was raised again, and again about to fall—whenNicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried ‘Stop!’ in a voicethat 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 ortwo, 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 outof his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, berefthim of speech.
　　 ‘You have disregarded all my quiet interference in themiserable lad’s behalf,’ said Nicholas; ‘you have returned noanswer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, andoffered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don’tblame me for this public interference. You have brought it uponyourself; not I.’
　　‘Sit down, beggar!’ screamed Squeers, almost beside himselfwith rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.
　　‘Wretch,’ rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, ‘touch him at your peril! Iwill not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have thestrength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven Iwill 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, flushedwith passion; ‘and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardlycruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have acare; for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shallfall heavily upon your own head!’
　　He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak ofwrath, 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 oftorture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted.
　　Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into thatone 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 formercy.
　　The boys—with the exception of Master Squeers, who, comingto 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 draghim from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who hadbeen peeping through the keyhole in expectation of a verydifferent scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, andafter launching a shower of inkstands at the usher’s head, beatNicholas to her heart’s content; animating herself, at every blow,with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, andthus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she tookafter her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of theweakest.
　　Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows nomore than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becomingtired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weakbesides, he threw all his remaining strength into half-a-dozenfinishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him with all the force hecould muster. The violence of his fall precipitated Mrs Squeerscompletely over an adjacent form; and Squeers striking his headagainst it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground,stunned and motionless.
　　Having brought affairs to this happy termination, andascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was onlystunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had someunpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore him,and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. Helooked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room, but he wasnowhere to be seen.
　　After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in asmall leathern valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front-door, and shortlyafterwards, struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.
　　When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give hispresent circumstances some little reflection, they did not appearin a very encouraging light; he had only four shillings and a fewpence in his pocket, and was something more than two hundredand fifty miles from London, whither he resolved to direct hissteps, that he might ascertain, among other things, what accountof the morning’s proceedings Mr Squeers transmitted to his mostaffectionate uncle.
　　Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that therewas no remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld ahorseman coming towards him, whom, on nearer approach, hediscovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no other than Mr JohnBrowdie, who, clad in cords and leather leggings, was urging hisanimal forward by means of a thick ash stick, which seemed tohave 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 honestblockhead, and perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.’
　　In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such aresult would follow from the encounter, for John Browdie nosooner saw Nicholas advancing, than he reined in his horse by thefootpath, and waited until such time as he should come up; lookingmeanwhile, very sternly between the horse’s ears, at Nicholas, ashe 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, aftera moment’s pause, ‘we parted on no very good terms the last timewe met; it was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention ofoffending you, and no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry forit, 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, andgave 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! Iloike ’un for thot.’
　　‘The fact is,’ said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to makethe avowal, ‘the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.’
　　‘Noa!’ interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for hewas a giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, inhis eyes, seemed a mere dwarf; ‘dean’t say thot.’
　　‘Yes, I have,’ replied Nicholas, ‘by that man Squeers, and I havebeaten him soundly, and am leaving this place in consequence.’
　　‘What!’ cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, thatthe 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 theschoolmeasther! Dang it, I loov’ thee for’t.’
　　With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed andlaughed again—so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent backnothing 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, togo straight to London, he shook his head doubtfully, and inquiredif he knew how much the coaches charged to carry passengers sofar.
　　‘No, I do not,’ said Nicholas; ‘but it is of no great consequence tome, for I intend walking.’
　　‘Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot!’ cried John, in amazement.
　　‘Every step of the way,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I should be manysteps further on by this time, and so goodbye!’
　　‘Nay noo,’ replied the honest countryman, reining in hisimpatient horse, ‘stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast theegotten?’
　　‘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, butputting his hand in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of solidleather, and insisted that Nicholas should borrow from himwhatever he required for his present necessities.
　　‘Dean’t be afeard, mun,’ he said; ‘tak’ eneaf to carry theewhoam. Thee’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.’
　　Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow morethan a sovereign, with which loan Mr Browdie, after manyentreaties that he would accept of more (observing, with a touch ofYorkshire caution, that if he didn’t spend it all, he could put thesurplus 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 theschoolmeasther! ‘Cod it’s the best thing a’ve heerd this twontyyear!’
　　So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might havebeen expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, for thepurpose of avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured forth, JohnBrowdie set spurs to his horse, and went off at a smart canter:
　　looking back, from time to time, as Nicholas stood gazing afterhim, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to encourage him on hisway. Nicholas watched the horse and rider until they disappearedover 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 wasnearly dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which notonly rendered the way toilsome, but the track uncertain anddifficult to find, after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. Helay, that night, at a cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate tothe more humble class of travellers; and, rising betimes nextmorning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge. Passingthrough that town in search of some cheap resting-place, hestumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hundred yards ofthe roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his wearylimbs, and soon fell asleep.
　　When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams,which had been all connected with his recent sojourn atDotheboys Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes and stared—not withthe most composed countenance possible—at some motionlessobject which seemed to be stationed within a few yards in front ofhim.
　　‘Strange!’ cried Nicholas; ‘can this be some lingering creation of the visions that have scarcely left me! It cannot be real—and yetI—I am awake! Smike!’
　　The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its kneesat 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. ‘Letme, oh do let me. You are my home—my kind friend—take mewith 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 allthe way; had watched while he slept, and when he halted forrefreshment; and had feared to appear before, lest he should besent back. He had not intended to appear now, but Nicholas hadawakened more suddenly than he looked for, and he had had notime to conceal himself.
　　‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, ‘your hard fate denies you anyfriend but one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.’
　　‘May I—may I go with you?’ asked Smike, timidly. ‘I will beyour faithful hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I want noclothes,’ added the poor creature, drawing his rags together; ‘thesewill do very well. I only want to be near you.’
　　‘And you shall,’ cried Nicholas. ‘And the world shall deal by youas 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 hisdelighted charge; and so they passed out of the old barn, together.
Chapter 14
Having the Misfortune to treat of none but CommonPeople, is necessarily of a Mean and VulgarCharacter.
　　In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated,there is a bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with twoirregular rows of tall meagre houses, which seem to havestared each other out of countenance years ago. The verychimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy, fromhaving had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over theway. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened withsmoke; and, here and there, some taller stack than the rest,inclining heavily to one side, and toppling over the roof, seems tomediate taking revenge for half a century’s neglect, by crushingthe inhabitants of the garrets beneath.
　　The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodieshither and thither with a gait which none but town fowls are everseen to adopt, and which any country cock or hen would bepuzzled to understand, are perfectly in keeping with the crazyhabitations of their owners. Dingy, ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers,sent, like many of the neighbouring children, to get a livelihood inthe streets, they hop, from stone to stone, in forlorn search of somehidden eatable in the mud, and can scarcely raise a crow amongthem. The only one with anything approaching to a voice, is anaged bantam at the baker’s; and even he is hoarse, in consequenceof bad living in his last place.
　　 To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at onetime, tenanted by persons of better condition than their presentoccupants; but they are now let off, by the week, in floors orrooms, and every door has almost as many plates or bell-handlesas there are apartments within. The windows are, for the samereason, sufficiently diversified in appearance, being ornamentedwith every variety of common blind and curtain that can easily beimagined; while every doorway is blocked up, and rendered nearlyimpassable, by a motley collection of children and porter pots ofall 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 athought dirtier than any of its neighbours; which exhibited morebell-handles, children, and porter pots, and caught in all itsfreshness 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 hadto the outward tokens of many lodgers which the whole frontdisplayed, from the mangle in the kitchen window to the flowerpots on the parapet—it would have been beyond the power of acalculating 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, mighthave observed that there were not wanting indications of theprogressive poverty of the inmates, although their rooms wereshut. Thus, the first-floor lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept anold mahogany table—real mahogany—on the landing-placeoutside, which was only taken in, when occasion required. On the second story, the spare furniture dwindled down to a couple of olddeal chairs, of which one, belonging to the back-room, was shornof a leg, and bottomless. The story above, boasted no greaterexcess than a worm-eaten wash-tub; and the garret landing-placedisplayed no costlier articles than two crippled pitchers, and somebroken 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 thefront attic, into which, having surmounted the task of turning therusty key in its still more rusty wards, he walked with the air oflegal owner.
　　This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he tookoff with his hat, and hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its placea dirty cotton nightcap, and groped about in the dark till he founda remnant of candle, he knocked at the partition which divided thetwo garrets, and inquired, in a loud voice, whether Mr Noggs hada light.
　　The sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster,and it seemed moreover as though the speaker had uttered themfrom the interior of a mug or other drinking vessel; but they werein 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 threadbarecoat.
　　‘Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,’ observed Mr Crowl, in the same pettish tone.
　　Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harshcountenance was the very epitome of selfishness, raked the scantyfire nearly out of the grate, and, emptying the glass which Noggshad pushed towards him, inquired where he kept his coals.
　　Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and MrCrowl, seizing the shovel, threw on half the stock: which Noggsvery deliberately took off again, without saying a word.
　　‘You have not turned saving, at this time of day, I hope?’ saidCrowl.
　　Newman pointed to the empty glass, as though it were asufficient refutation of the charge, and briefly said that he wasgoing downstairs to supper.
　　‘To the Kenwigses?’ asked Crowl.
　　Newman nodded assent.
　　‘Think of that now!’ said Crowl. ‘If I didn’t—thinking that youwere certain not to go, because you said you wouldn’t—tellKenwigs I couldn’t come, and make up my mind to spend theevening 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, whonever thought of anybody else. ‘It’s all your fault. I’ll tell youwhat—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 henever had said at the right time, either to himself or anyone else—gave way to the proposed arrangement. Mr Crowl immediatelywent about making himself as comfortable, with Newman Nogg’smeans, as circumstances would admit of his being made.
　　 The lodgers to whom Crowl had made allusion under thedesignation of ‘the Kenwigses,’ were the wife and olive branchesof one Mr Kenwigs, a turner in ivory, who was looked upon as aperson of some consideration on the premises, inasmuch as heoccupied the whole of the first floor, comprising a suite of tworooms. Mrs Kenwigs, too, was quite a lady in her manners, and ofa very genteel family, having an uncle who collected a water-rate;besides which distinction, the two eldest of her little girls wenttwice a week to a dancing school in the neighbourhood, and hadflaxen hair, tied with blue ribbons, hanging in luxuriant pigtailsdown their backs; and wore little white trousers with frills roundthe ankles—for all of which reasons, and many more equally validbut too numerous to mention, Mrs Kenwigs was considered a verydesirable person to know, and was the constant theme of all thegossips in the street, and even three or four doors round thecorner at both ends.
　　It was the anniversary of that happy day on which the Churchof England as by law established, had bestowed Mrs Kenwigsupon Mr Kenwigs; and in grateful commemoration of the same,Mrs Kenwigs had invited a few select friends to cards and asupper in the first floor, and had put on a new gown to receivethem in: which gown, being of a flaming colour and made upon ajuvenile principle, was so successful that Mr Kenwigs said theeight years of matrimony and the five children seemed all a dream,and Mrs Kenwigs younger and more blooming than on the veryfirst 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 andhousemaid at least, and nothing to do but order them about, she had a world of trouble with the preparations; more, indeed, thanshe, being of a delicate and genteel constitution, could havesustained, had not the pride of housewifery upheld her. At last,however, all the things that had to be got together were gottogether, and all the things that had to be got out of the way weregot out of the way, and everything was ready, and the collectorhimself having promised to come, fortune smiled upon theoccasion.
　　The party was admirably selected. There were, first of all, MrKenwigs and Mrs Kenwigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat upto supper; firstly, because it was but right that they should have atreat on such a day; and secondly, because their going to bed, inpresence of the company, would have been inconvenient, not tosay improper. Then, there was a young lady who had made MrsKenwigs’s dress, and who—it was the most convenient thing in theworld—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, wasa young man, who had known Mr Kenwigs when he was abachelor, and was much esteemed by the ladies, as bearing thereputation of a rake. To these were added a newly-married couple,who had visited Mr and Mrs Kenwigs in their courtship; and asister of Mrs Kenwigs’s, who was quite a beauty; besides whom,there was another young man, supposed to entertain honourabledesigns upon the lady last mentioned; and Mr Noggs, who was agenteel person to ask, because he had been a gentleman once.
　　There were also an elderly lady from the back-parlour, and onemore young lady, who, next to the collector, perhaps was the greatlion 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 amanner that brought the tears into Mrs Kenwigs’s eyes. There wasonly one drawback upon the pleasure of seeing such friends, andthat was, that the lady in the back-parlour, who was very fat, andturned of sixty, came in a low book-muslin dress and short kidgloves, which so exasperated Mrs Kenwigs, that that lady assuredher visitors, in private, that if it hadn’t happened that the supperwas cooking at the back-parlour grate at that moment, shecertainly would have requested its representative to withdraw.
　　‘My dear,’ said Mr Kenwigs, ‘wouldn’t it be better to begin around 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 neverdo.’
　　‘He’s so particular,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, turning to the othermarried lady, ‘that if we began without him, I should be out of hiswill for ever.’
　　‘Dear!’ cried the married lady.
　　‘You’ve no idea what he is,’ replied Mrs Kenwigs; ‘and yet asgood 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 youplease.’
　　‘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 ofMrs Kenwigs’s feelings, I set my face against it. A man in publiclife expects to be sneered at—it is the fault of his elewatedsitiwation, and not of himself. Mrs Kenwigs’s relation is a publicman, and that he knows, George, and that he can bear; but puttingMrs Kenwigs out of the question (if I could put Mrs Kenwigs out ofthe question on such an occasion as this), I have the honour to beconnected with the collector by marriage; and I cannot allow theseremarks in my—’ Mr Kenwigs was going to say ‘house,’ but herounded the sentence with ‘apartments’.
　　At the conclusion of these observations, which drew forthevidences of acute feeling from Mrs Kenwigs, and had theintended effect of impressing the company with a deep sense ofthe 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 youget the door open. Hem! Let’s be talking.’
　　Adopting Mr Kenwigs’s suggestion, the company spoke veryloudly, to look easy and unembarrassed; and almost as soon asthey had begun to do so, a short old gentleman in drabs andgaiters, with a face that might have been carved out of lignumvitae, for anything that appeared to the contrary, was led playfullyin by Miss Morleena Kenwigs, regarding whose uncommonChristian name it may be here remarked that it had been inventedand composed by Mrs Kenwigs previous to her first lying-in, forthe special distinction of her eldest child, in case it should prove adaughter.
　　‘Oh, uncle, I am so glad to see you,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, kissingthe 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 ofwater-rates, without his book, without his pen and ink, without hisdouble knock, without his intimidation, kissing—actually kissing—an agreeable female, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices thathe had called, or announcements that he would never call again,for two quarters’ due, wholly out of the question. It was pleasant tosee how the company looked on, quite absorbed in the sight, andto behold the nods and winks with which they expressed theirgratification at finding so much humanity in a tax-gatherer.
　　‘Where will you sit, uncle?’ said Mrs Kenwigs, in the full glow offamily pride, which the appearance of her distinguished relationoccasioned.
　　‘Anywheres, my dear,’ said the collector, ‘I am not particular.’
　　Not particular! What a meek collector! If he had been anauthor, who knew his place, he couldn’t have been more humble.
　　‘Mr Lillyvick,’ said Kenwigs, addressing the collector, ‘somefriends 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 veryoften.’ These were not mere words of ceremony; for, Mr Cutler,having kept house in Mr Lillyvick’s parish, had heard of him veryoften indeed. His attention in calling had been quiteextraordinary.
　　‘George, you know, I think, Mr Lillyvick,’ said Kenwigs; ‘ladyfrom downstairs—Mr Lillyvick. Mr Snewkes—Mr Lillyvick. MissGreen—Mr Lillyvick. Mr Lillyvick—Miss Petowker of the TheatreRoyal, 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, ashe performed sundry little acts of kindness for the children, at alltimes and seasons, was humoured in his request to be taken nonotice of, and was merely spoken about, in a whisper, as thedecayed gentleman), did as he was desired; and the greater part ofthe guests sat down to speculation, while Newman himself, MrsKenwigs, and Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane,looked after the supper-table.
　　While the ladies were thus busying themselves, Mr Lillyvickwas intent upon the game in progress, and as all should be fishthat comes to a water-collector’s net, the dear old gentleman wasby no means scrupulous in appropriating to himself the propertyof his neighbours, which, on the contrary, he abstracted wheneveran opportunity presented itself, smiling good-humouredly all thewhile, and making so many condescending speeches to theowners, that they were delighted with his amiability, and thoughtin their hearts that he deserved to be Chancellor of the Exchequerat least.
　　After a great deal of trouble, and the administration of manyslaps on the head to the infant Kenwigses, whereof two of the mostrebellious were summarily banished, the cloth was laid with muchelegance, and a pair of boiled fowls, a large piece of pork, apple-pie, potatoes and greens, were served; at sight of which, theworthy Mr Lillyvick vented a great many witticisms, and pluckedup amazingly: to the immense delight and satisfaction of the wholebody of admirers.
　　Very well and very fast the supper went off; no more seriousdifficulties occurring, than those which arose from the incessant demand for clean knives and forks; which made poor Mrs Kenwigswish, more than once, that private society adopted the principle ofschools, and required that every guest should bring his own knife,fork, and spoon; which doubtless would be a great accommodationin many cases, and to no one more so than to the lady andgentleman of the house, especially if the school principle werecarried out to the full extent, and the articles were expected, as amatter of delicacy, not to be taken away again.
　　Everybody having eaten everything, the table was cleared in amost alarming hurry, and with great noise; and the spirits,whereat the eyes of Newman Noggs glistened, being arranged inorder, with water both hot and cold, the party composedthemselves for conviviality; Mr Lillyvick being stationed in a largearmchair by the fireside, and the four little Kenwigses disposed ona small form in front of the company with their flaxen tailstowards them, and their faces to the fire; an arrangement whichwas no sooner perfected, than Mrs Kenwigs was overpowered bythe feelings of a mother, and fell upon the left shoulder of MrKenwigs dissolved in tears.
　　‘They are so beautiful!’ said Mrs Kenwigs, sobbing.
　　‘Oh, dear,’ said all the ladies, ‘so they are! it’s very natural youshould 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 doomedto an early death in the flower of their infancy, all four little girlsraised a hideous cry, and burying their heads in their mother’s lapsimultaneously, screamed until the eight flaxen tails vibratedagain; Mrs Kenwigs meanwhile clasping them alternately to her bosom, with attitudes expressive of distraction, which MissPetowker herself might have copied.
　　At length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothedinto a more tranquil state, and the little Kenwigses, being alsocomposed, were distributed among the company, to prevent thepossibility of Mrs Kenwigs being again overcome by the blaze oftheir combined beauty. This done, the ladies and gentlemenunited in prophesying that they would live for many, many years,and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs Kenwigs to distressherself; which, in good truth, there did not appear to be; theloveliness of the children by no means justifying herapprehensions.
　　‘This day eight year,’ said Mr Kenwigs after a pause. ‘Dearme—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 hisaudience with a grave air; ‘I remember her, on that veryafternoon, when she first acknowledged to her mother a partialityfor 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, “Ilove him!” “What do I hear?” cries her mother; and instantly falls into strong conwulsions.’
　　A general exclamation of astonishment burst from thecompany.
　　‘Into strong conwulsions,’ repeated Mr Lillyvick, regardingthem with a rigid look. ‘Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in thepresence of friends, that there was a very great objection to him,on the ground that he was beneath the family, and would disgraceit. You remember, Kenwigs?’
　　‘Certainly,’ replied that gentleman, in no way displeased at thereminiscence, inasmuch as it proved, beyond all doubt, what ahigh family Mrs Kenwigs came of.
　　‘I shared in that feeling,’ said Mr Lillyvick: ‘perhaps it wasnatural; perhaps it wasn’t.’
　　A gentle murmur seemed to say, that, in one of Mr Lillyvick’sstation, the objection was not only natural, but highlypraiseworthy.
　　‘I came round to him in time,’ said Mr Lillyvick. ‘After theywere married, and there was no help for it, I was one of the first tosay that Kenwigs must be taken notice of. The family DID takenotice of him, in consequence, and on my representation; and I ambound to say—and proud to say—that I have always found him avery 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 otherlittle girls were successively hoisted up to the collector’scountenance, and subjected to the same process, which wasafterwards repeated on them by the majority of those present.
　　‘Oh dear, Mrs Kenwigs,’ said Miss Petowker, ‘while Mr Noggs ismaking that punch to drink happy returns in, do let Morleena gothrough that figure dance before Mr Lillyvick.’
　　‘No, no, my dear,’ replied Mrs Kenwigs, ‘it will only worry myuncle.’
　　‘It can’t worry him, I am sure,’ said Miss Petowker. ‘You will bevery much pleased, won’t you, sir?’
　　‘That I am sure I shall’ replied the collector, glancing at thepunch-mixer.
　　‘Well then, I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, ‘Morleena shalldo the steps, if uncle can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us theBlood-Drinker’s Burial, afterwards.’
　　There was a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet, atthis proposition; the subject whereof, gently inclined her headseveral times, in acknowledgment of the reception.
　　‘You know,’ said Miss Petowker, reproachfully, ‘that I dislikedoing anything professional in private parties.’
　　‘Oh, but not here!’ said Mrs Kenwigs. ‘We are all so veryfriendly and pleasant, that you might as well be going through it inyour own room; besides, the occasion—’
　　‘I can’t resist that,’ interrupted Miss Petowker; ‘anything in myhumble power I shall be delighted to do.’
　　Mrs Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged a smallPROGRAMME of the entertainments between them, of which this was the prescribed order, but they had settled to have a littlepressing on both sides, because it looked more natural. Thecompany being all ready, Miss Petowker hummed a tune, andMorleena danced a dance; having previously had the soles of hershoes chalked, with as much care as if she were going on the tightrope. It was a very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal ofwork 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 Operainstantly.’
　　Mrs Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr Kenwigs, who shook hishead, 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 isnow,—only think of the young dukes and marquises.’
　　‘Very right,’ said the collector.
　　‘Still,’ submitted Miss Petowker, ‘if she took a proper pride inherself, you know—’
　　‘There’s a good deal in that,’ observed Mrs Kenwigs, looking ather husband.
　　‘I only know—’ faltered Miss Petowker,—’ it may be no rule tobe sure—but I have never found any inconvenience orunpleasantness of that sort.’
　　Mr Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said that settled thequestion at once, and that he would take the subject into hisserious consideration. This being resolved upon, Miss Petowkerwas 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 acorner, to rush out at the cue ‘in death expire,’ and catch her in hisarms when she died raving mad, went through the performancewith extraordinary spirit, and to the great terror of the littleKenwigses, 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 anhour for a long long time,) had not yet been able to put in a wordof announcement, that the punch was ready, when a hasty knockwas heard at the room-door, which elicited a shriek from MrsKenwigs, who immediately divined that the baby had fallen out ofbed.
　　‘Who is that?’ demanded Mr Kenwigs, sharply.
　　‘Don’t be alarmed, it’s only me,’ said Crowl, looking in, in hisnightcap. ‘The baby is very comfortable, for I peeped into theroom as I came down, and it’s fast asleep, and so is the girl; and Idon’t think the candle will set fire to the bed-curtain, unless adraught 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 notbest pleased at the prospect of losing his fire; ‘and they are queer-looking people, too, all covered with rain and mud. Shall I tellthem 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 needbe.’
　　Newman reflected for a few seconds, and then hurried away, muttering that he would be back directly. He was as good as hisword; for, in an exceedingly short time, he burst into the room,and seizing, without a word of apology or explanation, a lightedcandle and tumbler of hot punch from the table, darted away like amadman.
　　‘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’sfaces with much perplexity and some fear, stretched their necksforward, and listened attentively.
Chapter 15
Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin ofthe Interruption described in the last Chapter, andwith some other Matters necessary to be known.
　　Newman Noggs scrambled in violent haste upstairs withthe steaming beverage, which he had sounceremoniously snatched from the table of Mr Kenwigs,and indeed from the very grasp of the water-rate collector, whowas eyeing the contents of the tumbler, at the moment of itsunexpected abstraction, with lively marks of pleasure visible in hiscountenance. He bore his prize straight to his own back-garret,where, footsore and nearly shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded, anddisfigured with every mark of fatiguing travel, sat Nicholas andSmike, at once the cause and partner of his toil; both perfectlyworn out by their unwonted and protracted exertion.
　　Newman’s first act was to compel Nicholas, with gentle force, toswallow half of the punch at a breath, nearly boiling as it was; andhis next, to pour the remainder down the throat of Smike, who,never having tasted anything stronger than aperient medicine inhis whole life, exhibited various odd manifestations of surpriseand delight, during the passage of the liquor down his throat, andturned up his eyes most emphatically when it was all gone.
　　‘You are wet through,’ said Newman, passing his hand hastilyover the coat which Nicholas had thrown off; ‘and I—I—haven’teven a change,’ he added, with a wistful glance at the shabbyclothes he wore himself.
　　 ‘I have dry clothes, or at least such as will serve my turn well, inmy bundle,’ replied Nicholas. ‘If you look so distressed to see me,you will add to the pain I feel already, at being compelled, for onenight, to cast myself upon your slender means for aid and shelter.’
　　Newman did not look the less distressed to hear Nicholastalking in this strain; but, upon his young friend grasping himheartily by the hand, and assuring him that nothing but implicitconfidence in the sincerity of his professions, and kindness offeeling towards himself, would have induced him, on anyconsideration, even to have made him acquainted with his arrivalin London, Mr Noggs brightened up again, and went aboutmaking such arrangements as were in his power for the comfort ofhis visitors, with extreme alacrity.
　　These were simple enough; poor Newman’s means halting at avery considerable distance short of his inclinations; but, slight asthey were, they were not made without much bustling andrunning about. As Nicholas had husbanded his scanty stock ofmoney, so well that it was not yet quite expended, a supper ofbread and cheese, with some cold beef from the cook’s shop, wassoon placed upon the table; and these viands being flanked by abottle of spirits and a pot of porter, there was no ground forapprehension on the score of hunger or thirst, at all events. Suchpreparations as Newman had it in his power to make, for theaccommodation of his guests during the night, occupied no verygreat time in completing; and as he had insisted, as an expresspreliminary, that Nicholas should change his clothes, and thatSmike should invest himself in his solitary coat (which noentreaties 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 madeup as well as he could, after the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel;and Nicholas, who had hitherto been restrained by the extremeanxiety of his friend that he should refresh himself after hisjourney, now pressed him with earnest questions concerning hismother and sister.
　　‘Well,’ replied Newman, with his accustomed taciturnity; ‘bothwell.’
　　‘They are living in the city still?’ inquired Nicholas.
　　‘They are,’ said Newman.
　　‘And my sister,’—added Nicholas. ‘Is she still engaged in thebusiness which she wrote to tell me she thought she should like somuch?’
　　Newman opened his eyes rather wider than usual, but merelyreplied by a gasp, which, according to the action of the head thataccompanied it, was interpreted by his friends as meaning yes orno. In the present instance, the pantomime consisted of a nod, andnot a shake; so Nicholas took the answer as a favourable one.
　　‘Now listen to me,’ said Nicholas, laying his hand on Newman’sshoulder. ‘Before I would make an effort to see them, I deemed itexpedient 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 thoughhe were trying his utmost to speak, but could make nothing of it,and finally fixed his eyes on Nicholas with a grim and ghastlystare.
　　‘What has he heard?’ urged Nicholas, colouring. ‘You see that I am prepared to hear the very worst that malice can havesuggested. Why should you conceal it from me? I must know itsooner or later; and what purpose can be gained by trifling withthe matter for a few minutes, when half the time would put me inpossession 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 ofrest, I cannot hope to close my eyes all night, unless you tell meeverything.’
　　‘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 scenewere acted over again, I could take no other part than I havetaken; and whatever consequences may accrue to myself from it, Ishall never regret doing as I have done—never, if I starve or beg inconsequence. What is a little poverty or suffering, to the disgraceof the basest and most inhuman cowardice! I tell you, if I hadstood by, tamely and passively, I should have hated myself, andmerited the contempt of every man in existence. The black-hearted scoundrel!’
　　With this gentle allusion to the absent Mr Squeers, Nicholasrepressed his rising wrath, and relating to Newman exactly whathad passed at Dotheboys Hall, entreated him to speak out withoutmore pressing. Thus adjured, Mr Noggs took, from an old trunk, asheet of paper, which appeared to have been scrawled over ingreat 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 thingwill never do, you know—as to getting on in the world, if you takeeverybody’s part that’s ill-treated—Damn it, I am proud to hear ofit; and would have done it myself!’
　　Newman accompanied this very unusual outbreak with aviolent blow upon the table, as if, in the heat of the moment, hehad mistaken it for the chest or ribs of Mr Wackford Squeers.
　　Having, by this open declaration of his feelings, quite precludedhimself from offering Nicholas any cautious worldly advice (whichhad been his first intention), Mr Noggs went straight to the point.
　　‘The day before yesterday,’ said Newman, ‘your uncle receivedthis letter. I took a hasty copy of it, while he was out. Shall I readit?’
　　‘If you please,’ replied Nicholas. Newman Noggs accordinglyread as follows:
　　‘Dotheboys Hall,‘Thursday Morning.
　　‘Sir,‘My pa requests me to write to you, the doctors considering itdoubtful whether he will ever recuvver the use of his legs whichprevents his holding a pen.
　　‘We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and my pa is onemask of brooses both blue and green likewise two forms aresteepled in his Goar. We were kimpelled to have him carried downinto the kitchen where he now lays. You will judge from this thathe 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 andalso langwedge which I will not pollewt my pen with describing,he assaulted my ma with dreadful violence, dashed her to theearth, and drove her back comb several inches into her head. Avery little more and it must have entered her skull. We have amedical certifiket that if it had, the tortershell would have affectedthe brain.
　　‘Me and my brother were then the victims of his feury sincewhich we have suffered very much which leads us to the arrowingbelief that we have received some injury in our insides, especiallyas no marks of violence are visible externally. I am screaming outloud all the time I write and so is my brother which takes off myattention rather and I hope will excuse mistakes.
　　‘The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran away,taking with him a boy of desperate caracter that he had excited torebellyon, and a garnet ring belonging to my ma, and not havingbeen apprehended by the constables is supposed to have beentook up by some stage-coach. My pa begs that if he comes to youthe ring may be returned, and that you will let the thief andassassin 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 saveus trouble and be much more satisfactory. Hoping to hear fromyou 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 choiceepistle, during which Newman Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of grotesque pity at the boy of desperate charactertherein referred to; who, having no more distinct perception of thematter in hand, than that he had been the unfortunate cause ofheaping trouble and falsehood upon Nicholas, sat mute anddispirited, with a most woe-begone and heart-stricken look.
　　‘Mr Noggs,’ said Nicholas, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘Imust go out at once.’
　　‘Go out!’ cried Newman.
　　‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘to Golden Square. Nobody who knows mewould believe this story of the ring; but it may suit the purpose, orgratify the hatred of Mr Ralph Nickleby to feign to attach credenceto it. It is due—not to him, but to myself—that I should state thetruth; 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 heprepared to leave the house.
　　‘Hear me speak,’ said Newman, planting himself before hisimpetuous 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 notbe answered before he returns.’
　　‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Nicholas, chafing violently, andpacing the narrow room with rapid strides.
　　‘Quite,’ rejoined Newman. ‘He had hardly read it when he wascalled away. Its contents are known to nobody but himself and us.’
　　‘Are you certain?’ demanded Nicholas, precipitately; ‘not evento my mother or sister? If I thought that they—I will go there—Imust 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 effortto see even them, till he comes home. I know the man. Do notseem to have been tampering with anybody. When he returns, gostraight to him, and speak as boldly as you like. Guessing at thereal 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 conversationwith his back planted against the door, ready to oppose any egressfrom the apartment by force, if necessary, resumed his seat withmuch satisfaction; and as the water in the kettle was by this timeboiling, made a glassful of spirits and water for Nicholas, and acracked mug-full for the joint accommodation of himself andSmike, of which the two partook in great harmony, while Nicholas,leaning his head upon his hand, remained buried in melancholymeditation.
　　Meanwhile, the company below stairs, after listening attentivelyand not hearing any noise which would justify them in interferingfor the gratification of their curiosity, returned to the chamber ofthe Kenwigses, and employed themselves in hazarding a greatvariety of conjectures relative to the cause of Mr Noggs’ suddendisappearance and detention.
　　‘Lor, I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs Kenwigs. ‘Suppose it should bean express sent up to say that his property has all come backagain!’
　　‘Dear me,’ said Mr Kenwigs; ‘it’s not impossible. Perhaps, inthat case, we’d better send up and ask if he won’t take a little morepunch.’
　　‘Kenwigs!’ said Mr Lillyvick, in a loud voice, ‘I’m surprised at you.’
　　‘What’s the matter, sir?’ asked Mr Kenwigs, with becomingsubmission 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 theway in which that punch was cut off, if I may use the expression,highly disrespectful to this company; scandalous, perfectlyscandalous. It may be the custom to allow such things in thishouse, but it’s not the kind of behaviour that I’ve been used to seedisplayed, and so I don’t mind telling you, Kenwigs. A gentlemanhas a glass of punch before him to which he is just about to set hislips, when another gentleman comes and collars that glass ofpunch, without a “with your leave”, or “by your leave”, and carriesthat glass of punch away. This may be good manners—I dare say itis—but I don’t understand it, that’s all; and what’s more, I don’tcare if I never do. It’s my way to speak my mind, Kenwigs, andthat is my mind; and if you don’t like it, it’s past my regular timefor going to bed, and I can find my way home without making itlater.’
　　Here was an untoward event! The collector had sat swellingand fuming in offended dignity for some minutes, and had nowfairly burst out. The great man—the rich relation—the unmarrieduncle—who had it in his power to make Morleena an heiress, andthe very baby a legatee—was offended. Gracious Powers, wherewas this to end!
　　‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Mr Kenwigs, humbly.
　　‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry,’ retorted Mr Lillyvick, with muchsharpness. ‘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 thecollector, in a stupor of dismay; the other guests were scarcely lessoverpowered by the great man’s irritation. Mr Kenwigs, not beingskilful in such matters, only fanned the flame in attempting toextinguish it.
　　‘I didn’t think of it, I am sure, sir,’ said that gentleman. ‘I didn’tsuppose that such a little thing as a glass of punch would have putyou out of temper.’
　　‘Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece ofimpertinence, Mr Kenwigs?’ said the collector. ‘Morleena, child—give me my hat.’
　　‘Oh, you’re not going, Mr Lillyvick, sir,’ interposed MissPetowker, 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 havesoftened a water-butt, not to say a water-collector; while the fourlittle girls (privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle’sdrab shorts in their arms, and prayed him, in imperfect English, toremain.
　　‘Why should I stop here, my dears?’ said Mr Lillyvick; ‘I’m notwanted 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 MrLillyvick, glancing angrily at Kenwigs. ‘Out of temper!’
　　‘Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,’ cried MrsKenwigs. ‘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 theirentreaties to those of his nephew-in-law. He gave up his hat, andheld out his hand.
　　‘There, Kenwigs,’ said Mr Lillyvick; ‘and let me tell you, at thesame time, to show you how much out of temper I was, that if Ihad gone away without another word, it would have made nodifference respecting that pound or two which I shall leave amongyour 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 loveyou all his life through, for he’s more a angel than a man, and I’vealways said so.’
　　Miss Morleena approaching to do homage, in compliance withthis injunction, was summarily caught up and kissed by MrLillyvick; and thereupon Mrs Kenwigs darted forward and kissedthe collector, and an irrepressible murmur of applause broke fromthe company who had witnessed his magnanimity.
　　The worthy gentleman then became once more the life and soulof the society; being again reinstated in his old post of lion, fromwhich high station the temporary distraction of their thoughts hadfor a moment dispossessed him. Quadruped lions are said to besavage, only when they are hungry; biped lions are rarely sulkylonger than when their appetite for distinction remainsunappeased. Mr Lillyvick stood higher than ever; for he hadshown his power; hinted at his property and testamentaryintentions; gained great credit for disinterestedness and virtue;and, in addition to all, was finally accommodated with a muchlarger tumbler of punch than that which Newman Noggs had so feloniously made off with.
　　‘I say! I beg everybody’s pardon for intruding again,’ saidCrowl, looking in at this happy juncture; ‘but what a queerbusiness this is, isn’t it? Noggs has lived in this house, now goingon 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,’ saidthe collector; ‘and the behaviour of Mr Noggs himself, is, to say theleast of it, mysterious.’
　　‘Well, so it is,’ rejoined Growl; ‘and I’ll tell you what’s more—Ithink these two geniuses, whoever they are, have run away fromsomewhere.’
　　‘What makes you think that, sir?’ demanded the collector, whoseemed, by a tacit understanding, to have been chosen and electedmouthpiece to the company. ‘You have no reason to suppose thatthey have run away from anywhere without paying the rates andtaxes due, I hope?’
　　Mr Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was about to enter ageneral protest against the payment of rates or taxes, under anycircumstances, when he was checked by a timely whisper fromKenwigs, and several frowns and winks from Mrs K., whichprovidentially stopped him.
　　‘Why the fact is,’ said Crowl, who had been listening atNewman’s door with all his might and main; ‘the fact is, that theyhave been talking so loud, that they quite disturbed me in myroom, and so I couldn’t help catching a word here, and a wordthere; and all I heard, certainly seemed to refer to their havingbolted from some place or other. I don’t wish to alarm MrsKenwigs; 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 itneeded all the tender attentions of Miss Petowker, of the TheatreRoyal, Drury Lane, to restore her to anything like a state ofcalmness; not to mention the assiduity of Mr Kenwigs, who held afat smelling-bottle to his lady’s nose, until it became matter ofsome doubt whether the tears which coursed down her face werethe result of feelings or sal volatile.
　　The ladies, having expressed their sympathy, singly andseparately, fell, according to custom, into a little chorus of soothingexpressions, among which, such condolences as ‘Poor dear!’—‘Ishould feel just the same, if I was her’—‘To be sure, it’s a verytrying thing’—and—‘Nobody but a mother knows what a mother’sfeelings is,’ were among the most prominent, and most frequentlyrepeated. In short, the opinion of the company was so clearlymanifested, that Mr Kenwigs was on the point of repairing to MrNoggs’s room, to demand an explanation, and had indeedswallowed a preparatory glass of punch, with great inflexibilityand steadiness of purpose, when the attention of all present wasdiverted by a new and terrible surprise.
　　This was nothing less than the sudden pouring forth of a rapidsuccession of the shrillest and most piercing screams, from anupper story; and to all appearance from the very two-pair back, inwhich the infant Kenwigs was at that moment enshrined. Theywere no sooner audible, than Mrs Kenwigs, opining that a strangecat had come in, and sucked the baby’s breath while the girl wasasleep, made for the door, wringing her hands, and shriekingdismally; to the great consternation and confusion of the company.
　　 ‘Mr Kenwigs, see what it is; make haste!’ cried the sister, layingviolent 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!’ screamedMrs Kenwigs, making every blessed louder than the last. ‘My owndarling, sweet, innocent Lillyvick—Oh let me go to him. Let mego-o-o-o!’
　　Pending the utterance of these frantic cries, and the wails andlamentations of the four little girls, Mr Kenwigs rushed upstairs tothe room whence the sounds proceeded; at the door of which, heencountered Nicholas, with the child in his arms, who darted outwith such violence, that the anxious father was thrown down sixstairs, and alighted on the nearest landing-place, before he hadfound time to open his mouth to ask what was the matter.
　　‘Don’t be alarmed,’ cried Nicholas, running down; ‘here it is; it’sall out, it’s all over; pray compose yourselves; there’s no harmdone;’ and with these, and a thousand other assurances, hedelivered the baby (whom, in his hurry, he had carried upsidedown), to Mrs Kenwigs, and ran back to assist Mr Kenwigs, whowas rubbing his head very hard, and looking much bewildered byhis tumble.
　　Reassured by this cheering intelligence, the company in somedegree recovered from their fears, which had been productive ofsome most singular instances of a total want of presence of mind;thus, the bachelor friend had, for a long time, supported in hisarms Mrs Kenwigs’s sister, instead of Mrs Kenwigs; and theworthy Mr Lillyvick had been actually seen, in the perturbation ofhis 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, whomight be thirteen years old, and was looking on with a singed headand a frightened face.
　　‘I heard her cries,’ continued Nicholas, ‘and ran down, in timeto prevent her setting fire to anything else. You may depend uponit that the child is not hurt; for I took it off the bed myself, andbrought it here to convince you.’
　　This brief explanation over, the infant, who, as he waschristened after the collector! rejoiced in the names of LillyvickKenwigs, was partially suffocated under the caresses of theaudience, and squeezed to his mother’s bosom, until he roaredagain. The attention of the company was then directed, by anatural transition, to the little girl who had had the audacity toburn her hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small slaps andpushes from the more energetic of the ladies, was mercifully senthome: 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 MrsKenwigs, addressing young Lillyvick’s deliverer, ‘I am sure I don’tknow.’
　　‘You need say nothing at all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I have donenothing to found any very strong claim upon your eloquence, I amsure.’
　　‘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 wasabundance of assistance here, which must have reached himbefore he had been in any danger.’
　　‘You will let us drink your health, anyways, sir!’ said MrKenwigs 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 mostindifferent company—a far greater check upon your merriment,than a promoter of it, even if I kept awake, which I think verydoubtful. If you will allow me, I’ll return to my friend, Mr Noggs,who went upstairs again, when he found nothing serious hadoccurred. Good-night.’
　　Excusing himself, in these terms, from joining in the festivities,Nicholas took a most winning farewell of Mrs Kenwigs and theother ladies, and retired, after making a very extraordinaryimpression upon the company.
　　‘What a delightful young man!’ cried Mrs Kenwigs.
　　‘Uncommon gentlemanly, really,’ said Mr Kenwigs. ‘Don’t youthink 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?’ inquiredMrs Kenwigs.
　　‘No, my dear,’ replied the collector, ‘no. I trust he may not turnout—well—no matter—my love to you, my dear, and long life tothe baby!’
　　‘Your namesake,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, with a sweet smile.
　　‘And I hope a worthy namesake,’ observed Mr Kenwigs, willingto propitiate the collector. ‘I hope a baby as will never disgrace his godfather, and as may be considered, in arter years, of a piece withthe Lillyvicks whose name he bears. I do say—and Mrs Kenwigs isof the same sentiment, and feels it as strong as I do—that Iconsider his being called Lillyvick one of the greatest blessingsand Honours of my existence.’
　　‘THE greatest blessing, Kenwigs,’ murmured his lady.
　　‘THE greatest blessing,’ said Mr Kenwigs, correcting himself. ‘Ablessing that I hope, one of these days, I may be able to deserve.’
　　This was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses, because it made MrLillyvick 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 andalacrity.
　　‘Who, I don’t mind saying,’ observed Mr Lillyvick, as a greatconcession, ‘is a good-looking young man enough, with mannersthat 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 inhis 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 otherpeople’s money, and all that sort of thing?’
　　‘Aristocratic?’ suggested the collector.
　　‘Ah! aristocratic,’ replied Miss Petowker; ‘something veryaristocratic 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 theladies resolved unanimously that Nicholas had an aristocratic air;and nobody caring to dispute the position, it was establishedtriumphantly.
　　The punch being, by this time, drunk out, and the littleKenwigses (who had for some time previously held their little eyesopen with their little forefingers) becoming fractious, andrequesting rather urgently to be put to bed, the collector made amove by pulling out his watch, and acquainting the company thatit was nigh two o’clock; whereat some of the guests were surprisedand others shocked, and hats and bonnets being groped for underthe tables, and in course of time found, their owners went away,after a vast deal of shaking of hands, and many remarks how theyhad never spent such a delightful evening, and how theymarvelled to find it so late, expecting to have heard that it washalf-past ten at the very latest, and how they wished that Mr andMrs Kenwigs had a wedding-day once a week, and how theywondered by what hidden agency Mrs Kenwigs could possiblyhave managed so well; and a great deal more of the same kind. Toall of which flattering expressions, Mr and Mrs Kenwigs replied,by thanking every lady and gentleman, seriatim, for the favour oftheir company, and hoping they might have enjoyed themselvesonly half as well as they said they had.
　　As to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the impression he hadproduced, he had long since fallen asleep, leaving Mr NewmanNoggs and Smike to empty the spirit bottle between them; andthis office they performed with such extreme good-will, thatNewman was equally at a loss to determine whether he himselfwas quite sober, and whether he had ever seen any gentleman so heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated as his newacquaintance.
Chapter 16
Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity,and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement asTutor in a Private Family.
　　The first care of Nicholas, next morning, was, to look aftersome room in which, until better times dawned upon him,he could contrive to exist, without trenching upon thehospitality of Newman Noggs, who would have slept upon thestairs with pleasure, so that his young friend was accommodated.
　　The vacant apartment to which the bill in the parlour windowbore reference, appeared, on inquiry, to be a small back-room onthe second floor, reclaimed from the leads, and overlooking a sootbespeckled prospect of tiles and chimney-pots. For the letting ofthis portion of the house from week to week, on reasonable terms,the parlour lodger was empowered to treat; he being deputed bythe landlord to dispose of the rooms as they became vacant, and tokeep a sharp look-out that the lodgers didn’t run away. As a meansof securing the punctual discharge of which last service he waspermitted to live rent-free, lest he should at any time be temptedto run away himself.
　　Of this chamber, Nicholas became the tenant; and having hireda few common articles of furniture from a neighbouring broker,and paid the first week’s hire in advance, out of a small fundraised by the conversion of some spare clothes into ready money,he sat himself down to ruminate upon his prospects, which, likethe prospect outside his window, were sufficiently confined and dingy. As they by no means improved on better acquaintance, andas familiarity breeds contempt, he resolved to banish them fromhis thoughts by dint of hard walking. So, taking up his hat, andleaving poor Smike to arrange and rearrange the room with asmuch delight as if it had been the costliest palace, he betookhimself to the streets, and mingled with the crowd which throngedthem.
　　Although a man may lose a sense of his own importance whenhe is a mere unit among a busy throng, all utterly regardless ofhim, it by no means follows that he can dispossess himself, withequal facility, of a very strong sense of the importance andmagnitude of his cares. The unhappy state of his own affairs wasthe one idea which occupied the brain of Nicholas, walk as fast ashe would; and when he tried to dislodge it by speculating on thesituation and prospects of the people who surrounded him, hecaught himself, in a few seconds, contrasting their condition withhis own, and gliding almost imperceptibly back into his old train ofthought again.
　　Occupied in these reflections, as he was making his way alongone of the great public thoroughfares of London, he chanced toraise his eyes to a blue board, whereon was inscribed, incharacters of gold, ‘General Agency Office; for places andsituations of all kinds inquire within.’ It was a shop-front, fitted upwith a gauze blind and an inner door; and in the window hung along and tempting array of written placards, announcing vacantplaces 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 soprofusely displayed. When he had completed his survey he walked on a little way, and then back, and then on again; at length, afterpausing irresolutely several times before the door of the GeneralAgency Office, he made up his mind, and stepped in.
　　He found himself in a little floor-clothed room, with a high deskrailed off in one corner, behind which sat a lean youth withcunning eyes and a protruding chin, whose performances incapital-text darkened the window. He had a thick ledger lyingopen before him, and with the fingers of his right hand insertedbetween the leaves, and his eyes fixed on a very fat old lady in amob-cap—evidently the proprietress of the establishment—whowas airing herself at the fire, seemed to be only waiting herdirections to refer to some entries contained within its rustyclasps.
　　As there was a board outside, which acquainted the public thatservants-of-all-work were perpetually in waiting to be hired fromten till four, Nicholas knew at once that some half-dozen strongyoung women, each with pattens and an umbrella, who weresitting upon a form in one corner, were in attendance for thatpurpose: especially as the poor things looked anxious and weary.
　　He was not quite so certain of the callings and stations of twosmart young ladies who were in conversation with the fat ladybefore the fire, until—having sat himself down in a corner, andremarked that he would wait until the other customers had beenserved—the fat lady resumed the dialogue which his entrance hadinterrupted.
　　‘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 bethe client.
　　‘“Mrs Marker,”’ said Tom, reading, ‘“Russell Place, RussellSquare; offers eighteen guineas; tea and sugar found. Two infamily, 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, andnursemaid; each female servant required to join the Little BethelCongregation three times every Sunday—with a serious footman.
　　If the cook is more serious than the footman, she will be expectedto improve the footman; if the footman is more serious than thecook, he will be expected to improve the cook.”’
　　‘I’ll take the address of that place,’ said the client; ‘I don’t knowbut 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, andservants allowed to see male cousins, if godly. Note. Cold dinner inthe kitchen on the Sabbath, Mr Gallanbile being devoted to theObservance question. No victuals whatever cooked on the Lord’sDay, with the exception of dinner for Mr and Mrs Gallanbile,which, being a work of piety and necessity, is exempted. MrGallanbile 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 otherdirection, if you please, young man. I can but come back again, if itdon’t do.’
　　Tom made out the address, as requested, and the genteel client,having satisfied the fat lady with a small fee, meanwhile, wentaway accompanied by her friend.
　　As Nicholas opened his mouth, to request the young man toturn to letter S, and let him know what secretaryships remainedundisposed of, there came into the office an applicant, in whosefavour he immediately retired, and whose appearance bothsurprised and interested him.
　　This was a young lady who could be scarcely eighteen, of veryslight and delicate figure, but exquisitely shaped, who, walkingtimidly up to the desk, made an inquiry, in a very low tone ofvoice, relative to some situation as governess, or companion to alady. She raised her veil, for an instant, while she preferred theinquiry, and disclosed a countenance of most uncommon beauty,though shaded by a cloud of sadness, which, in one so young, wasdoubly remarkable. Having received a card of reference to someperson on the books, she made the usual acknowledgment, andglided 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 whoimparted fewer graces of her own to it, might have looked poorand shabby. Her attendant—for she had one—was a red-faced,round-eyed, slovenly girl, who, from a certain roughness about thebare arms that peeped from under her draggled shawl, and the half-washed-out traces of smut and blacklead which tattooed hercountenance, was clearly of a kin with the servants-of-all-work onthe form: between whom and herself there had passed variousgrins and glances, indicative of the freemasonry of the craft.
　　This girl followed her mistress; and, before Nicholas hadrecovered from the first effects of his surprise and admiration, theyoung lady was gone. It is not a matter of such complete and utterimprobability as some sober people may think, that he would havefollowed them out, had he not been restrained by what passedbetween 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 fatlady, taking a pinch of snuff from a tin box.
　　Tom made no other reply than thrusting his tongue into hischeek, 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 therewas any such post to be had, as secretary or amanuensis to agentleman.
　　‘Any such!’ rejoined the mistress; ‘a-dozen-such. An’t there,Tom?’
　　‘I should think so,’ answered that young gentleman; and as hesaid it, he winked towards Nicholas, with a degree of familiaritywhich 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 dozensecretaryships had dwindled down to one. Mr Gregsbury, thegreat member of parliament, of Manchester Buildings,Westminster, wanted a young man, to keep his papers andcorrespondence in order; and Nicholas was exactly the sort ofyoung man that Mr Gregsbury wanted.
　　‘I don’t know what the terms are, as he said he’d settle themhimself with the party,’ observed the fat lady; ‘but they must bepretty good ones, because he’s a member of parliament.’
　　Inexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not feel quite assured ofthe force of this reasoning, or the justice of this conclusion; butwithout 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 ManchesterBuildings isn’t a large place; and if the worst comes to the worst itwon’t take you very long to knock at all the doors on both sides ofthe way till you find him out. I say, what a good-looking gal thatwas, wasn’t she?’
　　‘What girl?’ demanded Nicholas, sternly.
　　‘Oh yes. I know—what gal, eh?’ whispered Tom, shutting oneeye, and cocking his chin in the air. ‘You didn’t see her, youdidn’t—I say, don’t you wish you was me, when she comestomorrow morning?’
　　Nicholas looked at the ugly clerk, as if he had a mind to rewardhis admiration of the young lady by beating the ledger about hisears, but he refrained, and strode haughtily out of the office;setting at defiance, in his indignation, those ancient laws ofchivalry, which not only made it proper and lawful for all goodknights to hear the praise of the ladies to whom they were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon them to roam about theworld, and knock at head all such matter-of-fact and un-poeticalcharacters, as declined to exalt, above all the earth, damsels whomthey had never chanced to look upon or hear of—as if that wereany excuse!
　　Thinking no longer of his own misfortunes, but wondering whatcould be those of the beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, withmany wrong turns, and many inquiries, and almost as manymisdirections, bent his steps towards the place whither he hadbeen directed.
　　Within the precincts of the ancient city of Westminster, andwithin half a quarter of a mile of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrowand dirty region, the sanctuary of the smaller members ofParliament in modern days. It is all comprised in one street ofgloomy lodging-houses, from whose windows, in vacation-time,there frown long melancholy rows of bills, which say, as plainly asdid the countenances of their occupiers, ranged on ministerial andopposition benches in the session which slumbers with its fathers,‘To Let’, ‘To Let’. In busier periods of the year these billsdisappear, and the houses swarm with legislators. There arelegislators in the parlours, in the first floor, in the second, in thethird, in the garrets; the small apartments reek with the breath ofdeputations and delegates. In damp weather, the place is renderedclose, by the steams of moist acts of parliament and frouzypetitions; general postmen grow faint as they enter its infectedlimits, and shabby figures in quest of franks, flit restlessly to andfro 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 sweepingacross the water which washes the Buildings’ feet, impels thesound towards its entrance—the weak, shrill voice of some youngmember practising tomorrow’s speech. All the livelong day, thereis a grinding of organs and clashing and clanging of little boxes ofmusic; for Manchester Buildings is an eel-pot, which has no outletbut its awkward mouth—a case-bottle which has no thoroughfare,and a short and narrow neck—and in this respect it may be typicalof the fate of some few among its more adventurous residents,who, after wriggling themselves into Parliament by violent effortsand contortions, find that it, too, is no thoroughfare for them; that,like Manchester Buildings, it leads to nothing beyond itself; andthat they are fain at last to back out, no wiser, no richer, not onewhit more famous, than they went in.
　　Into Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned, with the address ofthe great Mr Gregsbury in his hand. As there was a stream ofpeople pouring into a shabby house not far from the entrance, hewaited until they had made their way in, and then making up tothe servant, ventured to inquire if he knew where Mr Gregsburylived.
　　The servant was a very pale, shabby boy, who looked as if hehad slept underground from his infancy, as very likely he had. ‘MrGregsbury?’ said he; ‘Mr Gregsbury lodges here. It’s all right.
　　Come in!’
　　Nicholas thought he might as well get in while he could, so inhe walked; and he had no sooner done so, than the boy shut thedoor, 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 aconfused crowd of persons with great importance depicted in theirlooks; who were, to all appearance, waiting in silent expectation ofsome coming event. From time to time, one man would whisperhis neighbour, or a little group would whisper together, and thenthe whisperers would nod fiercely to each other, or give theirheads a relentless shake, as if they were bent upon doingsomething very desperate, and were determined not to be put off,whatever happened.
　　As a few minutes elapsed without anything occurring to explainthis phenomenon, and as he felt his own position a peculiarlyuncomfortable one, Nicholas was on the point of seeking someinformation from the man next him, when a sudden move wasvisible 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 towalk down with great alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinarypoliteness, 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 theydid it, without thinking of it, inasmuch as the other gentlemenpressing some half-dozen (among whom was Nicholas) forward,and closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up the stairs, butinto the very sitting-room of Mr Gregsbury, which they were thuscompelled to enter with most unseemly precipitation, and withoutthe means of retreat; the press behind them, more than filling theapartment.
　　‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Gregsbury, ‘you are welcome. I amrejoiced to see you.’
　　 For a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a body of visitors, MrGregsbury looked as uncomfortable as might be; but perhaps thiswas occasioned by senatorial gravity, and a statesmanlike habit ofkeeping his feelings under control. He was a tough, burly, thickheaded gentleman, with a loud voice, a pompous manner, atolerable command of sentences with no meaning in them, and, inshort, every requisite for a very good member indeed.
　　‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr Gregsbury, tossing a great bundle ofpapers into a wicker basket at his feet, and throwing himself backin his chair with his arms over the elbows, ‘you are dissatisfiedwith my conduct, I see by the newspapers.’
　　‘Yes, Mr Gregsbury, we are,’ said a plump old gentleman in aviolent heat, bursting out of the throng, and planting himself inthe front.
　　‘Do my eyes deceive me,’ said Mr Gregsbury, looking towardsthe speaker, ‘or is that my old friend Pugstyles?’
　　‘I am that man, and no other, sir,’ replied the plump oldgentleman.
　　‘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 yourconduct, Mr Gregsbury, has rendered this deputation from yourconstituents imperatively necessary.’
　　‘My conduct, Pugstyles,’ said Mr Gregsbury, looking roundupon the deputation with gracious magnanimity—’ my conducthas been, and ever will be, regulated by a sincere regard for thetrue and real interests of this great and happy country. Whether Ilook at home, or abroad; whether I behold the peaceful industriouscommunities of our island home: her rivers covered with steamboats, her roads with locomotives, her streets with cabs, herskies with balloons of a power and magnitude hitherto unknownin 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 isoutspread before me, I clasp my hands, and turning my eyes to thebroad expanse above my head, exclaim, “Thank Heaven, I am aBriton!”’
　　The time had been, when this burst of enthusiasm would havebeen cheered to the very echo; but now, the deputation received itwith chilling coldness. The general impression seemed to be, thatas an explanation of Mr Gregsbury’s political conduct, it did notenter quite enough into detail; and one gentleman in the rear didnot scruple to remark aloud, that, for his purpose, it savouredrather too much of a ‘gammon’ tendency.
　　‘The meaning of that term—gammon,’ said Mr Gregsbury, ‘isunknown to me. If it means that I grow a little too fervid, orperhaps even hyperbolical, in extolling my native land, I admit thefull justice of the remark. I am proud of this free and happycountry. My form dilates, my eye glistens, my breast heaves, myheart swells, my bosom burns, when I call to mind her greatnessand her glory.’
　　‘We wish, sir,’ remarked Mr Pugstyles, calmly, ‘to ask you a fewquestions.’
　　‘If you please, gentlemen; my time is yours—and mycountry’s—and my country’s—’ said Mr Gregsbury.
　　This permission being conceded, Mr Pugstyles put on hisspectacles, and referred to a written paper which he drew from his pocket; whereupon nearly every other member of the deputationpulled 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 avoluntary pledge previous to your election, that in event of yourbeing returned, you would immediately put down the practice ofcoughing and groaning in the House of Commons. And whetheryou did not submit to be coughed and groaned down in the veryfirst debate of the session, and have since made no effort to effect areform in this respect? Whether you did not also pledge yourself toastonish the government, and make them shrink in their shoes?
　　And whether you have astonished them, and made them shrink intheir shoes, or not?’
　　‘Go on to the next one, my dear Pugstyles,’ said Mr Gregsbury.
　　‘Have you any explanation to offer with reference to thatquestion, 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 avery 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 givea voluntary pledge that you would support your colleague on everyoccasion; and whether you did not, the night before last, deserthim and vote upon the other side, because the wife of a leader onthat 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, whohad only seen him at canvassing or election time, were struckdumb by his coolness. He didn’t appear like the same man; thenhe was all milk and honey; now he was all starch and vinegar. Butmen 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 opposeeverything proposed; to divide the house upon every question, tomove for returns on every subject, to place a motion on the booksevery day, and, in short, in your own memorable words, to play thevery devil with everything and everybody?’ With thiscomprehensive inquiry, Mr Pugstyles folded up his list ofquestions, as did all his backers.
　　Mr Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw himself furtherback in his chair, came forward again, leaning his elbows on thetable, made a triangle with his two thumbs and his two forefingers,and tapping his nose with the apex thereof, replied (smiling as hesaid it), ‘I deny everything.’
　　At this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur arose from thedeputation; and the same gentleman who had expressed anopinion relative to the gammoning nature of the introductoryspeech, again made a monosyllabic demonstration, by growlingout ‘Resign!’ Which growl being taken up by his fellows, swelledinto a very earnest and general remonstrance.
　　‘I am requested, sir, to express a hope,’ said Mr Pugstyles, witha distant bow, ‘that on receiving a requisition to that effect from agreat majority of your constituents, you will not object at once toresign 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 freeand happy country, whose powers and resources are, I sincerelybelieve, illimitable—I value that noble independence which is anEnglishman’s proudest boast, and which I fondly hope to bequeathto my children, untarnished and unsullied. Actuated by nopersonal motives, but moved only by high and great constitutionalconsiderations; which I will not attempt to explain, for they arereally beneath the comprehension of those who have not madethemselves masters, as I have, of the intricate and arduous studyof politics; I would rather keep my seat, and intend doing so.
　　‘Will you do me the favour to present my compliments to theconstituent 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 thespokesman.
　　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 thenarrowness 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 ordone a more than commonly good thing; he was so engrossed inthis self-congratulation, that he did not observe that Nicholas hadbeen left behind in the shadow of the window-curtains, until thatyoung gentleman, fearing he might otherwise overhear somesoliloquy intended to have no listeners, coughed twice or thrice, toattract 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 uponmy 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,’ saidNicholas.
　　‘Then how came you here, sir?’ was the natural inquiry of MrGregsbury, 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,’ saidNicholas, ‘wishing to offer myself as your secretary, andunderstanding that you stood in need of one.’
　　‘That’s all you have come for, is it?’ said Mr Gregsbury, eyeinghim in some doubt.
　　Nicholas replied in the affirmative.
　　‘You have no connection with any of those rascally papers haveyou?’ said Mr Gregsbury. ‘You didn’t get into the room, to hearwhat was going forward, and put it in print, eh?’
　　‘I have no connection, I am sorry to say, with anything atpresent,’ 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 along time, as if to make certain, before he asked any furtherquestions, that there were no objections to his outwardappearance.
　　‘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 whatusually 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,’ saidNicholas, 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; andpossibly, sir,’ said Nicholas, with a half-smile, ‘the copying of yourspeech for some public journal, when you have made one of morethan usual importance.’
　　‘Certainly,’ rejoined Mr Gregsbury. ‘What else?’
　　‘Really,’ said Nicholas, after a moment’s reflection, ‘I am notable, 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 undertakesto perform, and which the designation of his office is usuallyunderstood to imply.’
　　Mr Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas for a short time, andthen 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 itgoes—so far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough. There areother duties, Mr Nickleby, which a secretary to a parliamentarygentleman must never lose sight of. I should require to becrammed, sir.’
　　‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed Nicholas, doubtful whether hehad 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 witha solemn aspect. ‘My secretary would have to make himself masterof the foreign policy of the world, as it is mirrored in thenewspapers; to run his eye over all accounts of public meetings, allleading articles, and accounts of the proceedings of public bodies;and to make notes of anything which it appeared to him might bemade a point of, in any little speech upon the question of somepetition lying on the table, or anything of that kind. Do youunderstand?’
　　‘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 newspaperparagraphs on passing events; such as “Mysterious disappearance,and supposed suicide of a potboy,” or anything of that sort, uponwhich I might found a question to the Secretary of State for theHome Department. Then, he would have to copy the question, andas much as I remembered of the answer (including a littlecompliment about independence and good sense); and to send themanuscript in a frank to the local paper, with perhaps half-adozen lines of leader, to the effect, that I was always to be found inmy place in parliament, and never shrunk from the responsibleand 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 wellon timber duty questions, and finance questions, and so on; and Ishould like him to get up a few little arguments about thedisastrous effects of a return to cash payments and a metalliccurrency, with a touch now and then about the exportation ofbullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank notes, and all thatkind 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,’ continuedMr Gregsbury, warming; ‘and which one can’t be expected to carea curse about, beyond the natural care of not allowing inferiorpeople to be as well off as ourselves—else where are ourprivileges?—I should wish my secretary to get together a few littleflourishing speeches, of a patriotic cast. For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought forward, for giving poor grubbingdevils of authors a right to their own property, I should like to say,that I for one would never consent to opposing an insurmountablebar to the diffusion of literature among The People,—youunderstand?—that the creations of the pocket, being man’s, mightbelong to one man, or one family; but that the creations of thebrain, being God’s, ought as a matter of course to belong to thepeople at large—and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should like tomake a joke about posterity, and say that those who wrote forposterity should be content to be rewarded by the approbation OFposterity; it might take with the house, and could never do me anyharm, because posterity can’t be expected to know anything aboutme 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 ourinterests are not affected,’ said Mr Gregsbury, ‘to put it very strongabout the people, because it comes out very well at election-time;and you could be as funny as you liked about the authors; becauseI believe the greater part of them live in lodgings, and are notvoters. 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 greatdebates, sitting in the front row of the gallery, and saying to thepeople about—“You see that gentleman, with his hand to his face,and his arm twisted round the pillar—that’s Mr Gregsbury—thecelebrated Mr Gregsbury,”—with any other little eulogium thatmight strike you at the moment. And for salary,’ said MrGregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for he was out ofbreath—‘and for salary, I don’t mind saying at once in round numbers, to prevent any dissatisfaction—though it’s more thanI’ve been accustomed to give—fifteen shillings a week, and findyourself. There!’
　　With this handsome offer, Mr Gregsbury once more threwhimself back in his chair, and looked like a man who had beenmost profligately liberal, but is determined not to repent of itnotwithstanding.
　　‘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,’ repliedNicholas; ‘for I am not ashamed to confess, that whatever it maybe in itself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties andresponsibilities make the recompense small, and they are so veryheavy that I fear to undertake them.’
　　‘Do you decline to undertake them, sir?’ inquired MrGregsbury, with his hand on the bell-rope.
　　‘I fear they are too great for my powers, however good my willmay be, sir,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept theplace, and that you consider fifteen shillings a week too little,’ saidMr 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,’ saidNicholas,‘I am sorry you have,’ rejoined Mr Gregsbury, turning his backupon him. ‘Door, Matthews!’
　　‘Good-morning, sir,’ said Nicholas.
　　 ‘Door, Matthews!’ cried Mr Gregsbury.
　　The boy beckoned Nicholas, and tumbling lazily downstairsbefore 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 lastnight’s supper, and was anxiously awaiting his return. Theoccurrences of the morning had not improved Nicholas’s appetite,and, by him, the dinner remained untasted. He was sitting in athoughtful attitude, with the plate which the poor fellow hadassiduously filled with the choicest morsels, untouched, by hisside, 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 gaveNewman an account of his proceedings.
　　‘If I could do anything,’ said Nicholas, ‘anything, howeverslight, until Ralph Nickleby returns, and I have eased my mind byconfronting him, I should feel happier. I should think it nodisgrace 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 wouldpay the rent, and more—but you wouldn’t like them; no, you couldhardly 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, anyhonest means by which I could even defray the weekly hire of this poor room, and see if I shrink from resorting to them! Undergo! Ihave undergone too much, my friend, to feel pride orsqueamishness now. Except—’ added Nicholas hastily, after ashort 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 meanand ignorant upstart, be he member or no member.’
　　‘I hardly know whether I should tell you what I heard thismorning, 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,’ saidNicholas. ‘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 ofmost unaccountable and entangled sentences, the upshot of whichwas, that Mrs Kenwigs had examined him, at great length thatmorning, touching the origin of his acquaintance with, and thewhole life, adventures, and pedigree of, Nicholas; that Newmanhad parried these questions as long as he could, but being, atlength, hard pressed and driven into a corner, had gone so far asto admit, that Nicholas was a tutor of great accomplishments,involved in some misfortunes which he was not at liberty toexplain, and bearing the name of Johnson. That Mrs Kenwigs,impelled by gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or maternallove, or all four powerful motives conjointly, had taken secretconference with Mr Kenwigs, and had finally returned to proposethat Mr Johnson should instruct the four Miss Kenwigses in the French language as spoken by natives, at the weekly stipend offive shillings, current coin of the realm; being at the rate of oneshilling per week, per each Miss Kenwigs, and one shilling over,until such time as the baby might be able to take it out ingrammar.
　　‘Which, unless I am very much mistaken,’ observed MrsKenwigs in making the proposition, ‘will not be very long; for suchclever children, Mr Noggs, never were born into this world, I dobelieve.’
　　‘There,’ said Newman, ‘that’s all. It’s beneath you, I know; but Ithought that perhaps you might—’
　　‘Might!’ cried Nicholas, with great alacrity; ‘of course I shall. Iaccept the offer at once. Tell the worthy mother so, without delay,my dear fellow; and that I am ready to begin whenever shepleases.’
　　Newman hastened, with joyful steps, to inform Mrs Kenwigs ofhis friend’s acquiescence, and soon returning, brought back wordthat they would be happy to see him in the first floor as soon asconvenient; that Mrs Kenwigs had, upon the instant, sent out tosecure a second-hand French grammar and dialogues, which hadlong been fluttering in the sixpenny box at the bookstall round thecorner; and that the family, highly excited at the prospect of thisaddition to their gentility, wished the initiatory lesson to come offimmediately.
　　And here it may be observed, that Nicholas was not, in theordinary sense of the word, a young man of high spirit. He wouldresent an affront to himself, or interpose to redress a wrongoffered to another, as boldly and freely as any knight that ever setlance in rest; but he lacked that peculiar excess of coolness and great-minded selfishness, which invariably distinguish gentlemenof high spirit. In truth, for our own part, we are disposed to lookupon such gentleman as being rather incumbrances thanotherwise in rising families: happening to be acquainted withseveral whose spirit prevents their settling down to any grovellingoccupation, and only displays itself in a tendency to cultivatemoustachios, and look fierce; and although moustachios andferocity are both very pretty things in their way, and very much tobe commended, we confess to a desire to see them bred at theowner’s proper cost, rather than at the expense of low-spiritedpeople.
　　Nicholas, therefore, not being a high-spirited young manaccording to common parlance, and deeming it a greaterdegradation to borrow, for the supply of his necessities, fromNewman Noggs, than to teach French to the little Kenwigses forfive shillings a week, accepted the offer with the alacrity alreadydescribed, and betook himself to the first floor with all convenientspeed.
　　Here, he was received by Mrs Kenwigs with a genteel air,kindly intended to assure him of her protection and support; andhere, too, he found Mr Lillyvick and Miss Petowker; the four MissKenwigses on their form of audience; and the baby in a dwarfporter’s chair with a deal tray before it, amusing himself with a toyhorse without a head; the said horse being composed of a smallwooden cylinder, not unlike an Italian iron, supported on fourcrooked pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of red wafersset in blacking.
　　‘How do you do, Mr Johnson?’ said Mrs Kenwigs. ‘Uncle—MrJohnson.’
　　 ‘How do you do, sir?’ said Mr Lillyvick—rather sharply; for hehad not known what Nicholas was, on the previous night, and itwas rather an aggravating circumstance if a tax collector had beentoo 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 thatwill not make them proud; but that they will bless their own goodfortune, which has born them superior to common people’schildren. Do you hear, Morleena?’
　　‘Yes, ma,’ replied Miss Kenwigs.
　　‘And when you go out in the streets, or elsewhere, I desire thatyou don’t boast of it to the other children,’ said Mrs Kenwigs; ‘andthat 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 weain’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 MrsKenwigs. ‘Shall Mr Johnson begin, uncle?’
　　‘I am ready to hear, if Mr Johnson is ready to commence, mydear,’ 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; ‘apretty language, a sensible language?’
　　‘A pretty language, certainly,’ replied Nicholas; ‘and as it has aname for everything, and admits of elegant conversation abouteverything, I presume it is a sensible one.’
　　 ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Lillyvick, doubtfully. ‘Do you call it acheerful 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, scarcelyable 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 cheerfullanguage. I should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can onlysay that I’ve heard the French prisoners, who were natives, andought to know how to speak it, talking in such a dismal manner,that it made one miserable to hear them. Ay, that I have, fiftytimes, sir—fifty times!’
　　Mr Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs Kenwigs thought itexpedient to motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was notuntil Miss Petowker had practised several blandishments, tosoften the excellent old gentleman, that he deigned to breaksilence by asking,‘What’s the water in French, sir?’
　　‘L’eau,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Ah!’ said Mr Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, ‘I thoughtas much. Lo, eh? I don’t think anything of that language—nothingat 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 ina 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, thatMorleena would have it all by heart in no time; and Mr Lillyvickregarded the group with frowning and attentive eyes, lying in waitfor something upon which he could open a fresh discussion on thelanguage.
Chapter 17
Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby.
　　It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which noeffort could banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morningappointed for the commencement of her engagement withMadame Mantalini, left the city when its clocks yet wanted aquarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her way alone, amid thenoise and bustle of the streets, towards the west end of London.
　　At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that ofthe poor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery thatbedecks the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets,making towards the scene of their daily labour, and catching, as ifby stealth, in their hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome airand glimpse of sunlight which cheer their monotonous existenceduring the long train of hours that make a working day. As shedrew nigh to the more fashionable quarter of the town, Katemarked many of this class as they passed by, hurrying like herselfto their painful occupation, and saw, in their unhealthy looks andfeeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her misgivings were notwholly groundless.
　　She arrived at Madame Mantalini’s some minutes before theappointed hour, and after walking a few times up and down, in thehope that some other female might arrive and spare her theembarrassment of stating her business to the servant, knockedtimidly at the door: which, after some delay, was opened by thefootman, 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 tonewhich rendered “Miss,” something more offensive than “My dear.”
　　‘Can I see her?’ asked Kate.
　　‘Eh?’ replied the man, holding the door in his hand, andhonouring the inquirer with a stare and a broad grin, ‘Lord, no.’
　　‘I came by her own appointment,’ said Kate; ‘I am—I am—to beemployed 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, Iforgot—Miss Nickleby, is it?’
　　‘Yes,’ replied Kate.
　　‘You’re to walk upstairs then, please,’ said the man. ‘MadameMantalini wants to see you—this way—take care of these things onthe floor.’
　　Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneouslitter of pastry-cook’s trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and pilesof rout seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeakinga late party on the previous night, the man led the way to thesecond story, and ushered Kate into a back-room, communicatingby folding-doors with the apartment in which she had first seenthe mistress of the establishment.
　　‘If you’ll wait here a minute,’ said the man, ‘I’ll tell herpresently.’ Having made this promise with much affability, heretired and left Kate alone.
　　There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the mostattractive 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 giftof Madame Mantalini before her marriage. There was, however,the sound of voices in conversation in the next room; and as theconversation was loud and the partition thin, Kate could not helpdiscovering that they belonged to Mr and Mrs Mantalini.
　　‘If you will be odiously, demnebly, outrigeously jealous, mysoul,’ said Mr Mantalini, ‘you will be very miserable—horridmiserable—demnition miserable.’ And then, there was a sound asthough Mr Mantalini were sipping his coffee.
　　‘I am miserable,’ returned Madame Mantalini, evidentlypouting.
　　‘Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful littlefairy,’ said Mr Mantalini.
　　‘I am not,’ returned Madame, with a sob.
　　‘Do not put itself out of humour,’ said Mr Mantalini, breakingan egg. ‘It is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and itshould not be out of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makesit cross and gloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.’
　　‘I am not to be brought round in that way, always,’ rejoinedMadame, sulkily.
　　‘It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and notbrought 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 MrMantalini; ‘for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of eggdoes not match any waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.’
　　‘You were flirting with her during the whole night,’ saidMadame 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 thetime!’ cried Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture. ‘Oh, demmit!’
　　‘And I say once more,’ resumed Madame, ‘that you ought not towaltz 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?’ saidMantalini; who, by the altered sound of his voice, seemed to havemoved his chair, and taken up his position nearer to his wife. ‘Shewill not take poison, because she had a demd fine husband whomight have married two countesses and a dowager—’
　　‘Two countesses,’ interposed Madame. ‘You told me onebefore!’
　　‘Two!’ cried Mantalini. ‘Two demd fine women, real countessesand splendid fortunes, demmit.’
　　‘And why didn’t you?’ asked Madame, playfully.
　　‘Why didn’t I!’ replied her husband. ‘Had I not seen, at amorning concert, the demdest little fascinator in all the world, andwhile that little fascinator is my wife, may not all the countessesand dowagers in England be—’
　　Mr Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave MadameMantalini a very loud kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned;after which, there seemed to be some more kissing mixed up withthe progress of the breakfast.
　　‘And what about the cash, my existence’s jewel?’ saidMantalini, when these endearments ceased. ‘How much have wein hand?’
　　 ‘Very little indeed,’ replied Madame.
　　‘We must have some more,’ said Mantalini; ‘we must have somediscount 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 forsale 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 guineasdown will buy him; mane, and crest, and legs, and tail, all of thedemdest beauty. I will ride him in the park before the verychariots of the rejected countesses. The demd old dowager willfaint with grief and rage; the other two will say “He is married, hehas made away with himself, it is a demd thing, it is all up!” Theywill hate each other demnebly, and wish you dead and buried. Ha!
　　ha! Demmit.’
　　Madame Mantalini’s prudence, if she had any, was not proofagainst these triumphal pictures; after a little jingling of keys, sheobserved that she would see what her desk contained, and risingfor that purpose, opened the folding-door, and walked into theroom where Kate was seated.
　　‘Dear me, child!’ exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling insurprise. ‘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 forgottento 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 sucha 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, toMiss Nickleby, who turned away.
　　Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the business tooksome papers from her desk which she handed over to MrMantalini, who received them with great delight. She thenrequested Kate to follow her, and after several feints on the part ofMr Mantalini to attract the young lady’s attention, they went away:
　　leaving that gentleman extended at full length on the sofa, with hisheels in the air and a newspaper in his hand.
　　Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, andthrough a passage, to a large room at the back of the premiseswhere were a number of young women employed in sewing,cutting out, making up, altering, and various other processesknown only to those who are cunning in the arts of millinery anddressmaking. It was a close room with a skylight, and as dull andquiet as a room need be.
　　On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short,bustling, over-dressed female, full of importance, presentedherself, and all the young ladies suspending their operations forthe moment, whispered to each other sundry criticisms upon themake and texture of Miss Nickleby’s dress, her complexion, cast offeatures, and personal appearance, with as much good breeding ascould have been displayed by the very best society in a crowdedball-room.
　　 ‘Oh, Miss Knag,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘this is the youngperson I spoke to you about.’
　　Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon MadameMantalini, which she dexterously transformed into a gracious onefor Kate, and said that certainly, although it was a great deal oftrouble to have young people who were wholly unused to thebusiness, still, she was sure the young person would try to do herbest—impressed with which conviction she (Miss Knag) felt aninterest in her, already.
　　‘I think that, for the present at all events, it will be better forMiss Nickleby to come into the show-room with you, and trythings on for people,’ said Madame Mantalini. ‘She will not be ablefor the present to be of much use in any other way; and herappearance will—’
　　‘Suit very well with mine, Madame Mantalini,’ interrupted MissKnag. ‘So it will; and to be sure I might have known that youwould not be long in finding that out; for you have so much tastein all those matters, that really, as I often say to the young ladies, Ido not know how, when, or where, you possibly could haveacquired all you know—hem—Miss Nickleby and I are quite apair, Madame Mantalini, only I am a little darker than MissNickleby, and—hem—I think my foot may be a little smaller. MissNickleby, I am sure, will not be offended at my saying that, whenshe hears that our family always have been celebrated for smallfeet ever since—hem—ever since our family had any feet at all,indeed, I think. I had an uncle once, Madame Mantalini, who livedin Cheltenham, and had a most excellent business as atobacconist—hem—who had such small feet, that they were nobigger than those which are usually joined to wooden legs—the most symmetrical feet, Madame Mantalini, that even you canimagine.’
　　‘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 readyhumour—hem—I ever heard anywhere”—and I have heard a gooddeal; for when my dear brother was alive (I kept house for him,Miss Nickleby), we had to supper once a week two or three youngmen, highly celebrated in those days for their humour, MadameMantalini—“Of all the ready humour,” I say to the young ladies, “Iever heard, Madame Mantalini’s is the most remarkable—hem. Itis so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so good-natured (as I wasobserving to Miss Simmonds only this morning), that how, orwhen, or by what means she acquired it, is to me a mysteryindeed.”’
　　Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses itmay be observed—not that she was marvellously loquacious andmarvellously deferential to Madame Mantalini, since these arefacts which require no comment; but that every now and then, shewas accustomed, in the torrent of her discourse, to introduce aloud, shrill, clear ‘hem!’ the import and meaning of which, wasvariously interpreted by her acquaintance; some holding that MissKnag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the monosyllablewhen 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. Itmay be further remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although she had shot beyond it, years ago; and that she was weakand vain, and one of those people who are best described by theaxiom, that you may trust them as far as you can see them, and nofarther.
　　‘You’ll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, andso 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 MadameMantalini had directed, was a moral impossibility; and that lady,dispensing a general good-morning among her assistants, sailedaway.
　　‘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 herbonnet; ‘but as my opinion is of very little importance to him oranyone else, I do not regret having formed it, and shall be slow tochange it, I think.’
　　‘He is a very fine man, don’t you think so?’ asked one of theyoung ladies.
　　 ‘Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,’
　　replied Kate.
　　‘And drives very beautiful horses, doesn’t he?’ inquiredanother.
　　‘I dare say he may, but I never saw them,’ answered Kate.
　　‘Never saw them!’ interposed Miss Knag. ‘Oh, well! There it isat once you know; how can you possibly pronounce an opinionabout a gentleman—hem—if you don’t see him as he turns outaltogether?’
　　There was so much of the world—even of the little world of thecountry girl—in this idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who wasanxious, for every reason, to change the subject, made no furtherremark, and left Miss Knag in possession of the field.
　　After a short silence, during which most of the young peoplemade a closer inspection of Kate’s appearance, and comparednotes respecting it, one of them offered to help her off with hershawl, and the offer being accepted, inquired whether she did notfind black very uncomfortable wear.
　　‘I do indeed,’ replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.
　　‘So dusty and hot,’ observed the same speaker, adjusting herdress for her.
　　Kate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldestwear which mortals can assume; that it not only chills the breastsof those it clothes, but extending its influence to summer friends,freezes up their sources of good-will and kindness, and witheringall the buds of promise they once so liberally put forth, leavesnothing but bared and rotten hearts exposed. There are few whohave lost a friend or relative constituting in life their soledependence, who have not keenly felt this chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt it acutely, and feeling it at themoment, could not quite restrain her tears.
　　‘I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtlessspeech,’ said her companion. ‘I did not think of it. You are inmourning for some near relation?’
　　‘For my father,’ answered Kate.
　　‘For what relation, Miss Simmonds?’ asked Miss Knag, in anaudible voice.
　　‘Her father,’ replied the other softly.
　　‘Her father, eh?’ said Miss Knag, without the slightestdepression 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 Imight perhaps, at a time like this, be enabled to support it better.’
　　There had existed not a little desire in the room, according toinvariable custom, when any new ‘young person’ came, to knowwho Kate was, and what she was, and all about her; but, althoughit might have been very naturally increased by her appearanceand 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 particularsjust then, reluctantly commanded silence, and bade the workproceed.
　　In silence, then, the tasks were plied until half-past one, when abaked leg of mutton, with potatoes to correspond, were served inthe kitchen. The meal over, and the young ladies having enjoyedthe additional relaxation of washing their hands, the work beganagain, and was again performed in silence, until the noise ofcarriages rattling through the streets, and of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day’s work of the more fortunatemembers 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 andgreatness—who had come with her daughter to approve of somecourt-dresses which had been a long time preparing, and uponwhom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by Miss Knag, andofficered of course by Madame Mantalini.
　　Kate’s part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties beinglimited to holding articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready totry them on, and now and then tying a string, or fastening a hook-and-eye. She might, not unreasonably, have supposed herselfbeneath the reach of any arrogance, or bad humour; but ithappened that the lady and daughter were both out of temper thatday, and the poor girl came in for her share of their revilings. Shewas awkward—her hands were cold—dirty—coarse—she could donothing right; they wondered how Madame Mantalini could havesuch people about her; requested they might see some otheryoung woman the next time they came; and so forth.
　　So common an occurrence would be hardly deserving ofmention, but for its effect. Kate shed many bitter tears when thesepeople were gone, and felt, for the first time, humbled by heroccupation. She had, it is true, quailed at the prospect of drudgeryand hard service; but she had felt no degradation in working forher bread, until she found herself exposed to insolence and pride.
　　Philosophy would have taught her that the degradation was on theside of those who had sunk so low as to display such passionshabitually, and without cause: but she was too young for such consolation, and her honest feeling was hurt. May not thecomplaint, that common people are above their station, often takeits rise in the fact of uncommon people being below theirs?
　　In such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nineo’clock, when Kate, jaded and dispirited with the occurrences ofthe day, hastened from the confinement of the workroom, to joinher mother at the street corner, and walk home:—the more sadly,from having to disguise her real feelings, and feign to participatein all the sanguine visions of her companion.
　　‘Bless my soul, Kate,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘I’ve been thinking allday what a delightful thing it would be for Madame Mantalini totake 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 atHammersmith, and made her fortune in no time at all. I forget, by-the-bye, whether that Miss Browndock was the same lady that gotthe 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. “Mantaliniand Nickleby”, how well it would sound!—and if Nicholas has anygood fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the head-master ofWestminster School, living in the same street.’
　　‘Dear Nicholas!’ cried Kate, taking from her reticule herbrother’s letter from Dotheboys Hall. ‘In all our misfortunes, howhappy it makes me, mama, to hear he is doing well, and to findhim writing in such good spirits! It consoles me for all we mayundergo, 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 threewhole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her forevermore. The Causes which led Miss Knag to formthis Resolution.
　　There are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering,which, having no stirring interest for any but those wholead them, are disregarded by persons who do not wantthought or feeling, but who pamper their compassion and needhigh 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 ofpleasure in theirs; and hence it is that diseased sympathy andcompassion are every day expended on out-of-the-way objects,when only too many demands upon the legitimate exercise of thesame virtues in a healthy state, are constantly within the sight andhearing of the most unobservant person alive. In short, charitymust have its romance, as the novelist or playwright must havehis. A thief in fustian is a vulgar character, scarcely to be thoughtof by persons of refinement; but dress him in green velvet, with ahigh-crowned hat, and change the scene of his operations, from athickly-peopled city, to a mountain road, and you shall find in himthe very soul of poetry and adventure. So it is with the one greatcardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and exercised, leads to,if it does not necessarily include, all the others. It must have itsromance; 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, inconsequence of the unforeseen train of circumstances alreadydeveloped in this narrative, was a hard one; but lest the verydulness, unhealthy confinement, and bodily fatigue, which madeup its sum and substance, should deprive it of any interest withthe mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would rather keepMiss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in theoutset, by a minute and lengthened description of theestablishment presided over by Madame Mantalini.
　　‘Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,’ said Miss Knag, as Katewas taking her weary way homewards on the first night of hernovitiate; ‘that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable young person—avery creditable young person indeed—hem—upon my word,Madame Mantalini, it does very extraordinary credit even to yourdiscrimination that you should have found such a very excellent,very well-behaved, very—hem—very unassuming young woman toassist in the fitting on. I have seen some young women when theyhad the opportunity of displaying before their betters, behave insuch a—oh, dear—well—but you’re always right, MadameMantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies, howyou do contrive to be always right, when so many people are sooften wrong, is to me a mystery indeed.’
　　‘Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, MissNickleby has not done anything very remarkable today—that I amaware of, at least,’ said Madame Mantalini in reply.
　　‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Knag; ‘but you must allow a great deal forinexperience, you know.’
　　‘And youth?’ inquired Madame.
　　 ‘Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,’ replied MissKnag, reddening; ‘because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn’thave—’
　　‘Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,’ suggestedMadame.
　　‘Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,’
　　rejoined Miss Knag most complacently, ‘and that’s the fact, for youknow what one’s going to say, before it has time to rise to one’slips. Oh, very good! Ha, ha, ha!’
　　‘For myself,’ observed Madame Mantalini, glancing withaffected carelessness at her assistant, and laughing heartily in hersleeve, ‘I consider Miss Nickleby the most awkward girl I ever sawin my life.’
　　‘Poor dear thing,’ said Miss Knag, ‘it’s not her fault. If it was, wemight hope to cure it; but as it’s her misfortune, MadameMantalini, why really you know, as the man said about the blindhorse, we ought to respect it.’
　　‘Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,’ remarkedMadame Mantalini. ‘I think her one of the most ordinary girls Iever met with.’
　　‘Ordinary!’ cried Miss Knag with a countenance beamingdelight; ‘and awkward! Well, all I can say is, Madame Mantalini,that I quite love the poor girl; and that if she was twice asindifferent-looking, and twice as awkward as she is, I should beonly so much the more her friend, and that’s the truth of it.’
　　In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for KateNickleby, after witnessing her failure that morning, and this shortconversation with her superior increased the favourableprepossession to a most surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as when she first scanned that young lady’s face andfigure, she had entertained certain inward misgivings that theywould never agree.
　　‘But now,’ said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herselfin a mirror at no great distance, ‘I love her—I quite love her—Ideclare I do!’
　　Of such a highly disinterested quality was this devotedfriendship, and so superior was it to the little weaknesses offlattery or ill-nature, that the kind-hearted Miss Knag candidlyinformed Kate Nickleby, next day, that she saw she would neverdo for the business, but that she need not give herself the slightestuneasiness on this account, for that she (Miss Knag), by increasedexertions on her own part, would keep her as much as possible inthe background, and that all she would have to do, would be toremain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink fromattracting notice by every means in her power. This lastsuggestion was so much in accordance with the timid girl’s ownfeelings and wishes, that she readily promised implicit reliance onthe excellent spinster’s advice: without questioning, or indeedbestowing a moment’s reflection upon, the motives that dictated it.
　　‘I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon myword,’ said Miss Knag; ‘a sister’s interest, actually. It’s the mostsingular circumstance I ever knew.’
　　Undoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a stronginterest in Kate Nickleby, it should not rather have been theinterest of a maiden aunt or grandmother; that being theconclusion to which the difference in their respective ages wouldhave naturally tended. But Miss Knag wore clothes of a veryyouthful pattern, and perhaps her feelings took the same shape.
　　 ‘Bless you!’ said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at theconclusion of the second day’s work, ‘how very awkward you havebeen all day.’
　　‘I fear your kind and open communication, which has renderedme more painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improvedme,’ sighed Kate.
　　‘No, no, I dare say not,’ rejoined Miss Knag, in a mostuncommon flow of good humour. ‘But how much better that youshould know it at first, and so be able to go on, straight andcomfortable! Which way are you walking, my love?’
　　‘Towards the city,’ replied Kate.
　　‘The city!’ cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favourin the glass as she tied her bonnet. ‘Goodness gracious me! now doyou really live in the city?’
　　‘Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?’ asked Kate, halfsmiling.
　　‘I couldn’t have believed it possible that any young womancould have lived there, under any circumstances whatever, forthree 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 MissKnag with that sort of half-sigh, which, accompanied by two orthree slight nods of the head, is pity’s small change in generalsociety; ‘and that’s what I very often tell my brother, when ourservants 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’tit?’
　　‘Very,’ replied Kate.
　　‘I’ll walk with you part of the way, my dear,’ said Miss Knag, ‘foryou must go very near our house; and as it’s quite dark, and ourlast servant went to the hospital a week ago, with St Anthony’s firein her face, I shall be glad of your company.’
　　Kate would willingly have excused herself from this flatteringcompanionship; but Miss Knag having adjusted her bonnet to herentire satisfaction, took her arm with an air which plainly showedhow much she felt the compliment she was conferring, and theywere 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 respectableold person, and I shall be quite—hem—quite pleased to know her.’
　　As poor Mrs Nickleby was cooling—not her heels alone, but herlimbs generally at the street corner, Kate had no alternative but tomake her known to Miss Knag, who, doing the last new carriagecustomer at second-hand, acknowledged the introduction withcondescending politeness. The three then walked away, arm inarm: with Miss Knag in the middle, in a special state of amiability.
　　‘I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs Nickleby, youcan’t think,’ said Miss Knag, after she had proceeded a littledistance in dignified silence.
　　‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘though it isnothing 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,’ saidMrs Nickleby. ‘It is a great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, tohave a child, who knows neither pride nor vanity, and whosebringing-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, itfollowed, very nearly as a matter of course, that she didn’t knowwhat it was to lose one; so she said, in some haste, ‘No, indeed Idon’t,’ and said it with an air intending to signify that she shouldlike to catch herself marrying anybody—no, no, she knew betterthan 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, squeezingKate’s arm in her own, to point the joke.
　　‘She always was clever,’ said poor Mrs Nickleby, brighteningup, ‘always, from a baby. I recollect when she was only two yearsand a half old, that a gentleman who used to visit very much at ourhouse—Mr Watkins, you know, Kate, my dear, that your poorpapa went bail for, who afterwards ran away to the United States,and sent us a pair of snow shoes, with such an affectionate letterthat it made your poor dear father cry for a week. You rememberthe letter? In which he said that he was very sorry he couldn’trepay the fifty pounds just then, because his capital was all out atinterest, and he was very busy making his fortune, but that hedidn’t forget you were his god-daughter, and he should take it veryunkind 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! andspoke so affectionately of the old port wine that he used to drink abottle 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 ifshe were making a tremendous effort to recollect something ofparamount importance; ‘that Mr Watkins—he wasn’t any relation,Miss Knag will understand, to the Watkins who kept the Old Boarin the village; by-the-bye, I don’t remember whether it was the OldBoar 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 wereonly two years and a half old, that you were one of the mostastonishing children he ever saw. He did indeed, Miss Knag, andhe wasn’t at all fond of children, and couldn’t have had theslightest motive for doing it. I know it was he who said so, becauseI recollect, as well as if it was only yesterday, his borrowing twentypounds of her poor dear papa the very moment afterwards.’
　　Having quoted this extraordinary and most disinterestedtestimony to her daughter’s excellence, Mrs Nickleby stopped tobreathe; and Miss Knag, finding that the discourse was turningupon family greatness, lost no time in striking in, with a smallreminiscence on her own account.
　　‘Don’t talk of lending money, Mrs Nickleby,’ said Miss Knag, ‘oryou’ll drive me crazy, perfectly crazy. My mama—hem—was themost lovely and beautiful creature, with the most striking andexquisite—hem—the most exquisite nose that ever was put upon ahuman face, I do believe, Mrs Nickleby (here Miss Knag rubbedher own nose sympathetically); the most delightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she hadthat one failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extentthat she lent—hem—oh! thousands of pounds, all our littlefortunes, and what’s more, Mrs Nickleby, I don’t think, if we wereto live till—till—hem—till the very end of time, that we shouldever get them back again. I don’t indeed.’
　　After concluding this effort of invention without beinginterrupted, Miss Knag fell into many more recollections, no lessinteresting than true, the full tide of which, Mrs Nickleby in vainattempting to stem, at length sailed smoothly down by adding anunder-current of her own recollections; and so both ladies went ontalking together in perfect contentment; the only differencebetween them being, that whereas Miss Knag addressed herself toKate, and talked very loud, Mrs Nickleby kept on in one unbrokenmonotonous flow, perfectly satisfied to be talking and caring verylittle whether anybody listened or not.
　　In this manner they walked on, very amicably, until theyarrived at Miss Knag’s brother’s, who was an ornamental stationerand small circulating library keeper, in a by-street off TottenhamCourt Road; and who let out by the day, week, month, or year, thenewest old novels, whereof the titles were displayed in pen-andink characters on a sheet of pasteboard, swinging at his door-post.
　　As Miss Knag happened, at the moment, to be in the middle of anaccount of her twenty-second offer from a gentleman of largeproperty, she insisted upon their all going in to supper together;and in they went. ‘Don’t go away, Mortimer,’ said Miss Knag asthey entered the shop. ‘It’s only one of our young ladies and hermother. Mrs and Miss Nickleby.’
　　‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mr Mortimer Knag. ‘Ah!’
　　 Having given utterance to these ejaculations with a veryprofound and thoughtful air, Mr Knag slowly snuffed two kitchencandles on the counter, and two more in the window, and thensnuffed himself from a box in his waistcoat pocket.
　　There was something very impressive in the ghostly air withwhich all this was done; and as Mr Knag was a tall lank gentlemanof solemn features, wearing spectacles, and garnished with muchless hair than a gentleman bordering on forty, or thereabouts,usually boasts, Mrs Nickleby whispered her daughter that shethought he must be literary.
　　‘Past ten,’ said Mr Knag, consulting his watch. ‘Thomas, closethe warehouse.’
　　Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and thewarehouse was a shop about the size of three hackney coaches.
　　‘Ah!’ said Mr Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as herestored 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 fromthe counter, and preceded the ladies with mournful steps to aback-parlour, where a charwoman, employed in the absence of thesick servant, and remunerated with certain eighteenpences to bededucted from her wages due, was putting the supper out.
　　‘Mrs Blockson,’ said Miss Knag, reproachfully, ‘how very often Ihave begged you not to come into the room with your bonnet on!’
　　‘I can’t help it, Miss Knag,’ said the charwoman, bridling up onthe shortest notice. ‘There’s been a deal o’cleaning to do in thishouse, and if you don’t like it, I must trouble you to look out forsomebody else, for it don’t hardly pay me, and that’s the truth, if Iwas to be hung this minute.’
　　 ‘I don’t want any remarks if you please,’ said Miss Knag, with astrong emphasis on the personal pronoun. ‘Is there any firedownstairs for some hot water presently?’
　　‘No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,’ replied the substitute; ‘andso 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 Iwould, 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, turningsharp round. ‘I’m only too glad not to speak in this house,excepting when and where I’m spoke to, sir; and with regard tobeing a female, sir, I should wish to know what you consideredyourself?’
　　‘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 yourname, sir,’ said Mrs Blockson; ‘and as I had two twin children theday before yesterday was only seven weeks, and my little Charleyfell down a airy and put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it asa favour if you’ll send nine shillings, for one week’s work, to myhouse, afore the clock strikes ten tomorrow.’
　　With these parting words, the good woman quitted the roomwith great ease of manner, leaving the door wide open; Mr Knag,at the same moment, flung himself into the ‘warehouse,’ andgroaned 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 wasonce most devotedly attached to—hem—to Madame Mantalini.’
　　‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘Yes,’ continued Miss Knag, ‘and received great encouragementtoo, and confidently hoped to marry her. He has a most romanticheart, Mrs Nickleby, as indeed—hem—as indeed all our familyhave, and the disappointment was a dreadful blow. He is awonderfully accomplished man—most extraordinarilyaccomplished—reads—hem—reads every novel that comes out; Imean 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 everyrespect so much like the heroes—because of course he isconscious of his own superiority, as we all are, and verynaturally—that he took to scorning everything, and became agenius; and I am quite sure that he is, at this very presentmoment, writing another book.’
　　‘Another book!’ repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left forsomebody 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 tohim, in all his little fashionable descriptions, to have the benefit ofmy—hem—of my experience, because, of course, few authors whowrite about such things can have such opportunities of knowingthem as I have. He’s so wrapped up in high life, that the leastallusion 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 beendisappointed he couldn’t have written about blighted hopes andall that; and the fact is, if it hadn’t happened as it has, I don’tbelieve his genius would ever have come out at all.’
　　How much more communicative Miss Knag might have becomeunder more favourable circumstances, it is impossible to divine,but as the gloomy one was within ear-shot, and the fire wantedmaking up, her disclosures stopped here. To judge from allappearances, and the difficulty of making the water warm, the lastservant could not have been much accustomed to any other firethan St Anthony’s; but a little brandy and water was made at last,and the guests, having been previously regaled with cold leg ofmutton and bread and cheese, soon afterwards took leave; Kateamusing herself, all the way home, with the recollection of her lastglimpse of Mr Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; andMrs Nickleby by debating within herself whether the dressmakingfirm would ultimately become ‘Mantalini, Knag, and Nickleby’, or‘Mantalini, Nickleby, and Knag’.
　　At this high point, Miss Knag’s friendship remained for threewhole days, much to the wonderment of Madame Mantalini’syoung ladies who had never beheld such constancy in thatquarter, before; but on the fourth, it received a check no lessviolent than sudden, which thus occurred.
　　It happened that an old lord of great family, who was going tomarry a young lady of no family in particular, came with the younglady, and the young lady’s sister, to witness the ceremony of tryingon 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 ineach hand, and presented herself in the show-room, in a charmingstate of palpitation, intended to demonstrate her enthusiasm inthe cause. The bonnets were no sooner fairly on, than Miss Knagand 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 MissKnag.
　　Now, the old lord, who was a very old lord, said nothing, butmumbled and chuckled in a state of great delight, no less with thenuptial bonnets and their wearers, than with his own address ingetting such a fine woman for his wife; and the young lady, whowas a very lively young lady, seeing the old lord in this rapturouscondition, chased the old lord behind a cheval-glass, and then andthere kissed him, while Madame Mantalini and the other younglady looked, discreetly, another way.
　　But, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who was tinged withcuriosity, stepped accidentally behind the glass, and encounteredthe lively young lady’s eye just at the very moment when shekissed the old lord; upon which the young lady, in a poutingmanner, murmured something about ‘an old thing,’ and ‘greatimpertinence,’ and finished by darting a look of displeasure atMiss 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’sintended, throwing herself languidly on a sofa, ‘I hate being waited upon by frights or elderly persons. Let me always see that youngcreature, I beg, whenever I come.’
　　‘By all means,’ said the old lord; ‘the lovely young creature, byall means.’
　　‘Everybody is talking about her,’ said the young lady, in thesame careless manner; ‘and my lord, being a great admirer ofbeauty, must positively see her.’
　　‘She is universally admired,’ replied Madame Mantalini. ‘MissKnag, 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 Knagvanished without another word, and in all reasonable time wasreplaced by Kate, who took off the new bonnets and put on the oldones: blushing very much to find that the old lord and the twoyoung 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 ina week or two,’ interposed Madame Mantalini with a gracioussmile.
　　‘I am afraid you have been giving her some of your wickedlooks, my lord,’ said the intended.
　　‘No, no, no,’ replied the old lord, ‘no, no, I’m going to bemarried, 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 wasgoing to lead a new life, for it was pretty evident that his old onewould not last him much longer. The mere exertion of protractedchuckling reduced him to a fearful ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some minutes before he could find breath to remark that thegirl was too pretty for a milliner.
　　‘I hope you don’t think good looks a disqualification for thebusiness, my lord,’ said Madame Mantalini, simpering.
　　‘Not by any means,’ replied the old lord, ‘or you would have leftit long ago.’
　　‘You naughty creature,’ said the lively lady, poking the peerwith her parasol; ‘I won’t have you talk so. How dare you?’
　　This playful inquiry was accompanied with another poke, andanother, and then the old lord caught the parasol, and wouldn’tgive it up again, which induced the other lady to come to therescue, and some very pretty sportiveness ensued. ‘You will seethat those little alterations are made, Madame Mantalini,’ said thelady. ‘Nay, you bad man, you positively shall go first; I wouldn’tleave you behind with that pretty girl, not for half a second. I knowyou too well. Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall be quitesure of him.’
　　The old lord, evidently much flattered by this suspicion,bestowed a grotesque leer upon Kate as he passed; and, receivinganother tap with the parasol for his wickedness, tottereddownstairs to the door, where his sprightly body was hoisted intothe carriage by two stout footmen.
　　‘Foh!’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘how he ever gets into a carriagewithout thinking of a hearse, I can’t think. There, take the thingsaway, my dear, take them away.’
　　Kate, who had remained during the whole scene with her eyesmodestly fixed upon the ground, was only too happy to availherself of the permission to retire, and hasten joyfully downstairsto Miss Knag’s dominion.
　　 The circumstances of the little kingdom had greatly changed,however, during the short period of her absence. In place of MissKnag being stationed in her accustomed seat, preserving all thedignity and greatness of Madame Mantalini’s representative, thatworthy soul was reposing on a large box, bathed in tears, whilethree or four of the young ladies in close attendance upon her,together with the presence of hartshorn, vinegar, and otherrestoratives, would have borne ample testimony, even without thederangement of the head-dress and front row of curls, to herhaving fainted desperately.
　　‘Bless me!’ said Kate, stepping hastily forward, ‘what is thematter?’
　　This inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent symptoms of arelapse; 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? Whathas happened? tell me.’
　　‘Matter!’ cried Miss Knag, coming, all at once, bolt upright, tothe great consternation of the assembled maidens; ‘matter! Fieupon you, you nasty creature!’
　　‘Gracious!’ cried Kate, almost paralysed by the violence withwhich the adjective had been jerked out from between MissKnag’s closed teeth; ‘have I offended you?’
　　‘You offended me!’ retorted Miss Knag, ‘You! a chit, a child, anupstart nobody! Oh, indeed! Ha, ha!’
　　Now, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed, that somethingstruck her as being exceedingly funny; and as the young ladiestook their tone from Miss Knag—she being the chief—they all gotup a laugh without a moment’s delay, and nodded their heads a little, and smiled sarcastically to each other, as much as to say howvery good that was!
　　‘Here she is,’ continued Miss Knag, getting off the box, andintroducing Kate with much ceremony and many low curtseys tothe delighted throng; ‘here she is—everybody is talking abouther—the belle, ladies—the beauty, the—oh, you bold-faced thing!’
　　At this crisis, Miss Knag was unable to repress a virtuousshudder, which immediately communicated itself to all the youngladies; after which, Miss Knag laughed, and after that, cried.
　　‘For fifteen years,’ exclaimed Miss Knag, sobbing in a mostaffecting manner, ‘for fifteen years have I been the credit andornament of this room and the one upstairs. Thank God,’ said MissKnag, stamping first her right foot and then her left withremarkable energy, ‘I have never in all that time, till now, beenexposed to the arts, the vile arts, of a creature, who disgraces uswith all her proceedings, and makes proper people blush forthemselves. But I feel it, I do feel it, although I am disgusted.’
　　Miss Knag here relapsed into softness, and the young ladiesrenewing their attentions, murmured that she ought to besuperior 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 ashame, and that they felt so angry, they did, they hardly knewwhat 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 herfront 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 lether speak to me again; never let anybody who is a friend of minespeak to her; a slut, a hussy, an impudent artful hussy!’ Havingdenounced the object of her wrath, in these terms, Miss Knagscreamed once, hiccuped thrice, gurgled in her throat severaltimes, slumbered, shivered, woke, came to, composed her headdress, and declared herself quite well again.
　　Poor Kate had regarded these proceedings, at first, in perfectbewilderment. She had then turned red and pale by turns, andonce or twice essayed to speak; but, as the true motives of thisaltered 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 backupon the group of little satellites who clustered round their rulingplanet in the remotest corner of the room, she gave way, in secret,to some such bitter tears as would have gladdened Miss Knag’sinmost soul, if she could have seen them fall.
Chapter 19
Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby’s, andof the Manner in which the Company entertainedthemselves, before Dinner, at Dinner, and afterDinner.
　　The bile and rancour of the worthy Miss Knag undergoingno diminution during the remainder of the week, butrather augmenting with every successive hour; and thehonest ire of all the young ladies rising, or seeming to rise, in exactproportion to the good spinster’s indignation, and both waxingvery hot every time Miss Nickleby was called upstairs; it will bereadily imagined that that young lady’s daily life was none of themost cheerful or enviable kind. She hailed the arrival of Saturdaynight, as a prisoner would a few delicious hours’ respite from slowand wearing torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her firstweek’s labour would have been dearly and hardly earned, had itsamount been trebled.
　　When she joined her mother, as usual, at the street corner, shewas not a little surprised to find her in conversation with Mr RalphNickleby; but her surprise was soon redoubled, no less by thematter of their conversation, than by the smoothed and alteredmanner of Mr Nickleby himself.
　　‘Ah! my dear!’ said Ralph; ‘we were at that moment talkingabout 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, makingsure to catch you before you left; but your mother and I have beentalking over family affairs, and the time has slipped away sorapidly—’
　　‘Well, now, hasn’t it?’ interposed Mrs Nickleby, quite insensibleto the sarcastic tone of Ralph’s last remark. ‘Upon my word, Icouldn’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 thisextraordinary intelligence, Mrs Nickleby nodded and smiled agreat many times, to impress its full magnificence on Kate’swondering mind, and then flew off, at an acute angle, to acommittee of ways and means.
　　‘Let me see,’ said the good lady. ‘Your black silk frock will bequite dress enough, my dear, with that pretty little scarf, and aplain 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 thoseunfortunate amethysts of mine—you recollect them, Kate, mylove—how they used to sparkle, you know—but your papa, yourpoor dear papa—ah! there never was anything so cruellysacrificed as those jewels were, never!’ Overpowered by thisagonising thought, Mrs Nickleby shook her head, in a melancholymanner, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
　　I don’t want them, mama, indeed,’ said Kate. ‘Forget that youever had them.’
　　‘Lord, Kate, my dear,’ rejoined Mrs Nickleby, pettishly, ‘howlike 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’tyou do something, Nicholas? Why don’t you make somearrangement?” I am sure that anybody who was about us at thattime, will do me the justice to own, that if I said that once, I said itfifty times a day. Didn’t I, Kate, my dear? Did I ever lose anopportunity of impressing it on your poor papa?’
　　‘No, no, mama, never,’ replied Kate. And to do Mrs Nicklebyjustice, she never had lost—and to do married ladies as a bodyjustice, they seldom do lose—any occasion of inculcating similargolden percepts, whose only blemish is, the slight degree ofvagueness and uncertainty in which they are usually enveloped.
　　‘Ah!’ said Mrs Nickleby, with great fervour, ‘if my advice hadbeen 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 ofmeek composure; thus importing that she was a persecuted saint,but that she wouldn’t trouble her hearers by mentioning acircumstance which must be so obvious to everybody.
　　‘Now,’ said Ralph, with a smile, which, in common with allother tokens of emotion, seemed to skulk under his face, ratherthan play boldly over it—’ to return to the point from which wehave strayed. I have a little party of—of—gentlemen with whom Iam connected in business just now, at my house tomorrow; andyour mother has promised that you shall keep house for me. I amnot much used to parties; but this is one of business, and suchfooleries are an important part of it sometimes. You don’t mindobliging me?’
　　‘Mind!’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘My dear Kate, why—’
　　 ‘Pray,’ interrupted Ralph, motioning her to be silent. ‘I spoke tomy niece.’
　　‘I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,’ replied Kate; ‘but I amafraid 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, asif it were not used to the thoroughfare, and didn’t know the wayout. But it got out somehow, though awkwardly enough; andhaving disposed of it, he shook hands with his two relatives, andabruptly left them.
　　‘What a very strongly marked countenance your uncle has!’
　　said Mrs Nickleby, quite struck with his parting look. ‘I don’t seethe 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. Butit’s a very honest face.’
　　The worthy matron made this remark with great emphasis andelocution, as if it comprised no small quantity of ingenuity andresearch; and, in truth, it was not unworthy of being classedamong the extraordinary discoveries of the age. Kate looked uphastily, 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, insilence.
　　‘I was only thinking, mama,’ answered Kate.
　　‘Thinking!’ repeated Mrs Nickleby. ‘Ay, and indeed plenty tothink about, too. Your uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that’squite 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 youngladies, who had had thousand-pound notes given them inreticules, by eccentric uncles; and of young ladies who hadaccidentally met amiable gentlemen of enormous wealth at theiruncles’ houses, and married them, after short but ardentcourtships; and Kate, listening first in apathy, and afterwards inamusement, felt, as they walked home, something of her mother’ssanguine complexion gradually awakening in her own bosom, andbegan to think that her prospects might be brightening, and thatbetter days might be dawning upon them. Such is hope, Heaven’sown gift to struggling mortals; pervading, like some subtle essencefrom 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 veryfeeble indeed—might have brightened up, as he shone through thedim windows of the large old house, on witnessing the unusualsight which one half-furnished room displayed. In a gloomycorner, where, for years, had stood a silent dusty pile ofmerchandise, sheltering its colony of mice, and frowning, a dulland lifeless mass, upon the panelled room, save when, respondingto the roll of heavy waggons in the street without, it quaked withsturdy tremblings and caused the bright eyes of its tiny citizens togrow brighter still with fear, and struck them motionless, withattentive ear and palpitating heart, until the alarm had passedaway—in this dark corner, was arranged, with scrupulous care, allKate’s little finery for the day; each article of dress partaking ofthat indescribable air of jauntiness and individuality which emptygarments—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 mustygoods, there lay the black silk dress: the neatest possible figure initself. The small shoes, with toes delicately turned out, stood uponthe very pressure of some old iron weight; and a pile of harshdiscoloured leather had unconsciously given place to the verysame little pair of black silk stockings, which had been the objectsof Mrs Nickleby’s peculiar care. Rats and mice, and such smallgear, had long ago been starved, or had emigrated to betterquarters: and, in their stead, appeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hairpins, and many other little devices, almost as ingenious in theirway as rats and mice themselves, for the tantalisation of mankind.
　　About and among them all, moved Kate herself, not the leastbeautiful or unwonted relief to the stern, old, gloomy building.
　　In good time, or in bad time, as the reader likes to take it—forMrs Nickleby’s impatience went a great deal faster than the clocksat that end of the town, and Kate was dressed to the very last hairpin a full hour and a half before it was at all necessary to begin tothink about it—in good time, or in bad time, the toilet wascompleted; and it being at length the hour agreed upon forstarting, the milkman fetched a coach from the nearest stand, andKate, with many adieux to her mother, and many kind messages toMiss La Creevy, who was to come to tea, seated herself in it, andwent away in state, if ever anybody went away in state in ahackney coach yet. And the coach, and the coachman, and thehorses, 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 NewmanNoggs in a clean shirt, was not a little astonished to see that theopener was a man in handsome livery, and that there were two orthree others in the hall. There was no doubt about its being theright house, however, for there was the name upon the door; soshe accepted the laced coat-sleeve which was tendered her, andentering 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, shewas perfectly absorbed in amazement at the richness andsplendour of the furniture. The softest and most elegant carpets,the most exquisite pictures, the costliest mirrors; articles of richestornament, quite dazzling from their beauty and perplexing fromthe prodigality with which they were scattered around;encountered her on every side. The very staircase nearly down tothe hall-door, was crammed with beautiful and luxurious things,as though the house were brimful of riches, which, with a verytrifling addition, would fairly run over into the street.
　　Presently, she heard a series of loud double knocks at thestreet-door, and after every knock some new voice in the nextroom; the tones of Mr Ralph Nickleby were easily distinguishableat first, but by degrees they merged into the general buzz ofconversation, and all she could ascertain was, that there wereseveral gentlemen with no very musical voices, who talked veryloud, laughed very heartily, and swore more than she would havethought quite necessary. But this was a question of taste.
　　At length, the door opened, and Ralph himself, divested of hisboots, 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, andpointing, as he spoke, to the next room. ‘I was engaged inreceiving them. Now—shall I take you in?’
　　‘Pray, uncle,’ said Kate, a little flurried, as people much moreconversant with society often are, when they are about to enter aroom 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 areall come, and dinner will be announced directly afterwards—that’sall.’
　　Kate would have entreated a few minutes’ respite, butreflecting that her uncle might consider the payment of thehackney-coach fare a sort of bargain for her punctuality, shesuffered him to draw her arm through his, and to lead her away.
　　Seven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire whenthey went in, and, as they were talking very loud, were not awareof their entrance until Mr Ralph Nickleby, touching one on thecoat-sleeve, said in a harsh emphatic voice, as if to attract generalattention—‘Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.’
　　The group dispersed, as if in great surprise, and the gentlemanaddressed, turning round, exhibited a suit of clothes of the mostsuperlative 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 hislordship turned to another superlative gentleman, somethingolder, something stouter, something redder in the face, andsomething longer upon town, and said in a loud whisper that thegirl was ‘deyvlish pitty.’
　　‘Introduce me, Nickleby,’ said this second gentleman, who waslounging with his back to the fire, and both elbows on thechimneypiece.
　　‘Sir Mulberry Hawk,’ said Ralph.
　　‘Otherwise the most knowing card in the pa-ack, MissNickleby,’ 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 aflash air, from the elbow of Sir Mulberry Hawk.
　　‘Mr Pluck,’ said Ralph. Then wheeling about again, towards agentleman with the neck of a stork and the legs of no animal inparticular, Ralph introduced him as the Honourable Mr Snobb;and a white-headed person at the table as Colonel Chowser. Thecolonel was in conversation with somebody, who appeared to be amake-weight, and was not introduced at all.
　　There were two circumstances which, in this early stage of theparty, struck home to Kate’s bosom, and brought the bloodtingling to her face. One was the flippant contempt with which theguests evidently regarded her uncle, and the other, the easy insolence of their manner towards herself. That the first symptomwas very likely to lead to the aggravation of the second, it neededno great penetration to foresee. And here Mr Ralph Nickleby hadreckoned without his host; for however fresh from the country ayoung lady (by nature) may be, and however unacquainted withconventional behaviour, the chances are, that she will have quiteas strong an innate sense of the decencies and proprieties of life asif she had run the gauntlet of a dozen London seasons—possibly astronger one, for such senses have been known to blunt in thisimproving process.
　　When Ralph had completed the ceremonial of introduction, heled his blushing niece to a seat. As he did so, he glanced warilyround as though to assure himself of the impression which herunlooked-for appearance had created.
　　‘An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,’ said Lord FrederickVerisopht, taking his glass out of his right eye, where it had, untilnow, done duty on Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring it to bearon Ralph.
　　‘Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,’ said Mr Pluck.
　　‘Not a bad idea,’ said his lordship, ‘and one that would almostwarrant 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, orwhatever it is, and give me half for the advice.’
　　Sir Mulberry garnished this speech with a hoarse laugh, andterminated 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, whendinner was announced, and then they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar cause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an excessof humour, shot dexterously past Lord Frederick Verisopht whowas about to lead Kate downstairs, and drew her arm through hisup 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 tenminutes ago.’
　　‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the honourable Mr Snobb, ‘very good, verygood.’
　　Rendered additionally witty by this applause, Sir MulberryHawk leered upon his friends most facetiously, and led Katedownstairs with an air of familiarity, which roused in her gentlebreast such burning indignation, as she felt it almost impossible torepress. Nor was the intensity of these feelings at all diminished,when she found herself placed at the top of the table, with SirMulberry 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 MissNickleby, ‘how can you a-ask me?’
　　‘Well, you attend to your dinner,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘and don’tmind Miss Nickleby and me, for we shall prove very indifferentcompany, I dare say.’
　　‘I wish you’d interfere here, Nickleby,’ said Lord Frederick.
　　‘What is the matter, my lord?’ demanded Ralph from thebottom of the table, where he was supported by Messrs Pyke andPluck.
　　‘This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your niece,’ said LordFrederick.
　　 ‘He has a tolerable share of everything that you lay claim to, mylord,’ said Ralph with a sneer.
　　‘‘Gad, so he has,’ replied the young man; ‘deyvle take me if Iknow 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 youngnobleman, jocosely.
　　‘No, no, curse it,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘When you come to theshilling—the last shilling—I’ll cut you fast enough; but till then, I’llnever leave you—you may take your oath of it.’
　　This sally (which was strictly founded on fact) was receivedwith a general roar, above which, was plainly distinguishable thelaughter of Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck, who were, evidently, SirMulberry’s toads in ordinary. Indeed, it was not difficult to see,that the majority of the company preyed upon the unfortunateyoung lord, who, weak and silly as he was, appeared by far theleast vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry Hawk was remarkable forhis tact in ruining, by himself and his creatures, young gentlemenof fortune—a genteel and elegant profession, of which he hadundoubtedly gained the head. With all the boldness of an originalgenius, he had struck out an entirely new course of treatmentquite opposed to the usual method; his custom being, when he hadgained the ascendancy over those he took in hand, rather to keepthem down than to give them their own way; and to exercise hisvivacity upon them openly, and without reserve. Thus, he madethem butts, in a double sense, and while he emptied them withgreat address, caused them to ring with sundry well-administeredtaps, for the diversion of society.
　　The dinner was as remarkable for the splendour and completeness of its appointments as the mansion itself, and thecompany were remarkable for doing it ample justice, in whichrespect Messrs Pyke and Pluck particularly signalised themselves;these two gentlemen eating of every dish, and drinking of everybottle, with a capacity and perseverance truly astonishing. Theywere remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding their great exertions:
　　for, on the appearance of the dessert, they broke out again, as ifnothing serious had taken place since breakfast.
　　‘Well,’ said Lord Frederick, sipping his first glass of port, ‘if thisis a discounting dinner, all I have to say is, deyvle take me, if itwouldn’t be a good pla-an to get discount every day.’
　　‘You’ll have plenty of it, in your time,’ returned Sir MulberryHawk; ‘Nickleby will tell you that.’
　　‘What do you say, Nickleby?’ inquired the young man; ‘am I tobe a good customer?’
　　‘It depends entirely on circumstances, my lord,’ replied Ralph.
　　‘On your lordship’s circumstances,’ interposed ColonelChowser of the Militia—and the race-courses.
　　The gallant colonel glanced at Messrs Pyke and Pluck as if hethought they ought to laugh at his joke; but those gentlemen,being only engaged to laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk, were, to hissignal discomfiture, as grave as a pair of undertakers. To add tohis defeat, Sir Mulberry, considering any such efforts an invasionof his peculiar privilege, eyed the offender steadily, through hisglass, as if astonished at his presumption, and audibly stated hisimpression that it was an ‘infernal liberty,’ which being a hint toLord Frederick, he put up his glass, and surveyed the object ofcensure as if he were some extraordinary wild animal thenexhibiting for the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs Pyke and Pluck stared at the individual whom Sir Mulberry Hawkstared at; so, the poor colonel, to hide his confusion, was reducedto the necessity of holding his port before his right eye andaffecting to scrutinise its colour with the most lively interest.
　　All this while, Kate had sat as silently as she could, scarcelydaring to raise her eyes, lest they should encounter the admiringgaze of Lord Frederick Verisopht, or, what was still moreembarrassing, the bold looks of his friend Sir Mulberry. The lattergentleman was obliging enough to direct general attentiontowards her.
　　‘Here is Miss Nickleby,’ observed Sir Mulberry, ‘wondering whythe deuce somebody doesn’t make love to her.’
　　‘No, indeed,’ said Kate, looking hastily up, ‘I—’ and then shestopped, feeling it would have been better to have said nothing atall.
　　‘I’ll hold any man fifty pounds,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘that MissNickleby 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 onboth sides, and the Honourable Mr Snobb was elected to thedouble office of stake-holder and time-keeper.
　　‘Pray,’ said Kate, in great confusion, while these preliminarieswere in course of completion. ‘Pray do not make me the subject ofany bets. Uncle, I cannot really—’
　　‘Why not, my dear?’ replied Ralph, in whose grating voice,however, there was an unusual huskiness, as though he spokeunwillingly, and would rather that the proposition had not beenbroached. ‘It is done in a moment; there is nothing in it. If thegentlemen insist on it—’
　　 ‘I don’t insist on it,’ said Sir Mulberry, with a loud laugh. ‘Thatis, 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 thenoble youth.
　　‘Quite cruel,’ said Mr Pyke.
　　‘Horrid cruel,’ said Mr Pluck.
　　‘I don’t care if I do lose,’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘for one tolerablelook 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?’ askedLord Frederick, after a short interval.
　　‘You needn’t trouble yourself to inquire, my buck,’ said SirMulberry; ‘Miss Nickleby and I understand each other; shedeclares 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 handover.’
　　‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Pyke.
　　Mr Pluck, who always came second, and topped his companionif he could, screamed outright.
　　The poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with confusion that shescarcely knew what she did, had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but fearing that by so doing she might seem to countenanceSir Mulberry’s boast, which had been uttered with greatcoarseness and vulgarity of manner, raised her eyes, and lookedhim in the face. There was something so odious, so insolent, sorepulsive in the look which met her, that, without the power tostammer forth a syllable, she rose and hurried from the room. Sherestrained 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 hispocket.
　　‘That’s a girl of spirit, and we’ll drink her health.’
　　It is needless to say, that Pyke and Co. responded, with greatwarmth of manner, to this proposal, or that the toast was drunkwith many little insinuations from the firm, relative to thecompleteness of Sir Mulberry’s conquest. Ralph, who, while theattention of the other guests was attracted to the principals in thepreceding scene, had eyed them like a wolf, appeared to breathemore freely now his niece was gone; the decanters passing quicklyround, he leaned back in his chair, and turned his eyes fromspeaker to speaker, as they warmed with wine, with looks thatseemed to search their hearts, and lay bare, for his distemperedsport, 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 alsogleaned the satisfactory intelligence, that the gentlemen wouldtake 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 thanonce rose in great alarm, as a fancied footstep on the staircaseimpressed her with the fear that some stray member of the partywas returning alone. Nothing occurring, however, to realise herapprehensions, she endeavoured to fix her attention more closelyon her book, in which by degrees she became so much interested,that she had read on through several chapters without heed oftime or place, when she was terrified by suddenly hearing hername pronounced by a man’s voice close at her ear.
　　The book fell from her hand. Lounging on an ottoman closebeside her, was Sir Mulberry Hawk, evidently the worse—if a manbe a ruffian at heart, he is never the better—for wine.
　　‘What a delightful studiousness!’ said this accomplishedgentleman. ‘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. ‘Uponmy soul, they’re perfect. Why did I speak, and destroy such apretty 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 hiselbow on, and bringing himself still closer to the young lady; ’uponmy life, you oughtn’t to. Such a devoted slave of yours, MissNickleby—it’s an infernal thing to treat him so harshly, upon mysoul it is.’
　　‘I wish you to understand, sir,’ said Kate, trembling in spite ofherself, but speaking with great indignation, ‘that your behaviouroffends and disgusts me. If you have a spark of gentlemanlyfeeling remaining, you will leave me.’
　　 ‘Now why,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘why will you keep up thisappearance of excessive rigour, my sweet creature? Now, be morenatural—my dear Miss Nickleby, be more natural—do.’
　　Kate hastily rose; but as she rose, Sir Mulberry caught herdress, and forcibly detained her.
　　‘Let me go, sir,’ she cried, her heart swelling with anger. ‘Doyou 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, heleaned 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 sprungforward to leave the room, Mr Ralph Nickleby appeared in thedoorway, and confronted her.
　　‘What is this?’ said Ralph.
　　‘It is this, sir,’ replied Kate, violently agitated: ‘that beneath theroof where I, a helpless girl, your dead brother’s child, should mosthave found protection, I have been exposed to insult which shouldmake you shrink to look upon me. Let me pass you.’
　　Ralph did shrink, as the indignant girl fixed her kindling eyeupon him; but he did not comply with her injunction,nevertheless: for he led her to a distant seat, and returning, andapproaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who had by this time risen,motioned towards the door.
　　‘Your way lies there, sir,’ said Ralph, in a suppressed voice, thatsome 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 someunendurable emotion wrung them; but he smiled disdainfully, andagain pointed to the door.
　　‘Do you know me, you old madman?’ asked Sir Mulberry.
　　‘Well,’ said Ralph. The fashionable vagabond for the momentquite quailed under the steady look of the older sinner, andwalked towards the door, muttering as he went.
　　‘You wanted the lord, did you?’ he said, stopping short when hereached the door, as if a new light had broken in upon him, andconfronting 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; ‘andhow, without me, could you ever have wound him in your net asyou have?’
　　‘The net is a large one, and rather full,’ said Ralph. ‘Take carethat it chokes nobody in the meshes.’
　　‘You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if youhave not already made a bargain with the devil,’ retorted theother. ‘Do you mean to tell me that your pretty niece was notbrought here as a decoy for the drunken boy downstairs?’
　　Although this hurried dialogue was carried on in a suppressedtone on both sides, Ralph looked involuntarily round to ascertainthat Kate had not moved her position so as to be within hearing.
　　His adversary saw the advantage he had gained, and followed itup.
　　‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he asked again, ‘that it is not so? Doyou mean to say that if he had found his way up here instead ofme, you wouldn’t have been a little more blind, and a little moredeaf, 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 amatter 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 andfirmly, as a man who has made up his mind to say no more,‘because I thought she might make some impression on the sillyyouth you have taken in hand and are lending good help to ruin, Iknew—knowing him—that it would be long before he outragedher girl’s feelings, and that unless he offended by mere puppyismand emptiness, he would, with a little management, respect thesex and conduct even of his usurer’s niece. But if I thought todraw him on more gently by this device, I did not think ofsubjecting the girl to the licentiousness and brutality of so old ahand as you. And now we understand each other.’
　　‘Especially as there was nothing to be got by it—eh?’ sneeredSir Mulberry.
　　‘Exactly so,’ said Ralph. He had turned away, and looked overhis shoulder to make this last reply. The eyes of the two worthiesmet, with an expression as if each rascal felt that there was nodisguising himself from the other; and Sir Mulberry Hawkshrugged his shoulders and walked slowly out.
　　His friend closed the door, and looked restlessly towards thespot where his niece still remained in the attitude in which he hadleft her. She had flung herself heavily upon the couch, and withher head drooping over the cushion, and her face hidden in herhands, 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 upona young child’s death-bed, without the smallest concern, because itwould have been a matter quite in the ordinary course of business,and the man would have been an offender against his only code ofmorality. But, here was a young girl, who had done no wrong savethat of coming into the world alive; who had patiently yielded to allhis wishes; who had tried hard to please him—above all, whodidn’t owe him money—and he felt awkward and nervous.
　　Ralph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a littlenearer; then, moved a little nearer still; then, nearer again, andfinally sat himself on the same sofa, and laid his hand on Kate’sarm.
　　‘Hush, my dear!’ he said, as she drew it back, and her sobsburst 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 leavethis house, and go home.’
　　‘Yes, yes,’ said Ralph. ‘You shall. But you must dry your eyesfirst, and compose yourself. Let me raise your head. There—there.’
　　‘Oh, uncle!’ exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. ‘What have Idone—what have I done—that you should subject me to this? If Ihad wronged you in thought, or word, or deed, it would have beenmost cruel to me, and the memory of one you must have loved insome old time; but—’
　　‘Only listen to me for a moment,’ interrupted Ralph, seriouslyalarmed by the violence of her emotions. ‘I didn’t know it would beso; 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 mehome.’
　　‘Well, well, I will,’ said Ralph; ‘but you must get back your ownlooks; for those you have, will frighten them, and nobody mustknow 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 toand fro, with his niece leaning on his arm; actually tremblingbeneath her touch.
　　In the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her todepart, he supported her downstairs, after adjusting her shawland performing such little offices, most probably for the first timein 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 fromKate’s hair, close at her uncle’s feet; and as he picked it up, andreturned it into her hand, the light from a neighbouring lampshone upon her face. The lock of hair that had escaped and curledloosely over her brow, the traces of tears yet scarcely dry, theflushed cheek, the look of sorrow, all fired some dormant train ofrecollection in the old man’s breast; and the face of his deadbrother seemed present before him, with the very look it bore onsome occasion of boyish grief, of which every minutestcircumstance flashed upon his mind, with the distinctness of ascene of yesterday.
　　Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood andkindred—who was steeled against every tale of sorrow anddistress—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, towhom he expresses his Sentiments with muchCandour. His Resolution.
　　Little Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streetsat the west end of the town, early on Monday morning—the day after the dinner—charged with the importantcommission of acquainting Madame Mantalini that Miss Nicklebywas too unwell to attend that day, but hoped to be enabled toresume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La Creevy walkedalong, revolving in her mind various genteel forms and elegantturns of expression, with a view to the selection of the very best inwhich to couch her communication, she cogitated a good dealupon the probable causes of her young friend’s indisposition.
　　‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘Her eyeswere 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 establishedto her perfect satisfaction on the previous evening, Miss La Creevywent on to consider—as she had done nearly all night—what newcause 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. Crossto her, I suppose? Unpleasant brute!’
　　Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was ventedupon empty air, Miss La Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini’s; and being informed that the governing power was not yet out ofbed, requested an interview with the second in command;whereupon Miss Knag appeared.
　　‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Miss Knag, when the messagehad been delivered, with many ornaments of speech; ‘I couldspare 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 thereforeit’s of no great consequence.’
　　‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Miss Knag. ‘Have you any furthercommands 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 yourextreme politeness and good breeding,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.
　　Thus terminating the interview, during which both ladies hadtrembled very much, and been marvellously polite—certainindications that they were within an inch of a very desperatequarrel—Miss La Creevy bounced out of the room, and into thestreet.
　　‘I wonder who that is,’ said the queer little soul. ‘A nice personto know, I should think! I wish I had the painting of her: I’D do herjustice.’ So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said a very cuttingthing 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 withinherself, talked to herself, made a confidante of herself, was assarcastic 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 ofrevenge, no living soul was one atom the worse. One of the manyto whom, from straitened circumstances, a consequent inability toform the associations they would wish, and a disinclination to mixwith the society they could obtain, London is as complete asolitude as the plains of Syria, the humble artist had pursued herlonely, but contented way for many years; and, until the peculiarmisfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted her attention, hadmade no friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to allmankind. There are many warm hearts in the same solitary guiseas poor little Miss La Creevy’s.
　　However, that’s neither here nor there, just now. She wenthome to breakfast, and had scarcely caught the full flavour of herfirst sip of tea, when the servant announced a gentleman, whereatMiss La Creevy, at once imagining a new sitter transfixed byadmiration at the street-door case, was in unspeakableconsternation 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 shouldbe late on this particular morning, of all others, after being readyfor three weeks by half-past eight o’clock, and not a soul comingnear the place!’
　　‘Don’t let me put you out of the way,’ said a voice Miss LaCreevy knew. ‘I told the servant not to mention my name, becauseI wished to surprise you.’
　　‘Mr Nicholas!’ cried Miss La Creevy, starting in greatastonishment. ‘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 inthe street,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. ‘Hannah, anothercup and saucer. Now, I’ll tell you what, young man; I’ll trouble younot to repeat the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morningyou went away.’
　　‘You would not be very angry, would you?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Wouldn’t I!’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘You had better try; that’sall!’
　　Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss LaCreevy at her word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped hisface; 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 toldme 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 sawyou last, and your face is haggard and pale. And how come you tohave left Yorkshire?’
　　She stopped here; for there was so much heart in her alteredtone 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 evensuffered from want.’
　　‘Good Heaven, Mr Nicholas!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy, ‘whatare you telling me?’
　　‘Nothing which need distress you quite so much,’ answered Nicholas, with a more sprightly air; ‘neither did I come here tobewail my lot, but on matter more to the purpose. I wish to meetmy 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 roomwith his very boots, would put me out of humour for a fortnight.’
　　‘In the main,’ said Nicholas, ‘there may be no great difference ofopinion between you and me, so far; but you will understand, thatI desire to confront him, to justify myself, and to cast his duplicityand malice in his throat.’
　　‘That’s quite another matter,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy. ‘Heavenforgive me; but I shouldn’t cry my eyes quite out of my head, ifthey choked him. Well?’
　　‘To this end, I called upon him this morning,’ said Nicholas. ‘Heonly returned to town on Saturday, and I knew nothing of hisarrival 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 hasbeen told me, by a friend of mine who is acquainted with hismovements, that he intends seeing my mother and sister today,and giving them his version of the occurrences that have befallenme. 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—othersto 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 youto do for me, is, to prepare them for my coming. They think me along way off, and if I went wholly unexpected, I should frightenthem. 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 LaCreevy; ‘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 finishedher breakfast with great expedition, put away the tea-caddy andhid the key under the fender, resumed her bonnet, and, takingNicholas’s arm, sallied forth at once to the city. Nicholas left hernear the door of his mother’s house, and promised to return withina quarter of an hour.
　　It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for hisown purposes, to communicate the atrocities of which Nicholashad been guilty, had (instead of first proceeding to anotherquarter of the town on business, as Newman Noggs supposed hewould) gone straight to his sister-in-law. Hence, when Miss LaCreevy, admitted by a girl who was cleaning the house, made herway to the sitting-room, she found Mrs Nickleby and Kate in tears,and Ralph just concluding his statement of his nephew’smisdemeanours. Kate beckoned her not to retire, and Miss LaCreevy took a seat in silence.
　　‘You are here already, are you, my gentleman?’ thought thelittle 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 previousconviction, for I knew he would never do any good—to a man withwhom, behaving himself properly, he might have remained, incomfort, for years. What is the result? Conduct for which he mighthold up his hand at the Old Bailey.’
　　‘I never will believe it,’ said Kate, indignantly; ‘never. It is somebase conspiracy, which carries its own falsehood with it.’
　　‘My dear,’ said Ralph, ‘you wrong the worthy man. These arenot inventions. The man is assaulted, your brother is not to befound; 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 forthe possession of a very clear understanding, and who had beenreduced by the late changes in her affairs to a most complicatedstate of perplexity, made no other reply to this earnestremonstrance than exclaiming from behind a mass of pocket-handkerchief, that she never could have believed it—thereby mostingeniously 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 tojustice,’ said Ralph, ‘my bounden duty; I should have no othercourse, as a man of the world and a man of business, to pursue.
　　And yet,’ said Ralph, speaking in a very marked manner, andlooking furtively, but fixedly, at Kate, ‘and yet I would not. I wouldspare 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 anadditional inducement to her to preserve the strictest silenceregarding the events of the preceding night. She lookedinvoluntarily towards Ralph as he ceased to speak, but he hadturned his eyes another way, and seemed for the moment quiteunconscious of her presence.
　　‘Everything,’ said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only byMrs Nickleby’s sobs, ’everything combines to prove the truth ofthis letter, if indeed there were any possibility of disputing it. Doinnocent men steal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulkin hiding-places, like outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle namelessvagabonds, and prowl with them about the country as idle robbersdo? Assault, riot, theft, what do you call these?’
　　‘A lie!’ cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholascame into the room.
　　In the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralphrose from his seat, and fell back a few paces, quite taken off hisguard by this unexpected apparition. In another moment, hestood, fixed and immovable with folded arms, regarding hisnephew with a scowl; while Kate and Miss La Creevy threwthemselves between the two, to prevent the personal violencewhich 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 inthe tumult of his anger, that she could scarcely bear the pain.
　　‘When I consider all, and think of what has passed, I need be madeof iron to stand before him.’
　　 ‘Or bronze,’ said Ralph, quietly; ‘there is not hardihood enoughin flesh and blood to face it out.’
　　‘Oh dear, dear!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, ‘that things should havecome to such a pass as this!’
　　‘Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and broughtdisgrace on them?’ said Nicholas, looking round.
　　‘Your mother, sir,’ replied Ralph, motioning towards her.
　　‘Whose ears have been poisoned by you,’ said Nicholas; ‘byyou—who, under pretence of deserving the thanks she pouredupon you, heaped every insult, wrong, and indignity upon myhead. You, who sent me to a den where sordid cruelty, worthy ofyourself, 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 callHeaven to witness,’ said Nicholas, looking eagerly round, ‘that Ihave seen all this, and that he knows it.’
　　‘Refute these calumnies,’ said Kate, ‘and be more patient, sothat 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?’ saidNicholas.
　　‘First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace ofqualifying yourself to be tried for murder,’ interposed Ralph. ‘Ispeak plainly, young man, bluster as you will.’
　　‘I interfered,’ said Nicholas, ‘to save a miserable creature fromthe vilest cruelty. In so doing, I inflicted such punishment upon awretch as he will not readily forget, though far less than hedeserved from me. If the same scene were renewed before menow, I would take the same part; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such marks as he should carry to hisgrave, 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, Ireally don’t.’
　　‘Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,’ said Kate. ‘DearNicholas, I only tell you, that you may know what wickedness canprompt, but they accuse you of—a ring is missing, and they dare tosay that—’
　　‘The woman,’ said Nicholas, haughtily, ‘the wife of the fellowfrom whom these charges come, dropped—as I suppose—aworthless ring among some clothes of mine, early in the morningon which I left the house. At least, I know that she was in thebedroom where they lay, struggling with an unhappy child, andthat 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. ‘Aboutthis boy, love, in whose company they say you left?’
　　‘The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hardusage, is with me now,’ rejoined Nicholas.
　　‘You hear?’ said Ralph, appealing to the mother again,’everything proved, even upon his own confession. Do you chooseto 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 foundhim. I would that I knew on whom he has the claim of birth: Imight 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 fromme?’
　　‘You can speak when and what you please,’ replied Nicholas,embracing his sister. ‘I take little heed of what you say orthreaten.’
　　‘Mighty well, sir,’ retorted Ralph; ‘but perhaps it may concernothers, who may think it worth their while to listen, and considerwhat I tell them. I will address your mother, sir, who knows theworld.’
　　‘Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn’t,’ sobbed Mrs Nickleby.
　　There really was no necessity for the good lady to be muchdistressed upon this particular head; the extent of her worldlyknowledge being, to say the least, very questionable; and so Ralphseemed to think, for he smiled as she spoke. He then glancedsteadily at her and Nicholas by turns, as he delivered himself inthese 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, andleave you to judge for yourself. I hold out no threat now, but I saythat this boy, headstrong, wilful and disorderly as he is, should nothave one penny of my money, or one crust of my bread, or onegrasp of my hand, to save him from the loftiest gallows in allEurope. I will not meet him, come where he comes, or hear hisname. I will not help him, or those who help him. With a fullknowledge of what he brought upon you by so doing, he has comeback in his selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your wants, and aburden upon his sister’s scanty wages. I regret to leave you, andmore 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, Isee you no more.’
　　If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding thosehe hated, his glances at Nicholas would have shown it him, in allits force, as he proceeded in the above address. Innocent as theyoung man was of all wrong, every artful insinuation stung, everywell-considered sarcasm cut him to the quick; and when Ralphnoted his pale face and quivering lip, he hugged himself to markhow well he had chosen the taunts best calculated to strike deepinto a young and ardent spirit.
　　‘I can’t help it,’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘I know you have been verygood to us, and meant to do a good deal for my dear daughter. Iam 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 havebeen 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 doneall you say he has—it’s not possible; I couldn’t do it; so we must goto rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can bear it, I dare say.’ Pouringforth these and a perfectly wonderful train of other disjointedexpressions of regret, which no mortal power but Mrs Nickleby’scould ever have strung together, that lady wrung her hands, andher 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,’ saidMrs Nickleby; ‘Nicholas is so violent, and your uncle has so muchcomposure, that I can only hear what he says, and not whatNicholas does. Never mind, don’t let us talk any more about it. Wecan go to the Workhouse, or the Refuge for the Destitute, or the  370Magdalen Hospital, I dare say; and the sooner we go the better.’
　　With this extraordinary jumble of charitable institutions, MrsNickleby again gave way to her tears.
　　‘Stay,’ said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. ‘You need not leavethis 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’sshoulder, ‘do not say so. My dear brother, you will break my heart.
　　Mama, speak to him. Do not mind her, Nicholas; she does notmean it, you should know her better. Uncle, somebody, forHeaven’s sake speak to him.’
　　‘I never meant, Kate,’ said Nicholas, tenderly, ‘I never meant tostay among you; think better of me than to suppose it possible. Imay turn my back on this town a few hours sooner than Iintended, but what of that? We shall not forget each other apart,and better days will come when we shall part no more. Be awoman, 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 theseterrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the comfort andhappiness of home, and the trials we have to bear now; of ourhaving no protector under all the slights and wrongs that povertyso 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 Nicholashurriedly. ‘I am no help to you, no protector; I should bring younothing but sorrow, and want, and suffering. My own mother seesit, 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 carryyou to some home of mine, where we may revive the happinessdenied to us now, and talk of these trials as of things gone by. Donot keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear girl—deargirl.’
　　The grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swoonedin his arms. Nicholas stooped over her for a few seconds, andplacing 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 attitudewhich he had preserved throughout the interview, and moved nota finger.
　　‘Whatever step you take, sir,’ he said, in a voice inaudiblebeyond themselves, ‘I shall keep a strict account of. I leave them toyou, at your desire. There will be a day of reckoning sooner orlater, 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 heheard one word of this parting address. He hardly knew that it wasconcluded, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely made up her mind todetain 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 thoughtswhich crowded upon him, many doubts and hesitations arose inhis mind, and almost tempted him to return. But what would theygain by this? Supposing he were to put Ralph Nickleby atdefiance, and were even fortunate enough to obtain some smallemployment, his being with them could only render their presentcondition worse, and might greatly impair their future prospects; for his mother had spoken of some new kindnesses towards Katewhich she had not denied. ‘No,’ thought Nicholas, ‘I have acted forthe best.’
　　But, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other anddifferent feeling would come upon him, and then he would lagagain, and pulling his hat over his eyes, give way to themelancholy reflections which pressed thickly upon him. To havecommitted no fault, and yet to be so entirely alone in the world; tobe separated from the only persons he loved, and to be proscribedlike a criminal, when six months ago he had been surrounded byevery comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of his family—this was hard to bear. He had not deserved it either. Well, therewas comfort in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up again,to be again depressed, as his quickly shifting thoughts presentedevery variety of light and shade before him.
　　Undergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving, which noone, placed in a situation of ordinary trial, can fail to haveexperienced, Nicholas at length reached his poor room, where, nolonger borne up by the excitement which had hitherto sustainedhim, but depressed by the revulsion of feeling it left behind, hethrew himself on the bed, and turning his face to the wall, gavefree vent to the emotions he had so long stifled.
　　He had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of thepresence of Smike, until, happening to raise his head, he saw him,standing at the upper end of the room, looking wistfully towardshim. He withdrew his eyes when he saw that he was observed, andaffected to be busied with some scanty preparations for dinner.
　　‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, ‘letme hear what new acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new wonder you have found out, in the compass of this streetand the next one.’
　　‘No,’ said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; ‘I must talk ofsomething else today.’
　　‘Of what you like,’ replied Nicholas, good-humouredly.
　　‘Of this,’ said Smike. ‘I know you are unhappy, and have gotinto great trouble by bringing me away. I ought to have knownthat, and stopped behind—I would, indeed, if I had thought itthen. You—you—are not rich; you have not enough for yourself,and I should not be here. You grow,’ said the lad, laying his handtimidly on that of Nicholas, ‘you grow thinner every day; yourcheek is paler, and your eye more sunk. Indeed I cannot bear tosee you so, and think how I am burdening you. I tried to go awaytoday, but the thought of your kind face drew me back. I could notleave you without a word.’ The poor fellow could say no more, forhis eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
　　‘The word which separates us,’ said Nicholas, grasping himheartily by the shoulder, ‘shall never be said by me, for you are myonly comfort and stay. I would not lose you now, Smike, for all theworld could give. The thought of you has upheld me through all Ihave endured today, and shall, through fifty times such trouble.
　　Give me your hand. My heart is linked to yours. We will journeyfrom this place together, before the week is out. What, if I amsteeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we will be poor together.’
Chapter 21
Madame Mantalini finds herself in a Situation ofsome Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself inno Situation at all.
　　The agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nicklebyunable to resume her duties at the dressmaker’s for threedays, at the expiration of which interval she betook herselfat the accustomed hour, and with languid steps, to the temple offashion where Madame Mantalini reigned paramount andsupreme.
　　The ill-will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in theinterval. The young ladies still scrupulously shrunk from allcompanionship with their denounced associate; and when thatexemplary female arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at nopains to conceal the displeasure with which she regarded Kate’sreturn.
　　‘Upon my word!’ said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round,to relieve her of her bonnet and shawl; ‘I should have thoughtsome people would have had spirit enough to stop awayaltogether, when they know what an incumbrance their presenceis to right-minded persons. But it’s a queer world; oh! it’s a queerworld!’
　　Miss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in thetone in which most people do pass comments on the world whenthey are out of temper, that is to say, as if they by no meansbelonged 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 Knagwas apparently on the eve of favouring them with some furthermoral reflections, when the voice of Madame Mantalini, conveyedthrough the speaking-tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs toassist in the arrangement of the show-room; a distinction whichcaused Miss Knag to toss her head so much, and bite her lips sohard, that her powers of conversation were, for the time,annihilated.
　　‘Well, Miss Nickleby, child,’ said Madame Mantalini, when Katepresented 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. ‘Bodilyillness is more easy to bear than mental.’
　　‘Ah! and it’s much easier to talk than to bear either,’ saidMadame, 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 symptomsof unusual vexation portended, Mr Mantalini put the tips of hiswhiskers, 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 alittle rose in a demnition flower-pot?’ urged Mantalini. ‘May its poppet come in and talk?’
　　‘Certainly not,’ replied Madame: ‘you know I never allow youhere. Go along!’
　　The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relentingtone of this reply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room,made towards Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss ashe came along.
　　‘Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitchingnutcrackers?’ said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waistof 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. Itcouldn’t be. There’s not a woman alive, that could tell me such athing 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 lowtone.
　　‘All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such alittle 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 thematter; 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 ifhe dares to vex and hurt the little—’
　　‘Hush!’ interposed Madame. ‘Don’t you see?’
　　Mr Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters withhis wife, had overlooked, or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took the hint, and laying his finger on his lip, sunk hisvoice 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 Mantaliniprevious to her coverture; and also to an unexpected outlay ofmoney in payment of the aforesaid debts; and furthermore, tocertain agreeable weaknesses on that gentleman’s part, such asgaming, wasting, idling, and a tendency to horse-flesh; each ofwhich matters of accusation Mr Mantalini disposed of, by one kissor more, as its relative importance demanded. The upshot of it allwas, that Madame Mantalini was in raptures with him, and thatthey went upstairs to breakfast.
　　Kate busied herself in what she had to do, and was silentlyarranging the various articles of decoration in the best taste shecould display, when she started to hear a strange man’s voice inthe room, and started again, to observe, on looking round, that awhite hat, and a red neckerchief, and a broad round face, and alarge head, and part of a green coat were in the room too.
　　‘Don’t alarm yourself, miss,’ said the proprietor of theseappearances. ‘I say; this here’s the mantie-making consarn, an’tit?’
　　‘Yes,’ rejoined Kate, greatly astonished. ‘What did you want?’
　　The stranger answered not; but, first looking back, as though tobeckon 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 mingledfumigation of stale tobacco and fresh onions. The clothes of thisgentleman 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 withsplashes of mud, caught a fortnight previously—before the setting-in of the fine weather.
　　Kate’s very natural impression was, that these engagingindividuals had called with the view of possessing themselves,unlawfully, of any portable articles that chanced to strike theirfancy. She did not attempt to disguise her apprehensions, andmade 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 heat home?’
　　‘He is above stairs, I believe,’ replied Kate, a little reassured bythis inquiry. ‘Do you want him?’
　　‘No,’ replied the visitor. ‘I don’t ezactly want him, if it’s made afavour on. You can jist give him that ’ere card, and tell him if hewants to speak to me, and save trouble, here I am; that’s all.’
　　With these words, the stranger put a thick square card intoKate’s hand, and, turning to his friend, remarked, with an easy air,‘that the rooms was a good high pitch;’ to which the friendassented, adding, by way of illustration, ‘that there was lots ofroom for a little boy to grow up a man in either on ’em, vithoutmuch fear of his ever bringing his head into contract vith theceiling.’
　　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 hadnot had time to refer, when her attention was attracted by MrScaley himself, who, walking up to one of the cheval-glasses, gaveit a hard poke in the centre with his stick, as coolly as if it hadbeen 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, anda 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 someelegant articles of wearing apparel, while Mr Scaley adjusted hisneckcloth, at leisure, before the glass, and afterwards, aided by itsreflection, proceeded to the minute consideration of a pimple onhis chin; in which absorbing occupation he was yet engaged, whenMadame Mantalini, entering the room, uttered an exclamation ofsurprise 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 hispocket and unfolding it very slowly, ‘this is a writ of execution, andif 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 rungthe bell for her husband; which done, she fell into a chair and afainting fit, simultaneously. The professional gentlemen, however,were not at all discomposed by this event, for Mr Scaley, leaningupon a stand on which a handsome dress was displayed (so thathis shoulders appeared above it, in nearly the same manner as theshoulders 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 hishead with perfect unconcern, while his friend Mr Tix, taking thatopportunity for a general survey of the apartment preparatory toentering on business, stood with his inventory-book under his armand his hat in his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price uponevery 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 extensiveintercourse with Mr Scaley’s fraternity in his bachelor days, andwas, besides, very far from being taken by surprise on the presentagitating occasion, he merely shrugged his shoulders, thrust hishands down to the bottom of his pockets, elevated his eyebrows,whistled a bar or two, swore an oath or two, and, sitting astrideupon a chair, put the best face upon the matter with greatcomposure and decency.
　　‘What’s the demd total?’ was the first question he asked.
　　‘Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound, four and ninepenceha’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 theninepence.’
　　‘It don’t matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-sevenpound 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 bedone—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 TomTix, esk-vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family asyou 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 ofwot’s here isn’t paid for, I des-say, and wot a consolation oughtn’tthat to be to her feelings!’
　　With these remarks, combining great pleasantry with soundmoral encouragement under difficulties, Mr Scaley proceeded totake the inventory, in which delicate task he was materiallyassisted by the uncommon tact and experience of Mr Tix, thebroker.
　　‘My cup of happiness’s sweetener,’ said Mantalini, approachinghis wife with a penitent air; ‘will you listen to me for two minutes?’
　　‘Oh! don’t speak to me,’ replied his wife, sobbing. ‘You haveruined me, and that’s enough.’
　　Mr Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, nosooner heard these words pronounced in a tone of grief andseverity, than he recoiled several paces, assumed an expression ofconsuming mental agony, rushed headlong from the room, andwas, soon afterwards, heard to slam the door of an upstairsdressing-room with great violence.
　　‘Miss Nickleby,’ cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound mether ear, ‘make haste, for Heaven’s sake, he will destroy himself! Ispoke unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, mydarling Alfred.’
　　With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Katewho, although she did not quite participate in the fond wife’sapprehensions, was a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being hastily flung open, Mr Mantalini was disclosed toview, with his shirt-collar symmetrically thrown back: putting afine edge to a breakfast knife by means of his razor strop.
　　 ‘Ah!’ cried Mr Mantalini, ‘interrupted!’ and whisk went thebreakfast knife into Mr Mantalini’s dressing-gown pocket, whileMr Mantalini’s eyes rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wilddisorder, mingled with his whiskers.
　　‘Alfred,’ cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, ‘I didn’tmean to say it, I didn’t mean to say it!’
　　‘Ruined!’ cried Mr Mantalini. ‘Have I brought ruin upon thebest and purest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond!
　　Demmit, let me go.’ At this crisis of his ravings Mr Mantalini madea pluck at the breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife’sgrasp, attempted to dash his head against the wall—taking verygood care to be at least six feet from it.
　　‘Compose yourself, my own angel,’ said Madame. ‘It wasnobody’s fault; it was mine as much as yours, we shall do very wellyet. 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 orgentleman to blow his brains out, gentler feelings came upon him,and he wept pathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did notoppose the capture of the knife—which, to tell the truth, he wasrather glad to be rid of, as an inconvenient and dangerous articlefor a skirt pocket—and finally he suffered himself to be led awayby his affectionate partner.
　　After a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies wereinformed that their services would be dispensed with until furthernotice, and at the expiration of two days, the name of Mantaliniappeared in the list of bankrupts: Miss Nickleby received anintimation per post, on the same morning, that the business wouldbe, in future, carried on under the name of Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be required—a piece ofintelligence with which Mrs Nickleby was no sooner madeacquainted, than that good lady declared she had expected it allalong and cited divers unknown occasions on which she hadprophesied to that precise effect.
　　‘And I say again,’ remarked Mrs Nickleby (who, it is scarcelynecessary to observe, had never said so before), ‘I say again, that amilliner’s and dressmaker’s is the very last description of business,Kate, that you should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don’tmake it a reproach to you, my love; but still I will say, that if youhad consulted your own mother—’
　　‘Well, well, mama,’ said Kate, mildly: ‘what would yourecommend now?’
　　‘Recommend!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, ‘isn’t it obvious, my dear,that of all occupations in this world for a young lady situated asyou are, that of companion to some amiable lady is the very thingfor which your education, and manners, and personal appearance,and everything else, exactly qualify you? Did you never hear yourpoor dear papa speak of the young lady who was the daughter ofthe old lady who boarded in the same house that he boarded inonce, when he was a bachelor—what was her name again? I knowit began with a B, and ended with g, but whether it was Watersor—no, it couldn’t have been that, either; but whatever her namewas, don’t you know that that young lady went as companion to amarried lady who died soon afterwards, and that she married thehusband, and had one of the finest little boys that the medical manhad ever seen—all within eighteen months?’
　　Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourablerecollection was occasioned by some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had discovered, in the companionship walk oflife. She therefore waited, very patiently, until all reminiscencesand anecdotes, bearing or not bearing upon the subject, had beenexhausted, and at last ventured to inquire what discovery hadbeen made. The truth then came out. Mrs Nickleby had, thatmorning, had a yesterday’s newspaper of the very firstrespectability from the public-house where the porter came from;and in this yesterday’s newspaper was an advertisement, couchedin the purest and most grammatical English, announcing that amarried 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 intriumph, ‘that if your uncle don’t object, it’s well worth the trial.’
　　Kate was too sick at heart, after the rough jostling she hadalready had with the world, and really cared too little at themoment what fate was reserved for her, to make any objection. MrRalph Nickleby offered none, but, on the contrary, highlyapproved of the suggestion; neither did he express any greatsurprise at Madame Mantalini’s sudden failure, indeed it wouldhave been strange if he had, inasmuch as it had been procuredand brought about chiefly by himself. So, the name and addresswere obtained without loss of time, and Miss Nickleby and hermama 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 greatextremes; it is the connecting link between the aristocraticpavements of Belgrave Square, and the barbarism of Chelsea. It is in Sloane Street, but not of it. The people in Cadogan Place lookdown upon Sloane Street, and think Brompton low. They affectfashion too, and wonder where the New Road is. Not that theyclaim to be on precisely the same footing as the high folks ofBelgrave Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they stand, withreference to them, rather in the light of those illegitimate childrenof the great who are content to boast of their connections,although their connections disavow them. Wearing as much asthey can of the airs and semblances of loftiest rank, the people ofCadogan Place have the realities of middle station. It is theconductor which communicates to the inhabitants of regionsbeyond its limit, the shock of pride of birth and rank, which it hasnot within itself, but derives from a fountain-head beyond; or, likethe ligament which unites the Siamese twins, it containssomething of the life and essence of two distinct bodies, and yetbelongs to neither.
　　Upon this doubtful ground, lived Mrs Wititterly, and at MrsWititterly’s door Kate Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. Thedoor was opened by a big footman with his head floured, orchalked, or painted in some way (it didn’t look genuine powder),and the big footman, receiving the card of introduction, gave it to alittle page; so little, indeed, that his body would not hold, inordinary array, the number of small buttons which areindispensable to a page’s costume, and they were consequentlyobliged to be stuck on four abreast. This young gentleman took thecard upstairs on a salver, and pending his return, Kate and hermother were shown into a dining-room of rather dirty and shabbyaspect, and so comfortably arranged as to be adapted to almostany purpose rather than eating and drinking.
　　 Now, in the ordinary course of things, and according to allauthentic descriptions of high life, as set forth in books, MrsWititterly ought to have been in her boudoir; but whether it wasthat Mr Wititterly was at that moment shaving himself in theboudoir or what not, certain it is that Mrs Wititterly gave audiencein the drawing-room, where was everything proper and necessary,including curtains and furniture coverings of a roseate hue, toshed a delicate bloom on Mrs Wititterly’s complexion, and a littledog to snap at strangers’ legs for Mrs Wititterly’s amusement, andthe afore-mentioned page, to hand chocolate for Mrs Wititterly’srefreshment.
　　The lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and a face of engagingpaleness; there was a faded look about her, and about thefurniture, and about the house. She was reclining on a sofa in sucha very unstudied attitude, that she might have been taken for anactress all ready for the first scene in a ballet, and only waiting forthe 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 hisface and figure, that page was the boy.
　　‘I have ventured to call, ma’am,’ said Kate, after a few secondsof awkward silence, ‘from having seen your advertisement.’
　　‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Wititterly, ‘one of my people put it in thepaper—Yes.’
　　‘I thought, perhaps,’ said Kate, modestly, ‘that if you had notalready made a final choice, you would forgive my troubling youwith 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. Ireally don’t know what to say. You have never been a companionbefore, 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 mefor 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 littlethought, at one time, that it would be necessary for my daughter togo out into the world at all, for her poor dear papa was anindependent gentleman, and would have been at this moment ifhe 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 MrsNickleby intimated that she was going to say something whichwould clench the business at once, Kate maintained her point byan expressive look, and for once Mrs Nickleby was stopped uponthe very brink of an oration.
　　‘What are your accomplishments?’ asked Mrs Wititterly, withher 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 fortalking.
　　‘You are a good temper?’ asked Mrs Wititterly, opening hereyes for an instant, and shutting them again.
　　‘I hope so,’ rejoined Kate.
　　‘And have a highly respectable reference for everything, haveyou?’
　　Kate replied that she had, and laid her uncle’s card upon thetable.
　　‘Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and letme look at you,’ said Mrs Wititterly; ‘I am so very nearsighted thatI can’t quite discern your features.’
　　Kate complied, though not without some embarrassment, withthis request, and Mrs Wititterly took a languid survey of hercountenance, 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 thedoor for an important gentleman of about eight-and-thirty, ofrather plebeian countenance, and with a very light head of hair,who leant over Mrs Wititterly for a little time, and conversed withher in whispers.
　　‘Oh!’ he said, turning round, ‘yes. This is a most importantmatter. 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. ‘Yourintellect wears you out; all the medical men say so; you know thatthere is not a physician who is not proud of being called in to you.
　　What is their unanimous declaration? “My dear doctor,” said I toSir 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 canbear it. Is it nerves?” “My dear fellow,” he said, “be proud of thatwoman; make much of her; she is an ornament to the fashionableworld, and to you. Her complaint is soul. It swells, expands,dilates—the blood fires, the pulse quickens, the excitementincreases—Whew!”’ Here Mr Wititterly, who, in the ardour of hisdescription, had flourished his right hand to within something lessthan 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 violentmachinery.
　　‘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 youmove—necessarily move, from your station, connection, andendowments—is one vortex and whirlpool of the most frightfulexcitement. Bless my heart and body, can I ever forget the nightyou danced with the baronet’s nephew at the election ball, atExeter! It was tremendous.’
　　‘I always suffer for these triumphs afterwards,’ said MrsWititterly.
　　‘And for that very reason,’ rejoined her husband, ‘you musthave a companion, in whom there is great gentleness, greatsweetness, excessive sympathy, and perfect repose.’
　　 Here, both Mr and Mrs Wititterly, who had talked rather at theNicklebys than to each other, left off speaking, and looked at theirtwo hearers, with an expression of countenance which seemed tosay, ‘What do you think of all this?’
　　‘Mrs Wititterly,’ said her husband, addressing himself to MrsNickleby, ‘is sought after and courted by glittering crowds andbrilliant circles. She is excited by the opera, the drama, the finearts, 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 animmense variety of subjects. If some people in public life wereacquainted with Mrs Wititterly’s real opinion of them, they wouldnot 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 nobodyis injured. I merely mention the circumstance to show that you areno ordinary person, that there is a constant friction perpetuallygoing on between your mind and your body; and that you must besoothed 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 gonethrough again, with the addition of many interruptions and crossquestionings from Mr Wititterly. It was finally arranged thatinquiries should be made, and a decisive answer addressed to MissNickleby under cover of her uncle, within two days. Theseconditions agreed upon, the page showed them down as far as thestaircase window; and the big footman, relieving guard at thatpoint, piloted them in perfect safety to the street-door.
　　 ‘They are very distinguished people, evidently,’ said MrsNickleby, as she took her daughter’s arm. ‘What a superior personMrs Wititterly is!’
　　‘Do you think so, mama?’ was all Kate’s reply.
　　‘Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my love?’ rejoined hermother. ‘She is pale though, and looks much exhausted. I hope shemay not be wearing herself out, but I am very much afraid.’
　　These considerations led the deep-sighted lady into acalculation of the probable duration of Mrs Wititterly’s life, andthe chances of the disconsolate widower bestowing his hand onher daughter. Before reaching home, she had freed MrsWititterly’s soul from all bodily restraint; married Kate with greatsplendour at St George’s, Hanover Square; and only leftundecided the minor question, whether a splendid French-polished mahogany bedstead should be erected for herself in thetwo-pair back of the house in Cadogan Place, or in the three-pairfront: between which apartments she could not quite balance theadvantages, and therefore adjusted the question at last, bydetermining to leave it to the decision of her son-in-law.
　　The inquiries were made. The answer—not to Kate’s very greatjoy—was favourable; and at the expiration of a week she betookherself, with all her movables and valuables, to Mrs Wititterly’smansion, where for the present we will leave her.
Chapter 22
Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth toseek his Fortune. He encounters Mr VincentCrummles; and who he was, is herein mademanifest.
　　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 fromwhom he had hired his poor furniture, did not exceed, by morethan a few halfpence, the sum of twenty shillings. And yet hehailed the morning on which he had resolved to quit London, witha light heart, and sprang from his bed with an elasticity of spiritwhich is happily the lot of young persons, or the world wouldnever be stocked with old ones.
　　It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagreshadows flitted to and fro in the misty streets, and occasionallythere loomed through the dull vapour, the heavy outline of somehackney coach wending homewards, which, drawing slowlynearer, rolled jangling by, scattering the thin crust of frost from itswhitened roof, and soon was lost again in the cloud. At intervalswere heard the tread of slipshod feet, and the chilly cry of the poorsweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil; the heavy footfall ofthe official watcher of the night, pacing slowly up and down andcursing the tardy hours that still intervened between him andsleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the roll of thelighter vehicles which carried buyers and sellers to the different markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking at the doors of heavysleepers—all these noises fell upon the ear from time to time, butall seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost asindistinct to the ear as was every object to the sight. The sluggishdarkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had thecourage to rise and peep at the gloomy street from their curtainedwindows, crept back to bed again, and coiled themselves up tosleep.
　　Before even these indications of approaching morning were rifein busy London, Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, andstood beneath the windows of his mother’s house. It was dull andbare to see, but it had light and life for him; for there was at leastone heart within its old walls to which insult or dishonour wouldbring the same blood rushing, that flowed in his own veins.
　　He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of theroom where he knew his sister slept. It was closed and dark. ‘Poorgirl,’ thought Nicholas, ‘she little thinks who lingers here!’ Helooked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate wasnot there to exchange one word at parting. ‘Good God!’ hethought, suddenly correcting himself, ‘what a boy I am!’
　　‘It is better as it is,’ said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, afew paces, and returned to the same spot. ‘When I left thembefore, and could have said goodbye a thousand times if I hadchosen, I spared them the pain of leave-taking, and why not now?’
　　As he spoke, some fancied motion of the curtain almost persuadedhim, for the instant, that Kate was at the window, and by one ofthose strange contradictions of feeling which are common to us all,he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that she might not seehim. 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 oldlodgings, and so was Newman, who had expended a day’s incomein a can of rum and milk to prepare them for the journey. Theyhad tied up the luggage, Smike shouldered it, and away they went,with Newman Noggs in company; for he had insisted on walkingas 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 tellme?’
　　‘Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,’ rejoinedNicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder; ‘and if I did, I haveneither plan nor prospect yet, and might shift my quarters ahundred times before you could possibly communicate with me.’
　　‘I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,’ saidNewman, 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 manyfriends that I shall grow confused among the number, and forgetmy best one.’
　　Occupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple ofhours, as they might have done for a couple of days if Nicholas hadnot sat himself down on a stone by the wayside, and resolutelydeclared his intention of not moving another step until NewmanNoggs turned back. Having pleaded ineffectually first for anotherhalf-mile, and afterwards for another quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course towards Golden Square, afterinterchanging many hearty and affectionate farewells, and manytimes turning back to wave his hat to the two wayfarers when theyhad become mere specks in the distance.
　　‘Now listen to me, Smike,’ said Nicholas, as they trudged withstout hearts onwards. ‘We are bound for Portsmouth.’
　　Smike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no otheremotion; for whether they had been bound for Portsmouth or PortRoyal would have been alike to him, so they had been boundtogether.
　　‘I don’t know much of these matters,’ resumed Nicholas; ‘butPortsmouth is a seaport town, and if no other employment is to beobtained, I should think we might get on board some ship. I amyoung and active, and could be useful in many ways. So couldyou.’
　　‘I hope so,’ replied Smike. ‘When I was at that—you knowwhere I mean?’
　　‘Yes, I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘You needn’t name the place.’
　　‘Well, when I was there,’ resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling atthe prospect of displaying his abilities; ‘I could milk a cow, andgroom a horse, with anybody.’
　　‘Ha!’ said Nicholas, gravely. ‘I am afraid they don’t keep manyanimals of either kind on board ship, Smike, and even when theyhave horses, that they are not very particular about rubbing themdown; still you can learn to do something else, you know. Wherethere’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 shallgo 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 issome thirty and odd miles from London—as I found from a map Iborrowed—and I purpose to rest there. We must push on againtomorrow, for we are not rich enough to loiter. Let me relieve youof that bundle! Come!’
　　‘No, no,’ rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. ‘Don’t ask meto give it up to you.’
　　‘Why not?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Let me do something for you, at least,’ said Smike. ‘You willnever let me serve you as I ought. You will never know how Ithink, 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. ‘Letme 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 goodmemory?’
　　‘I don’t know,’ said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Ithink I had once; but it’s all gone now—all gone.’
　　‘Why do you think you had once?’ asked Nicholas, turningquickly upon him as though the answer in some way helped outthe 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 alwaysconfused and giddy at that place you took me from; and couldnever remember, and sometimes couldn’t even understand, whatthey 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 onlythinking how—’ He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.
　　‘Think no more of that place, for it is all over,’ retortedNicholas, fixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, whichwas fast settling into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitualto him, and common even then. ‘What of the first day you went toYorkshire?’
　　‘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 hasrained hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used tocrowd round and laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. Itwas like a child, they said, and that made me think of it more. Iturned cold all over sometimes, for I could see myself as I wasthen, coming in at the very same door.’
　　‘As you were then,’ repeated Nicholas, with assumedcarelessness; ‘how was that?’
　　‘Such a little creature,’ said Smike, ‘that they might have hadpity 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 theschool, and I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, Iwas afraid of him; but they made me more afraid of them, andused 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 kindwoman, who hung over you once, and kissed your lips, and calledyou 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—Iremember I slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of ahouse, where there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have coveredmy head with the clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: ayoung child with no one near at night: and I used to wonder whatwas on the other side. There was a clock too, an old clock, in onecorner. I remember that. I have never forgotten that room; forwhen I have terrible dreams, it comes back, just as it was. I seethings and people in it that I had never seen then, but there is theroom just as it used to be; that never changes.’
　　‘Will you let me take the bundle now?’ asked Nicholas, abruptlychanging the theme.
　　‘No,’ said Smike, ‘no. Come, let us walk on.’
　　He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under theimpression that they had been standing still during the whole ofthe previous dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and everyword of this conversation remained upon his memory.
　　It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although adense vapour still enveloped the city they had left, as if the verybreath of its busy people hung over their schemes of gain andprofit, and found greater attraction there than in the quiet regionabove, in the open country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, insome low spots they came upon patches of mist which the sun hadnot yet driven from their strongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the hills beyond, it was pleasant to lookdown, and see how the sluggish mass rolled heavily off, before thecheering influence of day. A broad, fine, honest sun lighted up thegreen pastures and dimpled water with the semblance of summer,while it left the travellers all the invigorating freshness of thatearly time of year. The ground seemed elastic under their feet; thesheep-bells were music to their ears; and exhilarated by exercise,and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with the strength oflions. The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, andassumed a quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time,or youthful features by degrees resolving into the calm andserenity of age. But they were scarcely less beautiful in their slowdecline, than they had been in their prime; for nature gives toevery time and season some beauties of its own; and from morningto night, as from the cradle to the grave, is but a succession ofchanges so gentle and easy, that we can scarcely mark theirprogress.
　　To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained fortwo humble beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they wereastir: though not quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if notwith all the freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope andspirit to bear them cheerily on.
　　It was a harder day’s journey than yesterday’s, for there werelong and weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is agreat deal easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on,with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its faceto heaven that perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
　　They walked upon the rim of the Devil’s Punch Bowl; andSmike listened with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone which, reared upon that wild spot, tellsof a murder committed there by night. The grass on which theystood, had once been dyed with gore; and the blood of themurdered man had run down, drop by drop, into the hollow whichgives the place its name. ‘The Devil’s Bowl,’ thought Nicholas, ashe looked into the void, ‘never held fitter liquor than that!’
　　Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at lengthupon a wide and spacious tract of downs, with every variety oflittle hill and plain to change their verdant surface. Here, thereshot up, almost perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, asto be hardly accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fedupon its sides, and there, stood a mound of green, sloping andtapering off so delicately, and merging so gently into the levelground, that you could scarce define its limits. Hills swelling aboveeach other; and undulations shapely and uncouth, smooth andrugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown negligently side by side,bounded the view in each direction; while frequently, withunexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a flight of crows,who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if uncertainof their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing andskimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with thespeed of light itself.
　　By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on eitherhand, and as they had been shut out from rich and extensivescenery, so they emerged once again upon the open country. Theknowledge that they were drawing near their place of destination,gave them fresh courage to proceed; but the way had beendifficult, 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 hisstick, 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, hewould say.
　　‘I want to get on,’ observed Nicholas. hesitating. ‘I scarcelyknow what to do.’
　　‘Don’t let me influence you,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I wouldn’tgo 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. Andhaving said it he pulled up his apron, put his hands into hispockets, and, taking a step or two outside the door, looked downthe dark road with an assumption of great indifference.
　　A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, sowithout any further consideration he made up his mind to staywhere he was.
　　The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a goodfire he remarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to bea bad one he would have observed that it was very warm.
　　‘What can you give us for supper?’ was Nicholas’s naturalquestion.
　　‘Why—what would you like?’ was the landlord’s no less naturalanswer.
　　Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat—poached eggs, but there were no eggs—mutton chops, but therewasn’t a mutton chop within three miles, though there had been more last week than they knew what to do with, and would be anextraordinary supply the day after tomorrow.
　　‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘I must leave it entirely to you, as I wouldhave done, at first, if you had allowed me.’
　　‘Why, then I’ll tell you what,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘There’s agentleman in the parlour that’s ordered a hot beef-steak puddingand potatoes, at nine. There’s more of it than he can manage, and Ihave very little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I’lldo that, in a minute.’
　　‘No, no,’ said Nicholas, detaining him. ‘I would rather not. I—atleast—pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I amtravelling in a very humble manner, and have made my way hitheron foot. It is more than probable, I think, that the gentleman maynot relish my company; and although I am the dusty figure yousee, I am too proud to thrust myself into his.’
　　‘Lord love you,’ said the landlord, ‘it’s only Mr Crummles; heisn’t particular.’
　　‘Is he not?’ asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, theprospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.
　　‘Not he,’ replied the landlord. ‘He’ll like your way of talking, Iknow. But we’ll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.’
　　The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying forfurther permission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wiselyconsidering that supper, under the circumstances, was too seriousa matter to be trifled with. It was not long before the hostreturned, in a condition of much excitement.
　　‘All right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I knew he would. You’ll seesomething rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of it!’
　　 There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, whichwas delivered in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he hadalready thrown open the door of the room; into which Nicholas,followed by Smike with the bundle on his shoulder (he carried itabout with him as vigilantly as if it had been a sack of gold),straightway repaired.
　　Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not forsomething quite so odd as the sight he encountered. At the upperend of the room, were a couple of boys, one of them very tall andthe other very short, both dressed as sailors—or at least astheatrical sailors, with belts, buckles, pigtails, and pistolscomplete—fighting what is called in play-bills a terrific combat,with two of those short broad-swords with basket hilts which arecommonly used at our minor theatres. The short boy had gained agreat advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to mortalstrait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perchedagainst the corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them tostrike a little more fire out of the swords, and they couldn’t fail tobring the house down, on the very first night.
　　‘Mr Vincent Crummles,’ said the landlord with an air of greatdeference. ‘This is the young gentleman.’
　　Mr Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination ofthe head, something between the courtesy of a Roman emperorand the nod of a pot companion; and bade the landlord shut thedoor and begone.
　　‘There’s a picture,’ said Mr Crummles, motioning Nicholas notto advance and spoil it. ‘The little ’un has him; if the big ’undoesn’t knock under, in three seconds, he’s a dead man. Do thatagain, boys.’
　　 The two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped awayuntil the swords emitted a shower of sparks: to the greatsatisfaction of Mr Crummles, who appeared to consider this a verygreat point indeed. The engagement commenced with about twohundred chops administered by the short sailor and the tall sailoralternately, without producing any particular result, until theshort sailor was chopped down on one knee; but this was nothingto him, for he worked himself about on the one knee with theassistance of his left hand, and fought most desperately until thetall sailor chopped his sword out of his grasp. Now, the inferencewas, that the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would give inat once and cry quarter, but, instead of that, he all of a suddendrew a large pistol from his belt and presented it at the face of thetall sailor, who was so overcome at this (not expecting it) that helet the short sailor pick up his sword and begin again. Then, thechopping recommenced, and a variety of fancy chops wereadministered 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’slegs, which would have shaved them clean off if it had taken effect,the tall sailor jumped over the short sailor’s sword, wherefore tobalance the matter, and make it all fair, the tall sailor administeredthe same cut, and the short sailor jumped over HIS sword. Afterthis, there was a good deal of dodging about, and hitching up ofthe inexpressibles in the absence of braces, and then the shortsailor (who was the moral character evidently, for he always hadthe best of it) made a violent demonstration and closed with thetall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down, andexpired 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 MrCrummles. ‘You had better get your wind now and change yourclothes.’
　　Having addressed these words to the combatants, he salutedNicholas, who then observed that the face of Mr Crummles wasquite proportionate in size to his body; that he had a very fullunder-lip, a hoarse voice, as though he were in the habit ofshouting very much, and very short black hair, shaved off nearlyto the crown of his head—to admit (as he afterwards learnt) of hismore 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 MrCrummles.
　　Nicholas assented—observing that if they were a little bettermatch—‘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 thecombat that there should be a foot or two between them. How areyou to get up the sympathies of the audience in a legitimatemanner, 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 forthat business in our company.’
　　‘I see,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon. That didn’t occur tome, 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 chairnear the fire, fell into conversation with the manager at once. Hewas very talkative and communicative, stimulated perhaps, notonly by his natural disposition, but by the spirits and water hesipped very plentifully, or the snuff he took in large quantitiesfrom a piece of whitey-brown paper in his waistcoat pocket. Helaid open his affairs without the smallest reserve, and descanted atsome length upon the merits of his company, and theacquirements of his family; of both of which, the two broad-swordboys formed an honourable portion. There was to be a gathering,it seemed, of the different ladies and gentlemen at Portsmouth onthe morrow, whither the father and sons were proceeding (not forthe regular season, but in the course of a wandering speculation),after fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the greatestapplause.
　　‘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, whoseemed to consider himself entitled to the same degree ofconfidence as he had himself exhibited.
　　‘No,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Never there?’
　　‘Never.’
　　Mr Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as tosay, ‘If you won’t be communicative, you won’t;’ and took so manypinches of snuff from the piece of paper, one after another, thatNicholas quite wondered where it all went to.
　　 While he was thus engaged, Mr Crummles looked, from time totime, with great interest at Smike, with whom he had appearedconsiderably struck from the first. He had now fallen asleep, andwas nodding in his chair.
　　‘Excuse my saying so,’ said the manager, leaning over toNicholas, and sinking his voice, ‘but what a capital countenanceyour friend has got!’
　　‘Poor fellow!’ said Nicholas, with a half-smile, ‘I wish it were alittle more plump, and less haggard.’
　　‘Plump!’ exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, ‘you’d spoil itfor ever.’
　　‘Do you think so?’
　　‘Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,’ said the manager, striking hisknee emphatically; ‘without a pad upon his body, and hardly atouch of paint upon his face, he’d make such an actor for thestarved business as was never seen in this country. Only let him betolerably well up in the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with theslightest possible dab of red on the tip of his nose, and he’d becertain of three rounds the moment he put his head out of thepracticable 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 youngfellow so regularly cut out for that line, since I’ve been in theprofession. And I played the heavy children when I was eighteenmonths old.’
　　The appearance of the beef-steak pudding, which came insimultaneously with the junior Vincent Crummleses, turned theconversation to other matters, and indeed, for a time, stopped italtogether. These two young gentlemen wielded their knives and forks with scarcely less address than their broad-swords, and asthe whole party were quite as sharp set as either class of weapons,there was no time for talking until the supper had been disposedof.
　　The Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the lastprocurable morsel of food, than they evinced, by various half-suppressed yawns and stretchings of their limbs, an obviousinclination to retire for the night, which Smike had betrayed stillmore strongly: he having, in the course of the meal, fallen asleepseveral times while in the very act of eating. Nicholas thereforeproposed that they should break up at once, but the managerwould by no means hear of it; vowing that he had promisedhimself the pleasure of inviting his new acquaintance to share abowl of punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it veryunhandsome behaviour.
　　‘Let them go,’ said Mr Vincent Crummles, ‘and we’ll have itsnugly and cosily together by the fire.’
　　Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep—being in truth tooanxious—so, after a little demur, he accepted the offer, and havingexchanged a shake of the hand with the young Crummleses, andthe manager having on his part bestowed a most affectionatebenediction on Smike, he sat himself down opposite to thatgentleman by the fireside to assist in emptying the bowl, whichsoon afterwards appeared, steaming in a manner which was quiteexhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most grateful andinviting fragrance.
　　But, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety ofstories, and smoked tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in theshape of snuff, with a most astonishing power, Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His thoughts were in his old home, andwhen they reverted to his present condition, the uncertainty of themorrow cast a gloom upon him, which his utmost efforts wereunable to dispel. His attention wandered; although he heard themanager’s voice, he was deaf to what he said; and when MrVincent Crummles concluded the history of some long adventurewith a loud laugh, and an inquiry what Nicholas would have doneunder the same circumstances, he was obliged to make the bestapology in his power, and to confess his entire ignorance of all hehad been talking about.
　　‘Why, so I saw,’ observed Mr Crummles. ‘You’re uneasy in yourmind. What’s the matter?’
　　Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of thequestion; but, thinking it scarcely worth while to parry it, ownedthat he was under some apprehensions lest he might not succeedin 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 poorfellow-traveller in the common necessaries of life,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘That’s the truth. You guessed it long ago, I dare say, so I may aswell have the credit of telling it you with a good grace.’
　　‘What’s to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhereelse?’ asked Mr Vincent Crummles, melting the sealing-wax on thestem of his pipe in the candle, and rolling it out afresh with hislittle finger.
　　‘There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,’ repliedNicholas. ‘I shall try for a berth in some ship or other. There ismeat 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, andreturning to his work of embellishment.
　　‘One may do worse than that,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can rough it, Ibelieve, as well as most young men of my age and previous habits.’
　　‘You need be able to,’ said the manager, ‘if you go on boardship; but you won’t.’
　　‘Why not?’
　　‘Because there’s not a skipper or mate that would think youworth your salt, when he could get a practised hand,’ replied themanager; ‘and they as plentiful there, as the oysters in the streets.’
　　‘What do you mean?’ asked Nicholas, alarmed by thisprediction, 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 atyour age, or from young gentlemen like you.’
　　There was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and hegazed ruefully at the fire.
　　‘Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man ofyour figure and address could take up easily, and see the world toadvantage in?’ asked the manager.
　　‘No,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head.
　　‘Why, then, I’ll tell you one,’ said Mr Crummles, throwing hispipe 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 inthe theatrical profession myself, my wife is in the theatricalprofession, my children are in the theatrical profession. I had adog that lived and died in it from a puppy; and my chaise-ponygoes 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, whosebreath had been almost taken away by this sudden proposal. ‘Inever acted a part in my life, except at school.’
　　‘There’s genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juveniletragedy in your eye, and touch-and-go farce in your laugh,’ said MrVincent Crummles. ‘You’ll do as well as if you had thought ofnothing else but the lamps, from your birth downwards.’
　　Nicholas thought of the small amount of small change thatwould remain in his pocket after paying the tavern bill; and hehesitated.
　　‘You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,’ said Mr Crummles.
　　‘Think what capital bills a man of your education could write forthe shop-windows.’
　　‘Well, I think I could manage that department,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘To be sure you could,’ replied Mr Crummles. ‘“For furtherparticulars see small hand-bills”—we might have half a volume inevery one of ’em. Pieces too; why, you could write us a piece tobring out the whole strength of the company, whenever wewanted one.’
　　‘I am not quite so confident about that,’ replied Nicholas. ‘But Idare say I could scribble something now and then, that would suityou.’
　　‘We’ll have a new show-piece out directly,’ said the manager.
　　‘Let me see—peculiar resources of this establishment—new andsplendid scenery—you must manage to introduce a real pump andtwo 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 piecewritten 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 wellin the bills in separate lines—Real pump!—Splendid tubs!—Greatattraction! 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 hadbeen, we might have had a large woodcut of the last scene for theposters, showing the whole depth of the stage, with the pump andtubs 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 fewmoments’ reflection. ‘Could I live by it?’
　　‘Live by it!’ said the manager. ‘Like a prince! With your ownsalary, 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 doublethe money.’
　　Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution wasbefore him; and if he could summon fortitude to undergo theextremes of want and hardship, for what had he rescued hishelpless charge if it were only to bear as hard a fate as that fromwhich he had wrested him? It was easy to think of seventy miles asnothing, when he was in the same town with the man who hadtreated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts; but now, itseemed far enough. What if he went abroad, and his mother orKate were to die the while?
　　 Without more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was abargain, 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 theinn stables, which he called a pony, and a vehicle ofunknown design, on which he bestowed the appellation ofa four-wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded on his journey nextmorning with greater ease than he had expected: the manager andhimself occupying the front seat: and the Master Crummleses andSmike being packed together behind, in company with a wickerbasket defended from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were thebroad-swords, pistols, pigtails, nautical costumes, and otherprofessional necessaries of the aforesaid young gentlemen.
　　The pony took his time upon the road, and—possibly inconsequence of his theatrical education—evinced, every now andthen, a strong inclination to lie down. However, Mr VincentCrummles kept him up pretty well, by jerking the rein, and plyingthe whip; and when these means failed, and the animal came to astand, the elder Master Crummles got out and kicked him. By dintof these encouragements, he was persuaded to move from time totime, and they jogged on (as Mr Crummles truly observed) verycomfortably for all parties.
　　‘He’s a good pony at bottom,’ said Mr Crummles, turning toNicholas.
　　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 MrCrummles, flicking him skilfully on the eyelid for oldacquaintance’ sake. ‘He is quite one of us. His mother was on thestage.’
　　‘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 adancer.’
　　‘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 henever quite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodramatoo, but too broad—too broad. When the mother died, he took theport-wine business.’
　　‘The port-wine business!’ cried Nicholas.
　　‘Drinking port-wine with the clown,’ said the manager; ‘but hewas greedy, and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and chokedhimself, so his vulgarity was the death of him at last.’
　　The descendant of this ill-starred animal requiring increasedattention from Mr Crummles as he progressed in his day’s work,that gentleman had very little time for conversation. Nicholas wasthus left at leisure to entertain himself with his own thoughts, untilthey arrived at the drawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr Crummlespulled up.
　　‘We’ll get down here,’ said the manager, ‘and the boys will takehim 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, Nicholasjumped out, and, giving Smike his arm, accompanied the managerup High Street on their way to the theatre; feeling nervous anduncomfortable enough at the prospect of an immediateintroduction to a scene so new to him.
　　They passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls anddisplayed in windows, wherein the names of Mr VincentCrummles, 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 intoan entry, in which was a strong smell of orange-peel and lamp-oil,with an under-current of sawdust, groped their way through adark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a little mazeof canvas screens and paint pots, and emerged upon the stage ofthe Portsmouth Theatre.
　　‘Here we are,’ said Mr Crummles.
　　It was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to thefirst entrance on the prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes,mildewed clouds, heavily daubed draperies, and dirty floors. Helooked 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 thoughtit was a blaze of light and finery.’
　　‘Why, so it is,’ replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; ‘but notby day, Smike—not by day.’
　　The manager’s voice recalled him from a more carefulinspection 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 fortyand fifty, in a tarnished silk cloak, with her bonnet dangling by thestrings in her hand, and her hair (of which she had a greatquantity) braided in a large festoon over each temple.
　　‘Mr Johnson,’ said the manager (for Nicholas had given thename which Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in hisconversation with Mrs Kenwigs), ‘let me introduce Mrs VincentCrummles.’
　　‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ said Mrs Vincent Crummles, in asepulchral voice. ‘I am very glad to see you, and still more happyto hail you as a promising member of our corps.’
　　The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him inthese terms; he saw it was a large one, but had not expected quitesuch an iron grip as that with which she honoured him.
　　‘And this,’ said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actressescross when they obey a stage direction, ‘and this is the other. Youtoo, are welcome, sir.’
　　‘He’ll do, I think, my dear?’ said the manager, taking a pinch ofsnuff.
　　‘He is admirable,’ replied the lady. ‘An acquisition indeed.’
　　As Mrs Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, therebounded on to the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl ina dirty white frock with tucks up to the knees, short trousers,sandaled shoes, white spencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil andcurl papers; who turned a pirouette, cut twice in the air, turnedanother pirouette, then, looking off at the opposite wing, shrieked,bounded forward to within six inches of the footlights, and fell intoa beautiful attitude of terror, as a shabby gentleman in an old pairof 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, goon. A little this way, if you please, Mr Johnson. That’ll do. Now!’
　　The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and thesavage, becoming ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; butthe maiden avoided him in six twirls, and came down, at the end ofthe last one, upon the very points of her toes. This seemed to makesome impression upon the savage; for, after a little more ferocityand chasing of the maiden into corners, he began to relent, andstroked his face several times with his right thumb and fourfingers, thereby intimating that he was struck with admiration ofthe maiden’s beauty. Acting upon the impulse of this passion, he(the savage) began to hit himself severe thumps in the chest, andto exhibit other indications of being desperately in love, whichbeing rather a prosy proceeding, was very likely the cause of themaiden’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 intimateto all whom it might concern that she was asleep, and noshamming. 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 thebank, and had a dance all alone too—such a dance that the savagelooked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it was done, pluckedfrom a neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity, resembling asmall pickled cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at firstwouldn’t have it, but on the savage shedding tears relented. Thenthe savage jumped for joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and themaiden danced violently together, and, finally, the savage droppeddown on one knee, and the maiden stood on one leg upon hisother knee; thus concluding the ballet, and leaving the spectatorsin a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether she would ultimatelymarry 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 themaiden forward, ‘this is the infant phenomenon—Miss NinettaCrummles.’
　　‘Your daughter?’ inquired Nicholas.
　　‘My daughter—my daughter,’ replied Mr Vincent Crummles;‘the idol of every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentaryletters about this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almostevery town in England.’
　　‘I am not surprised at that,’ said Nicholas; ‘she must be quite anatural genius.’
　　‘Quite a—!’ Mr Crummles stopped: language was not powerfulenough 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 beseen, sir—seen—to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go toyour mother, my dear.’
　　‘May I ask how old she is?’ inquired Nicholas.
　　‘You may, sir,’ replied Mr Crummles, looking steadily in hisquestioner’s face, as some men do when they have doubts aboutbeing implicitly believed in what they are going to say. ‘She is tenyears 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, hada comparatively aged countenance, and had moreover beenprecisely the same age—not perhaps to the full extent of thememory of the oldest inhabitant, but certainly for five good years.
　　But she had been kept up late every night, and put upon anunlimited allowance of gin-and-water from infancy, to prevent hergrowing tall, and perhaps this system of training had produced inthe infant phenomenon these additional phenomena.
　　While this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who hadenacted 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 tojoin in the conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he putin his word.
　　‘Talent there, sir!’ said the savage, nodding towards MissCrummles.
　　Nicholas assented.
　　‘Ah!’ said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing inhis breath with a hissing sound, ‘she oughtn’t to be in theprovinces, she oughtn’t.’
　　‘What do you mean?’ asked the manager.
　　‘I mean to say,’ replied the other, warmly, ‘that she is too goodfor country boards, and that she ought to be in one of the largehouses in London, or nowhere; and I tell you more, withoutmincing the matter, that if it wasn’t for envy and jealousy in somequarter that you know of, she would be. Perhaps you’ll introduceme here, Mr Crummles.’
　　‘Mr Folair,’ said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.
　　 ‘Happy to know you, sir.’ Mr Folair touched the brim of his hatwith his forefinger, and then shook hands. ‘A recruit, sir, Iunderstand?’
　　‘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 femalechild of common sharpness in a charity school, that couldn’t dobetter than that. She may thank her stars she was born amanager’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 armthrough his, and walking him up and down the stage. ‘Isn’t itenough to make a man crusty to see that little sprawler put up inthe best business every night, and actually keeping money out ofthe house, by being forced down the people’s throats, while otherpeople are passed over? Isn’t it extraordinary to see a man’sconfounded family conceit blinding him, even to his own interest?
　　Why I know of fifteen and sixpence that came to Southampton onenight last month, to see me dance the Highland Fling; and what’sthe consequence? I’ve never been put up in it since—never once—while the “infant phenomenon” has been grinning throughartificial flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boysin 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 knockthe dust out; ‘I can come it pretty well—nobody better, perhaps, inmy own line—but having such business as one gets here, is likeputting lead on one’s feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetterswithout 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 thickblack hair, and very evident inclinations (although he was closeshaved) of a stiff beard, and whiskers of the same deep shade. Hisage did not appear to exceed thirty, though many at first sightwould have considered him much older, as his face was long, andvery pale, from the constant application of stage paint. He wore achecked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt buttons, aneckerchief of broad red and green stripes, and full blue trousers;he carried, too, a common ash walking-stick, apparently more forshow than use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked enddownwards, except when he raised it for a few seconds, andthrowing himself into a fencing attitude, made a pass or two at theside-scenes, or at any other object, animate or inanimate, thatchanced to afford him a pretty good mark at the moment.
　　‘Well, Tommy,’ said this gentleman, making a thrust at hisfriend, who parried it dexterously with his slipper, ‘what’s thenews?’
　　‘A new appearance, that’s all,’ replied Mr Folair, looking atNicholas.
　　‘Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,’ said the othergentleman, tapping him reproachfully on the crown of the hat withhis 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 doit himself, you should add, Tommy,’ remarked Mr Lenville. ‘Youknow 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 inthe heavy and ponderous way,’ said Mr Lenville. ‘I mustn’t becracking 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 tolook at it yet; I’m a confounded quick study, that’s one comfort.’
　　Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr Lenville drew fromhis coat pocket a greasy and crumpled manuscript, and, havingmade another pass at his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro,conning it to himself and indulging occasionally in suchappropriate action as his imagination and the text suggested.
　　A pretty general muster of the company had by this time takenplace; for besides Mr Lenville and his friend Tommy, there werepresent, a slim young gentleman with weak eyes, who played thelow-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 veryamiable to the infant phenomenon, was an inebriated elderlygentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who played the calmand virtuous old men; and paying especial court to Mrs Crummleswas another elderly gentleman, a shade more respectable, whoplayed the irascible old men—those funny fellows who havenephews in the army and perpetually run about with thick sticksto compel them to marry heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-looking person in a rough great-coat, who strode up anddown in front of the lamps, flourishing a dress cane, and rattlingaway, in an undertone, with great vivacity for the amusement ofan ideal audience. He was not quite so young as he had been, andhis figure was rather running to seed; but there was an air ofexaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the hero ofswaggering comedy. There was, also, a little group of three or fouryoung men with lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who wereconversing in one corner; but they seemed to be of secondaryimportance, and laughed and talked together without attractingany attention.
　　The ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves roundthe 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 herbenefit—glancing, from the depths of her coal-scuttle strawbonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting to be absorbed in the recital of adiverting story to her friend Miss Ledrook, who had brought herwork, and was making up a ruff in the most natural mannerpossible. There was Miss Belvawney—who seldom aspired tospeaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white silk hose, tostand with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go inand out after Mr Crummles in stately tragedy—twisting up theringlets of the beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had herlikeness taken ‘in character’ by an engraver’s apprentice, whereofimpressions 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 MrLenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with an imitation ermine boatied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr Crummles, junior,with both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs Grudden in a browncloth pelisse and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs Crummles inher domestic affairs, and took money at the doors, and dressed theladies, and swept the house, and held the prompt book wheneverybody else was on for the last scene, and acted any kind ofpart on any emergency without ever learning it, and was put downin the bills under my name or names whatever, that occurred toMr Crummles as looking well in print.
　　Mr Folair having obligingly confided these particulars toNicholas, left him to mingle with his fellows; the work of personalintroduction was completed by Mr Vincent Crummles, whopublicly heralded the new actor as a prodigy of genius andlearning.
　　‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towardsNicholas, ‘but did you ever play at Canterbury?’
　　‘I never did,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,’ said MissSnevellicci, ‘only for a few moments, for I was leaving thecompany as he joined it, so like you that I felt almost certain it wasthe same.’
　　‘I see you now for the first time,’ rejoined Nicholas with all duegallantry. ‘I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn’t haveforgotten it.’
　　‘Oh, I’m sure—it’s very flattering of you to say so,’ retorted MissSnevellicci with a graceful bend. ‘Now I look at you again, I seethat the gentleman at Canterbury hadn’t the same eyes as you— you’ll think me very foolish for taking notice of such things, won’tyou?’
　　‘Not at all,’ said Nicholas. ‘How can I feel otherwise thanflattered by your notice in any way?’
　　‘Oh! you men are such vain creatures!’ cried Miss Snevellicci.
　　Whereupon, she became charmingly confused, and, pulling outher pocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk reticule with a giltclasp, 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 tospeak to you.’
　　But Miss Ledrook wouldn’t come to Miss Snevellicci, so MissSnevellicci was obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in askipping manner that was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrookevidently joked Miss Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas;for, after some playful whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit MissLedrook very hard on the backs of her hands, and retired up, in astate of pleasing confusion.
　　‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Vincent Crummles, who hadbeen writing on a piece of paper, ‘we’ll call the Mortal Struggletomorrow at ten; everybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Waysand 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 MrCrummles; ‘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 hisvoice, 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 theCrummles family, Nicholas, and Smike.
　　‘Upon my word,’ said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, ‘Idon’t think I can be ready by Monday.’
　　‘Pooh, pooh,’ replied Mr Crummles.
　　‘But really I can’t,’ returned Nicholas; ‘my invention is notaccustomed to these demands, or possibly I might produce—’
　　‘Invention! what the devil’s that got to do with it!’ cried themanager hastily.
　　‘Everything, my dear sir.’
　　‘Nothing, my dear sir,’ retorted the manager, with evidentimpatience. ‘Do you understand French?’
　　‘Perfectly well.’
　　‘Very good,’ said the manager, opening the table drawer, andgiving a roll of paper from it to Nicholas. ‘There! Just turn thatinto English, and put your name on the title-page. Damn me,’ saidMr Crummles, angrily, ‘if I haven’t often said that I wouldn’t havea man or woman in my company that wasn’t master of thelanguage, so that they might learn it from the original, and play itin English, and save all this trouble and expense.’
　　Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.
　　‘What are you going to do about your lodgings?’ said MrCrummles.
　　 Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, itwould be an uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedsteadin the pit, but he merely remarked that he had not turned histhoughts that way.
　　‘Come home with me then,’ said Mr Crummles, ‘and my boysshall go with you after dinner, and show you the most likely place.’
　　The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr Crummlesgave Mrs Crummles an arm each, and walked up the street instately array. Smike, the boys, and the phenomenon, went homeby a shorter cut, and Mrs Grudden remained behind to take somecold Irish stew and a pint of porter in the box-office.
　　Mrs Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going toimmediate execution with an animating consciousness ofinnocence, and that heroic fortitude which virtue alone inspires.
　　Mr Crummles, on the other hand, assumed the look and gait of ahardened despot; but they both attracted some notice from manyof the passers-by, and when they heard a whisper of ‘Mr and MrsCrummles!’ or saw a little boy run back to stare them in the face,the severe expression of their countenances relaxed, for they felt itwas popularity.
　　Mr Crummles lived in St Thomas’s Street, at the house of oneBulph, a pilot, who sported a boat-green door, with window-frames of the same colour, and had the little finger of a drownedman on his parlour mantelshelf, with other maritime and naturalcuriosities. He displayed also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and abrass bell-handle, all very bright and shining; and had a mast, witha vane on the top of it, in his back yard.
　　‘You are welcome,’ said Mrs Crummles, turning round toNicholas when they reached the bow-windowed front room on the first floor.
　　Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedlyglad to see the cloth laid.
　　‘We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,’ said MrsCrummles, in the same charnel-house voice; ‘but such as ourdinner is, we beg you to partake of it.’
　　‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I shall do it amplejustice.’
　　‘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 sauceappear.’
　　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 thepembroke-table, and Smike and the master Crummleses dined onthe sofa bedstead.
　　‘Are they very theatrical people here?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘No,’ replied Mr Crummles, shaking his head, ‘far from it—farfrom it.’
　　‘I pity them,’ observed Mrs Crummles.
　　‘So do I,’ said Nicholas; ‘if they have no relish for theatricalentertainments, properly conducted.’
　　‘Then they have none, sir,’ rejoined Mr Crummles. ‘To theinfant’s benefit, last year, on which occasion she repeated three ofher most popular characters, and also appeared in the FairyPorcupine, as originally performed by her, there was a house of nomore 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. ‘MrsCrummles herself has played to mere handfuls.’
　　‘But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,’ said themanager’s wife.
　　‘Most audiences are, when they have good acting—real goodacting—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 pupilshere. I imparted tuition to the daughter of a dealer in ships’
　　provision; but it afterwards appeared that she was insane whenshe first came to me. It was very extraordinary that she shouldcome, under such circumstances.’
　　Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to holdhis peace.
　　‘Let me see,’ said the manager cogitating after dinner. ‘Wouldyou like some nice little part with the infant?’
　　‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas hastily; ‘but I thinkperhaps it would be better if I had somebody of my own size atfirst, in case I should turn out awkward. I should feel more athome, perhaps.’
　　‘True,’ said the manager. ‘Perhaps you would. And you couldplay up to the infant, in time, you know.’
　　‘Certainly,’ replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be avery long time before he was honoured with this distinction.
　　‘Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘You shallstudy Romeo when you’ve done that piece—don’t forget to throw the pump and tubs in by-the-bye—Juliet Miss Snevellicci, oldGrudden the nurse.—Yes, that’ll do very well. Rover too;—youmight get up Rover while you were about it, and Cassio, andJeremy Diddler. You can easily knock them off; one part helps theother so much. Here they are, cues and all.’
　　With these hasty general directions Mr Crummles thrust anumber of little books into the faltering hands of Nicholas, andbidding his eldest son go with him and show where lodgings wereto be had, shook him by the hand, and wished him good night.
　　There is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments inPortsmouth, and no difficulty in finding some that areproportionate to very slender finances; but the former were toogood, and the latter too bad, and they went into so many houses,and came out unsuited, that Nicholas seriously began to think heshould be obliged to ask permission to spend the night in thetheatre, after all.
　　Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms upthree pair of stairs, or rather two pair and a ladder, at atobacconist’s shop, on the Common Hard: a dirty street leadingdown to the dockyard. These Nicholas engaged, only too happy tohave escaped any request for payment of a week’s rentbeforehand.
　　‘There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,’ he said, aftershowing young Crummles downstairs. ‘We have fallen uponstrange times, and Heaven only knows the end of them; but I amtired with the events of these three days, and will postponereflection till tomorrow—if I can.’
Chapter 24
Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and thefirst Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.
　　Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he hadscarcely begun to dress, notwithstanding, when he heardfootsteps ascending the stairs, and was presently salutedby the voices of Mr Folair the pantomimist, and Mr Lenville, thetragedian.
　　‘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 tobreakfast, I suppose. I’ll open the door directly, if you’ll wait aninstant.’
　　The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, tobeguile the interval, had a fencing bout with their walking-stickson the very small landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposureof all the other lodgers downstairs.
　　‘Here, come in,’ said Nicholas, when he had completed histoilet. ‘In the name of all that’s horrible, don’t make that noiseoutside.’
　　‘An uncommon snug little box this,’ said Mr Lenville, steppinginto the front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in atall. ‘Pernicious snug.’
　　‘For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifletoo snug,’ said Nicholas; ‘for, although it is, undoubtedly, a greatconvenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of the room, without having tomove from your chair, still these advantages can only be had in anapartment of the most limited size.’
　　‘It isn’t a bit too confined for a single man,’ returned MrLenville. ‘That reminds me,—my wife, Mr Johnson,—I hope she’llhave some good part in this piece of yours?’
　　‘I glanced at the French copy last night,’ said Nicholas. ‘It looksvery 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 afterwardswiping it on the skirt of his coat. ‘Anything in the gruff andgrumble 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 goodbusiness.’
　　‘After which,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are troubled with remorse tillthe last act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself.
　　But, just as you are raising the pistol to your head, a clockstrikes—ten.’
　　‘I see,’ cried Mr Lenville. ‘Very good.’
　　‘You pause,’ said Nicholas; ‘you recollect to have heard a clockstrike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand—you areovercome—you burst into tears, and become a virtuous andexemplary character for ever afterwards.’
　　‘Capital!’ said Mr Lenville: ‘that’s a sure card, a sure card. Getthe curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it’ll be atriumphant success.’
　　‘Is there anything good for me?’ inquired Mr Folair, anxiously.
　　 ‘Let me see,’ said Nicholas. ‘You play the faithful and attachedservant; you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.’
　　‘Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,’ sighed MrFolair; ‘and we go into poor lodgings, where I won’t take anywages, 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 bettermake a pas de deux, and save time.’
　　‘There’s nothing easier than that,’ said Mr Lenville, observingthe disturbed looks of the young dramatist.
　　‘Upon my word I don’t see how it’s to be done,’ rejoinedNicholas.
　　‘Why, isn’t it obvious?’ reasoned Mr Lenville. ‘Gadzooks, whocan help seeing the way to do it?—you astonish me! You get thedistressed lady, and the little child, and the attached servant, intothe poor lodgings, don’t you?—Well, look here. The distressed ladysinks 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 thefavourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. “What can we doto raise your spirits, dear mama?” says the little child. “Ay, whatcan we do?” says the faithful servant. “Oh, Pierre!” says thedistressed lady; “would that I could shake off these painfulthoughts.”—“Try, ma’am, try,” says the faithful servant; “rouseyourself, ma’am; be amused.”—“I will,” says the lady, “I will learnto suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honestfriend, which, in happier days, you practised with this sweetangel? 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 Idie,—and off they go. that’s the regular thing; isn’t it, tommy?’
　　‘That’s it,’ replied Mr Folair. ‘The distressed lady, overpoweredby old recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close inwith a picture.’
　　Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result ofthe personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gavethem the best breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid ofthem, applied himself to his task: by no means displeased to findthat it was so much easier than he had at first supposed. Heworked very hard all day, and did not leave his room until theevening, when he went down to the theatre, whither Smike hadrepaired before him to go on with another gentleman as a generalrebellion.
　　Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcelyknew them. False hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles—they had become different beings. Mr Lenville was a bloomingwarrior of most exquisite proportions; Mr Crummles, his largeface shaded by a profusion of black hair, a Highland outlaw ofmost majestic bearing; one of the old gentlemen a jailer, and theother a venerable patriarch; the comic countryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of humour; each of theMaster Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the low-spiritedlover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet readyspread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, oneplate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short,everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour andpreparation.
　　Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating the first scene, which was a Gothic archway, abouttwo feet shorter than Mr Crummles, through which thatgentleman was to make his first entrance, and now listening to acouple of people who were cracking nuts in the gallery, wonderingwhether they made the whole audience, when the managerhimself 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 frontplaces 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. Thereare six children, and they never come unless the phenomenonplays.’
　　It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise,to have visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon didnot play, inasmuch as she always sustained one, and notuncommonly two or three, characters, every night; but Nicholas,sympathising with the feelings of a father, refrained from hintingat 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’sthe footman, who stands outside, with a bag of oranges and a jugof toast-and-water, and sees the play for nothing through the littlepane of glass in the box-door—it’s cheap at a guinea; they gain bytaking 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 cometo 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 shortlyafterwards the tuning of three fiddles was heard. Which processhaving been protracted as long as it was supposed that thepatience of the audience could possibly bear it, was put a stop toby another jerk of the bell, which, being the signal to begin inearnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs, withinvoluntary variations.
　　If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the betterwhich the gentlemen displayed, the transformation of the ladieswas still more extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of themanager’s box, he beheld Miss Snevellicci in all the glories ofwhite muslin with a golden hem, and Mrs Crummles in all thedignity of the outlaw’s wife, and Miss Bravassa in all the sweetnessof Miss Snevellicci’s confidential friend, and Miss Belvawney inthe white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing tolive and die in the service of everybody, he could scarcely containhis admiration, which testified itself in great applause, and theclosest possible attention to the business of the scene. The plotwas most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, orcountry, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, asnobody’s previous information could afford the remotestglimmering of what would ever come of it. An outlaw had beenvery successful in doing something somewhere, and came home,in triumph, to the sound of shouts and fiddles, to greet his wife—alady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her father’sbones, which it seemed were unburied, though whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman himself, or thereprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear. Thisoutlaw’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 ofseveral of the characters, but he didn’t exactly know which, andwas uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in hiscastle, or the wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion,and, being uneasy, relieved his mind with a banquet, during whichsolemnity somebody in a cloak said ‘Beware!’ which somebodywas known by nobody (except the audience) to be the outlawhimself, who had come there, for reasons unexplained, butpossibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an agreeable littlesurprise in the way of certain love passages between thedesponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting-man and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr Lenville had severalvery tragic scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions,which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comicfighting-man (who overheard whatever was said all through thepiece) and the intrepidity of Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights,and therein repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with asmall basket of refreshments and a dark lantern. At last, it cameout that the patriarch was the man who had treated the bones ofthe outlaw’s father-in-law with so much disrespect, for whichcause and reason the outlaw’s wife repaired to his castle to killhim, and so got into a dark room, where, after a good deal ofgroping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, andtook them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantityof confusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; afterwhich, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look, that he knew all about his children now, and would tell themwhen they got inside, said that there could not be a moreappropriate occasion for marrying the young people than that; andtherefore he joined their hands, with the full consent of theindefatigable page, who (being the only other person surviving)pointed with his cap into the clouds, and his right hand to theground; thereby invoking a blessing and giving the cue for thecurtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.
　　‘What did you think of that?’ asked Mr Crummles, whenNicholas went round to the stage again. Mr Crummles was veryred and hot, for your outlaws are desperate fellows to shout.
　　‘I think it was very capital indeed,’ replied Nicholas; ‘MissSnevellicci 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 yourson her bespeak night.’
　　‘When?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friendsand patrons bespeak the play,’ said Mr Crummles.
　　‘Oh! I understand,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘You see,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘it’s sure to go, on such anoccasion, and even if it should not work up quite as well as weexpect, 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 Mondayweek. What do you say? You’ll have done it, and are sure to be upin the lover’s part, long before that time.’
　　‘I don’t know about “long before,”’ replied Nicholas; ‘but by thattime 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 shallI 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 somany bespeaks in this place, that she wants an attraction. She hada bespeak when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when heruncle died; and Mrs Crummles and myself have had bespeaks onthe anniversary of the phenomenon’s birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that description, so that, in fact, there’s somedifficulty in getting a good one. Now, won’t you help this poor girl,Mr Johnson?’ said Crummles, sitting himself down on a drum, andtaking 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 tomorrowmorning, to call with her at the houses of one or two of theprincipal 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. ‘Themoment it was suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant togo. There will not be the smallest impropriety—Miss Snevellicci,sir, is the very soul of honour. It would be of material service—thegentleman from London—author of the new piece—actor in thenew piece—first appearance on any boards—it would lead to agreat bespeak, Mr Johnson.’
　　‘I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects ofanybody, and more especially a lady,’ replied Nicholas; ‘but reallyI must decidedly object to making one of the canvassing party.’
　　 ‘What does Mr Johnson say, Vincent?’ inquired a voice close tohis ear; and, looking round, he found Mrs Crummles and MissSnevellicci 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 socruel—oh, dear me!—Well, I—to think of that now, after all one’slooking forward to it!’
　　‘Mr Johnson will not persist, my dear,’ said Mrs Crummles.
　　‘Think better of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, allthe best feelings of his nature, must be enlisted in this interestingcause.’
　　‘Which moves even a manager,’ said Mr Crummles, smiling.
　　‘And a manager’s wife,’ added Mrs Crummles, in heraccustomed tragedy tones. ‘Come, come, you will relent, I knowyou will.’
　　‘It is not in my nature,’ said Nicholas, moved by these appeals,‘to resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positivelywrong; and, beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing whichshould prevent my doing this. I know nobody here, and nobodyknows me. So be it then. I yield.’
　　Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes andexpressions of gratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr norMrs Crummles was by any means sparing. It was arranged thatNicholas should call upon her, at her lodgings, at eleven nextmorning, and soon after they parted: he to return home to hisauthorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the after-piece: and thedisinterested manager and his wife to discuss the probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have two-thirdsof the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.
　　At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to thelodgings of Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called LombardStreet, at the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervadedthe little passage; and the tailor’s daughter, who opened the door,appeared in that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant uponthe periodical getting up of a family’s linen.
　　‘Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?’ said Nicholas, when thedoor was opened.
　　The tailor’s daughter replied in the affirmative.
　　‘Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr Johnson ishere?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Oh, if you please, you’re to come upstairs,’ replied the tailor’sdaughter, with a smile.
　　Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a smallapartment on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; inwhich, as he judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, asof cups and saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking herbreakfast in bed.
　　‘You’re to wait, if you please,’ said the tailor’s daughter, after ashort period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had ceased, and been succeeded by whispering—‘She won’tbe long.’
　　As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having bythis means (as she thought) diverted Mr Johnson’s attention fromthe room to the street, caught up some articles which were airingon 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 mightotherwise 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 ofsoiled white satin shoes with large blue rosettes. Hanging over theback of a chair was a half-finished muslin apron with little pocketsornamented with red ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on thestage, and (by consequence) are never seen with anywhere else. Inone corner stood the diminutive pair of top-boots in which MissSnevellicci was accustomed to enact the little jockey, and, foldedon a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which bore a verysuspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.
　　But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the openscrapbook, displayed in the midst of some theatrical duodecimosthat were strewn upon the table; and pasted into which scrapbookwere various critical notices of Miss Snevellicci’s acting, extractedfrom different provincial journals, together with one poeticaddress in her honour, commencing—Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearthThrice-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 complimentaryallusions, also extracted from newspapers, such as—‘We observefrom an advertisement in another part of our paper of today, thatthe charming and highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday, for which occasion she has put forth a billof fare that might kindle exhilaration in the breast of amisanthrope. In the confidence that our fellow-townsmen have notlost that high appreciation of public utility and private worth, forwhich they have long been so pre-eminently distinguished, wepredict that this charming actress will be greeted with a bumper.’
　　‘To Correspondents.—J.S. is misinformed when he supposes thatthe highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightlycaptivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre,is not the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immensefortune, residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York,lately made honourable proposals. We have reason to know thatMiss Snevellicci is the lady who was implicated in that mysteriousand romantic affair, and whose conduct on that occasion did noless honour to her head and heart, than do her histrionic triumphsto her brilliant genius.’ A copious assortment of such paragraphsas these, with long bills of benefits all ending with ‘Come Early’, inlarge capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss Snevellicci’sscrapbook.
　　Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and wasabsorbed in a circumstantial and melancholy account of the trainof events which had led to Miss Snevellicci’s spraining her ankleby slipping on a piece of orange-peel flung by a monster in humanform, (so the paper said,) upon the stage at Winchester,—whenthat young lady herself, attired in the coal-scuttle bonnet andwalking-dress complete, tripped into the room, with a thousandapologies for having detained him so long after the appointedtime.
　　‘But really,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘my darling Led, who lives with me here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought shewould have expired in my arms.’
　　‘Such a fate is almost to be envied,’ returned Nicholas, ‘but I amvery 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 havebetter specimens of it here.’
　　‘Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I’m almostashamed to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,’ saidMiss 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 toread,’ said Nicholas. And really it did seem possible.
　　‘I wouldn’t have had you see it for the world!’ rejoined MissSnevellicci. ‘I never was so vexed—never! But she is such acareless thing, there’s no trusting her.’
　　The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of thephenomenon, who had discreetly remained in the bedroom up tothis moment, and now presented herself, with much grace andlightness, bearing in her hand a very little green parasol with abroad fringe border, and no handle. After a few words of course,they sallied into the street.
　　The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, forfirst the right sandal came down, and then the left, and thesemischances being repaired, one leg of the little white trousers wasdiscovered 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’sdaughter, so Nicholas took it all in perfect good humour, andwalked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on one side, and theoffending infant on the other.
　　The first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in aterrace of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci’s modestdouble-knock was answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to herinquiry whether Mrs Curdle was at home, opened his eyes verywide, grinned very much, and said he didn’t know, but he’dinquire. With this he showed them into a parlour where he keptthem waiting, until the two women-servants had repaired thither,under false pretences, to see the play-actors; and having comparednotes with them in the passage, and joined in a vast quantity ofwhispering and giggling, he at length went upstairs with MissSnevellicci’s name.
　　Now, Mrs Curdle was supposed, by those who were bestinformed on such points, to possess quite the London taste inmatters relating to literature and the drama; and as to Mr Curdle,he had written a pamphlet of sixty-four pages, post octavo, on thecharacter of the Nurse’s deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet,with an inquiry whether he really had been a ‘merry man’ in hislifetime, or whether it was merely his widow’s affectionatepartiality that induced her so to report him. He had likewiseproved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation, any oneof Shakespeare’s plays could be made quite different, and thesense completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that hewas 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 MrsCurdle was well, as also Mr Curdle, who at the same timeappeared. Mrs Curdle was dressed in a morning wrapper, with alittle cap stuck upon the top of her head. Mr Curdle wore a looserobe on his back, and his right forefinger on his forehead after theportraits of Sterne, to whom somebody or other had once said hebore a striking resemblance.
　　‘I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you wouldput 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’snot as if the theatre was in its high and palmy days—you needn’tstand, Miss Snevellicci—the drama is gone, perfectly gone.’
　　‘As an exquisite embodiment of the poet’s visions, and arealisation of human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent lightour dreamy moments, and laying open a new and magic worldbefore the mental eye, the drama is gone, perfectly gone,’ said MrCurdle.
　　‘What man is there, now living, who can present before us allthose changing and prismatic colours with which the character ofHamlet is invested?’ exclaimed Mrs Curdle.
　　‘What man indeed—upon the stage,’ said Mr Curdle, with asmall reservation in favour of himself. ‘Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous!
　　Hamlet is gone, perfectly gone.’
　　Quite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr and Mrs Curdlesighed, and sat for some short time without speaking. At length,the lady, turning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired what play sheproposed to have.
　　 ‘Quite a new one,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘of which thisgentleman is the author, and in which he plays; being his firstappearance 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 isabundance of incident, sprightly dialogue, strongly-markedcharacters—’
　　‘—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 respecthe ought to assume, and his love of the whimsical, ‘might I ask youwhat the unities are?’
　　Mr Curdle coughed and considered. ‘The unities, sir,’ he said,‘are a completeness—a kind of universal dovetailedness withregard to place and time—a sort of a general oneness, if I may beallowed to use so strong an expression. I take those to be thedramatic unities, so far as I have been enabled to bestow attentionupon them, and I have read much upon the subject, and thoughtmuch. I find, running through the performances of this child,’ saidMr Curdle, turning to the phenomenon, ‘a unity of feeling, abreadth, a light and shade, a warmth of colouring, a tone, aharmony, a glow, an artistical development of originalconceptions, which I look for, in vain, among older performers—Idon’t know whether I make myself understood?’
　　‘Perfectly,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Just so,’ said Mr Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. ‘That is mydefinition of the unities of the drama.’
　　Mrs Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with greatcomplacency. 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 MrCurdle. ‘If we do, it must be distinctly understood that we do notpledge ourselves to the quality of the performances. Let it go forthto 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 weshould extend our patronage to a degraded stage, even for thesake of the associations with which it is entwined. Have you gottwo-and-sixpence for half-a-crown, Miss Snevellicci?’ said MrCurdle, turning over four of those pieces of money.
　　Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, butthere was nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest abouthis being an author, and thought it best not to go through the formof feeling in his own pockets at all.
　　‘Let me see,’ said Mr Curdle; ‘twice four’s eight—four shillingsa-piece to the boxes, Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in thepresent state of the drama—three half-crowns is seven-and-six; weshall not differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not partus, Miss Snevellicci?’
　　Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-crowns, with manysmiles and bends, and Mrs Curdle, adding several supplementarydirections relative to keeping the places for them, and dusting theseat, and sending two clean bills as soon as they came out, rangthe bell, as a signal for breaking up the conference.
　　‘Odd people those,’ said Nicholas, when they got clear of thehouse.
　　‘I assure you,’ said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, ‘that I thinkmyself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being sixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would givepeople to understand that they had always patronised you; and ifyou were to fail, they would have been quite certain of that fromthe very beginning.’
　　At the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for,there, resided the six children who were so enraptured with thepublic actions of the phenomenon, and who, being called downfrom the nursery to be treated with a private view of that younglady, proceeded to poke their fingers into her eyes, and tread uponher toes, and show her many other little attentions peculiar totheir time of life.
　　‘I shall certainly persuade Mr Borum to take a private box,’ saidthe lady of the house, after a most gracious reception. ‘I shall onlytake two of the children, and will make up the rest of the party, ofgentlemen—your admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, younaughty boy, leave the little girl alone.’
　　This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinchingthe phenomenon behind, apparently with a view of ascertainingwhether she was real.
　　‘I am sure you must be very tired,’ said the mama, turning toMiss Snevellicci. ‘I cannot think of allowing you to go, without firsttaking a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you! MissLane, my dear, pray see to the children.’
　　Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was renderednecessary by the abrupt behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum,who, having filched the phenomenon’s little green parasol, wasnow carrying it bodily off, while the distracted infant lookedhelplessly on.
　　‘I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,’ said good- natured Mrs Borum, turning again to Miss Snevellicci, ‘I cannotunderstand (Emma, don’t stare so); laughing in one piece, andcrying 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 goto the play, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it—only you’re tooaffecting sometimes. You do put me in such a state—into such fitsof crying! Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let themtorment that poor child so!’
　　The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limbfrom limb; for two strong little boys, one holding on by each of herhands, were dragging her in different directions as a trial ofstrength. However, Miss Lane (who had herself been too muchoccupied in contemplating the grown-up actors, to pay thenecessary attention to these proceedings) rescued the unhappyinfant at this juncture, who, being recruited with a glass of wine,was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after sustainingno more serious damage than a flattening of the pink gauzebonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock andtrousers.
　　It was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls tomake, and everybody wanted a different thing. Some wantedtragedies, and others comedies; some objected to dancing; somewanted scarcely anything else. Some thought the comic singerdecidedly low, and others hoped he would have more to do thanhe usually had. Some people wouldn’t promise to go, becauseother people wouldn’t promise to go; and other people wouldn’t goat 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 wascomprehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it included amongother trifles, four pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and severaldances); and they returned home, pretty well exhausted with thebusiness of the day.
　　Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put intorehearsal, and then worked away at his own part, which hestudied with great perseverance and acted—as the whole companysaid—to perfection. And at length the great day arrived. The crierwas sent round, in the morning, to proclaim the entertainmentswith the sound of bell in all the thoroughfares; and extra bills ofthree feet long by nine inches wide, were dispersed in alldirections, flung down all the areas, thrust under all the knockers,and developed in all the shops. They were placarded on all thewalls too, though not with complete success, for an illiterateperson having undertaken this office during the indisposition ofthe regular bill-sticker, a part were posted sideways, and theremainder 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 sixo’clock the kicks were terrific; and when the elder MasterCrummles opened the door, he was obliged to run behind it for hislife. Fifteen shillings were taken by Mrs Grudden in the first tenminutes.
　　Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed.
　　Miss Snevellicci was in such a perspiration that the paint wouldscarcely stay on her face. Mrs Crummles was so nervous that shecould hardly remember her part. Miss Bravassa’s ringlets came out of curl with the heat and anxiety; even Mr Crummles himselfkept peeping through the hole in the curtain, and running back,every now and then, to announce that another man had come intothe pit.
　　At last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the newpiece. The first scene, in which there was nobody particular,passed off calmly enough, but when Miss Snevellicci went on inthe second, accompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roarof applause broke out! The people in the Borum box rose as oneman, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and uttering shouts of‘Bravo!’ Mrs Borum and the governess cast wreaths upon thestage, of which, some fluttered into the lamps, and one crownedthe temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who, looking eagerlytowards the scene, remained unconscious of the honour; the tailorand his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes till theythreatened to come out altogether; the very ginger-beer boyremained transfixed in the centre of the house; a young officer,supposed to entertain a passion for Miss Snevellicci, stuck hisglass in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again MissSnevellicci curtseyed lower and lower, and again and again theapplause came down, louder and louder. At length, when thephenomenon picked up one of the smoking wreaths and put it on,sideways, over Miss Snevellicci’s eye, it reached its climax, and theplay proceeded.
　　But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with MrsCrummles, what a clapping of hands there was! When MrsCrummles (who was his unworthy mother), sneered, and calledhim ‘presumptuous boy,’ and he defied her, what a tumult ofapplause came on! When he quarrelled with the other gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols, said, that ifhe was a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room,until the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not oftwo—how boxes, pit, and gallery, joined in one most vigorouscheer! When he called his mother names, because she wouldn’tgive up the young lady’s property, and she relenting, caused himto relent likewise, and fall down on one knee and ask her blessing,how the ladies in the audience sobbed! When he was hid behindthe curtain in the dark, and the wicked relation poked a sharpsword in every direction, save where his legs were plainly visible,what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the house! His air, hisfigure, his walk, his look, everything he said or did, was the subjectof commendation. There was a round of applause every time hespoke. And when, at last, in the pump-and-tub scene, MrsGrudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed members ofthe company came in, and tumbled down in various directions—not because that had anything to do with the plot, but in order tofinish off with a tableau—the audience (who had by this timeincreased considerably) gave vent to such a shout of enthusiasm ashad not been heard in those walls for many and many a day.
　　In short, the success both of new piece and new actor wascomplete, and when Miss Snevellicci was called for at the end ofthe play, Nicholas led her on, and divided the applause.
Chapter 25
Concerning a young Lady from London, who joinsthe Company, and an elderly Admirer who followsin her Train; with an affecting Ceremonyconsequent on their Arrival.
　　The new piece being a decided hit, was announced for everyevening of performance until further notice, and theevenings when the theatre was closed, were reduced fromthree in the week to two. Nor were these the only tokens ofextraordinary success; for, on the succeeding Saturday, Nicholasreceived, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs Grudden, no less asum than thirty shillings; besides which substantial reward, heenjoyed considerable fame and honour: having a presentationcopy of Mr Curdle’s pamphlet forwarded to the theatre, with thatgentleman’s own autograph (in itself an inestimable treasure) onthe fly-leaf, accompanied with a note, containing manyexpressions of approval, and an unsolicited assurance that MrCurdle would be very happy to read Shakespeare to him for threehours every morning before breakfast during his stay in the town.
　　‘I’ve got another novelty, Johnson,’ said Mr Crummles onemorning in great glee.
　　‘What’s that?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘The pony?’
　　‘No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else hasfailed,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘I don’t think we shall come to the ponyat all, this season. No, no, not the pony.’
　　‘A boy phenomenon, perhaps?’ suggested Nicholas.
　　 ‘There is only one phenomenon, sir,’ replied Mr Crummlesimpressively, ‘and that’s a girl.’
　　‘Very true,’ said Nicholas. ‘I beg your pardon. Then I don’tknow what it is, I am sure.’
　　‘What should you say to a young lady from London?’ inquiredMr Crummles. ‘Miss So-and-so, of the Theatre Royal, DruryLane?’
　　‘I should say she would look very well in the bills,’ saidNicholas.
　　‘You’re about right there,’ said Mr Crummles; ‘and if you hadsaid she would look very well upon the stage too, you wouldn’thave been far out. Look here; what do you think of this?’
　　With this inquiry Mr Crummles unfolded a red poster, and ablue poster, and a yellow poster, at the top of each of which publicnotification was inscribed in enormous characters—‘Firstappearance 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 evercompressed into one young person’s body,’ retorted MrCrummles, rolling up the bills again; ‘that is, talent of a certainsort—of a certain sort. “The Blood Drinker,”’ added Mr Crummleswith 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 oldfriend of Mrs Crummles’s. Mrs Crummles saw what she coulddo—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 MrCrummles. ‘Nobody could stand it. It was too tremendous. Youdon’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. Idon’t, and that’s a fact. I don’t think her country will, till she isdead. Some new proof of talent bursts from that astonishingwoman every year of her life. Look at her—mother of sixchildren—three of ’em alive, and all upon the stage!’
　　‘Extraordinary!’ cried Nicholas.
　　‘Ah! extraordinary indeed,’ rejoined Mr Crummles, taking acomplacent pinch of snuff, and shaking his head gravely. ‘I pledgeyou my professional word I didn’t even know she could dance, tillher last benefit, and then she played Juliet, and Helen Macgregor,and did the skipping-rope hornpipe between the pieces. The veryfirst time I saw that admirable woman, Johnson,’ said MrCrummles, drawing a little nearer, and speaking in the tone ofconfidential friendship, ‘she stood upon her head on the butt-endof a spear, surrounded with blazing fireworks.’
　　‘You astonish me!’ said Nicholas.
　　‘SHE astonished ME!’ returned Mr Crummles, with a veryserious countenance. ‘Such grace, coupled with such dignity! Iadored her from that moment!’
　　The arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupttermination to Mr Crummles’s eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards, Master Percy Crummles entered with a letter, whichhad arrived by the General Post, and was directed to his graciousmother; at sight of the superscription whereof, Mrs Crummlesexclaimed, ‘From Henrietta Petowker, I do declare!’ and instantlybecame absorbed in the contents.
　　‘Is it—?’ inquired Mr Crummles, hesitating.
　　‘Oh, yes, it’s all right,’ replied Mrs Crummles, anticipating thequestion. ‘What an excellent thing for her, to be sure!’
　　‘It’s the best thing altogether, that I ever heard of, I think,’ saidMr Crummles; and then Mr Crummles, Mrs Crummles, andMaster Percy Crummles, all fell to laughing violently. Nicholas leftthem to enjoy their mirth together, and walked to his lodgings;wondering very much what mystery connected with MissPetowker could provoke such merriment, and pondering stillmore on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regardhis sudden enlistment in a profession of which she was such adistinguished and brilliant ornament.
　　But, in this latter respect he was mistaken; for—whether MrVincent Crummles had paved the way, or Miss Petowker hadsome special reason for treating him with even more than herusual amiability—their meeting at the theatre next day was morelike that of two dear friends who had been inseparable frominfancy, than a recognition passing between a lady and gentlemanwho had only met some half-dozen times, and then by merechance. Nay, Miss Petowker even whispered that she had whollydropped the Kenwigses in her conversations with the manager’sfamily, and had represented herself as having encountered MrJohnson in the very first and most fashionable circles; and onNicholas receiving this intelligence with unfeigned surprise, she added, with a sweet glance, that she had a claim on his goodnature now, and might tax it before long.
　　Nicholas had the honour of playing in a slight piece with MissPetowker that night, and could not but observe that the warmth ofher reception was mainly attributable to a most perseveringumbrella in the upper boxes; he saw, too, that the enchantingactress cast many sweet looks towards the quarter whence thesesounds proceeded; and that every time she did so, the umbrellabroke out afresh. Once, he thought that a peculiarly shaped hat inthe same corner was not wholly unknown to him; but, beingoccupied with his share of the stage business, he bestowed nogreat attention upon this circumstance, and it had quite vanishedfrom his memory by the time he reached home.
　　He had just sat down to supper with Smike, when one of thepeople of the house came outside the door, and announced that agentleman below stairs wished to speak to Mr Johnson.
　　‘Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up; that’s all Iknow,’ replied Nicholas. ‘One of our hungry brethren, I suppose,Smike.’
　　His fellow-lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation ofthe quantity that would be left for dinner next day, and put back aslice he had cut for himself, in order that the visitor’sencroachments might be less formidable in their effects.
　　‘It is not anybody who has been here before,’ said Nicholas, ‘forhe is tumbling up every stair. Come in, come in. In the name ofwonder! Mr Lillyvick?’
　　It was, indeed, the collector of water-rates who, regardingNicholas with a fixed look and immovable countenance, shookhands 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 yourumb—’
　　‘This umbrella,’ said Mr Lillyvick, producing a fat green cottonone with a battered ferrule. ‘What did you think of thatperformance?’
　　‘So far as I could judge, being on the stage,’ replied Nicholas, ‘Ithought it very agreeable.’
　　‘Agreeable!’ cried the collector. ‘I mean to say, sir, that it wasdelicious.’
　　Mr Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the last word withgreater emphasis; and having done so, drew himself up, andfrowned and nodded a great many times.
　　‘I say, delicious,’ repeated Mr Lillyvick. ‘Absorbing, fairy-like,toomultuous,’ and again Mr Lillyvick drew himself up, and againhe frowned and nodded.
　　‘Ah!’ said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms ofecstatic approbation. ‘Yes—she is a clever girl.’
　　‘She is a divinity,’ returned Mr Lillyvick, giving a collector’sdouble knock on the ground with the umbrella before-mentioned.
　　‘I have known divine actresses before now, sir, I used to collect—atleast I used to call for—and very often call for—the water-rate atthe house of a divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards offour year but never—no, never, sir of all divine creatures,actresses or no actresses, did I see a diviner one than is HenriettaPetowker.’
　　Nicholas had much ado to prevent himself from laughing; not trusting himself to speak, he merely nodded in accordance withMr 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 thehint, 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 nighsixty year, and I ought to know what it is.’
　　‘You ought to know, certainly,’ thought Nicholas; ‘but whetheryou 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 andnieces, look to that money, and not to him; even if, by being apublic character, he is the head of the family, or, as it may be, themain from which all the other little branches are turned on, theystill wish him dead all the while, and get low-spirited every timethey see him looking in good health, because they want to comeinto 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 MrLillyvick, snapping his fingers, ‘I might have had fifty women.’
　　‘Fine women?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Fine women, sir!’ replied the collector; ‘ay! not so fine asHenrietta Petowker, for she is an uncommon specimen, but suchwomen as don’t fall into every man’s way, I can tell you. Nowsuppose 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 himbenignantly on the side of the head with his umbrella; ‘just what Isay. Henrietta Petowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker has afortune 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 theregular thing—but I’m going to marry her; and the day aftertomorrow, too.’
　　‘I congratulate you, sir,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. ‘Ishall draw her salary, of course, and I hope after all that it’s nearlyas 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—ofcourse not.’
　　‘But how come you both here, if you’re going to be married, MrLillyvick?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Why, that’s what I came to explain to you,’ replied the collectorof water-rate. ‘The fact is, we have thought it best to keep it secretfrom the family.’
　　‘Family!’ said Nicholas. ‘What family?’
　　‘The Kenwigses of course,’ rejoined Mr Lillyvick. ‘If my nieceand 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 gotout 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 (itwas settled between us) should come down here to her friends, theCrummleses, under pretence of this engagement, and I should godown to Guildford the day before, and join her on the coach there,which I did, and we came down from Guildford yesterdaytogether. Now, for fear you should be writing to Mr Noggs, andmight say anything about us, we have thought it best to let youinto the secret. We shall be married from the Crummleses’
　　lodgings, and shall be delighted to see you—either before churchor at breakfast-time, which you like. It won’t be expensive, youknow,’ said the collector, highly anxious to prevent anymisunderstanding on this point; ‘just muffins and coffee, withperhaps a shrimp or something of that sort for a relish, you know.’
　　‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Oh, I shall be mosthappy to come; it will give me the greatest pleasure. Where’s thelady stopping—with Mrs Crummles?’
　　‘Why, no,’ said the collector; ‘they couldn’t very well dispose ofher 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 fourbridesmaids; I’m afraid they’ll make it rather theatrical.’
　　‘Oh no, not at all,’ replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt toconvert 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 whatI’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 carefulnot to say anything about it, will you?’
　　‘You may safely depend upon me,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Won’t youtake anything to eat or drink?’
　　‘No,’ said the collector; ‘I haven’t any appetite. I should think itwas 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. Goodnight.’
　　With these words, Mr Lillyvick, whose manner had exhibitedthrough the whole of this interview a most extraordinarycompound of precipitation, hesitation, confidence and doubt,fondness, misgiving, meanness, and self-importance, turned hisback upon the room, and left Nicholas to enjoy a laugh by himselfif he felt so disposed.
　　Without stopping to inquire whether the intervening dayappeared to Nicholas to consist of the usual number of hours ofthe ordinary length, it may be remarked that, to the parties moredirectly interested in the forthcoming ceremony, it passed withgreat rapidity, insomuch that when Miss Petowker awoke on thesucceeding morning in the chamber of Miss Snevellicci, shedeclared that nothing should ever persuade her that that reallywas the day which was to behold a change in her condition.
　　 ‘I never will believe it,’ said Miss Petowker; ‘I cannot really. It’sof no use talking, I never can make up my mind to go through withsuch a trial!’
　　On hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss Ledrook, who knewperfectly well that their fair friend’s mind had been made up forthree or four years, at any period of which time she would havecheerfully undergone the desperate trial now approaching if shecould have found any eligible gentleman disposed for the venture,began to preach comfort and firmness, and to say how very proudshe ought to feel that it was in her power to confer lasting bliss ona deserving object, and how necessary it was for the happiness ofmankind in general that women should possess fortitude andresignation on such occasions; and that although for their partsthey held true happiness to consist in a single life, which theywould not willingly exchange—no, not for any worldlyconsideration—still (thank God), if ever the time should come, theyhoped they knew their duty too well to repine, but would therather submit with meekness and humility of spirit to a fate forwhich Providence had clearly designed them with a view to thecontentment and reward of their fellow-creatures.
　　‘I might feel it was a great blow,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘to breakup old associations and what-do-you-callems of that kind, but Iwould submit, my dear, I would indeed.’
　　‘So would I,’ said Miss Ledrook; ‘I would rather court the yokethan shun it. I have broken hearts before now, and I’m very sorryfor it: for it’s a terrible thing to reflect upon.’
　　‘It is indeed,’ said Miss Snevellicci. ‘Now Led, my dear, we mustpositively 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 ameans of strengthening her feeble limbs and causing her to walksteadier.
　　‘How do you feel now, my love?’ inquired Miss Snevellicci.
　　‘Oh Lillyvick!’ cried the bride. ‘If you knew what I amundergoing for you!’
　　‘Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it,’ said MissLedrook.
　　‘Do you think he won’t?’ cried Miss Petowker, really showinggreat capability for the stage. ‘Oh, do you think he won’t? Do youthink Lillyvick will always remember it—always, always, always?’
　　There is no knowing in what this burst of feeling might haveended, if Miss Snevellicci had not at that moment proclaimed thearrival of the fly, which so astounded the bride that she shook offdivers alarming symptoms which were coming on very strong, andrunning to the glass adjusted her dress, and calmly declared thatshe was ready for the sacrifice.
　　She was accordingly supported into the coach, and there ‘keptup’ (as Miss Snevellicci said) with perpetual sniffs of sal volatileand sips of brandy and other gentle stimulants, until they reachedthe manager’s door, which was already opened by the two MasterCrummleses, who wore white cockades, and were decorated withthe choicest and most resplendent waistcoats in the theatricalwardrobe. By the combined exertions of these young gentlemenand the bridesmaids, assisted by the coachman, Miss Petowkerwas at length supported in a condition of much exhaustion to thefirst floor, where she no sooner encountered the youthfulbridegroom than she fainted with great decorum.
　　 ‘Henrietta Petowker!’ said the collector; ‘cheer up, my lovelyone.’
　　Miss Petowker grasped the collector’s hand, but emotionchoked her utterance.
　　‘Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petowker?’ said thecollector.
　　‘Oh no, no, no,’ rejoined the bride; ‘but all the friends—thedarling friends—of my youthful days—to leave them all—it is sucha shock!’
　　With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petowker went on toenumerate the dear friends of her youthful days one by one, and tocall upon such of them as were present to come and embrace her.
　　This done, she remembered that Mrs Crummles had been morethan a mother to her, and after that, that Mr Crummles had beenmore than a father to her, and after that, that the MasterCrummleses and Miss Ninetta Crummles had been more thanbrothers and sisters to her. These various remembrances beingeach accompanied with a series of hugs, occupied a long time, andthey were obliged to drive to church very fast, for fear they shouldbe too late.
　　The procession consisted of two flys; in the first of which wereMiss Bravassa (the fourth bridesmaid), Mrs Crummles, thecollector, and Mr Folair, who had been chosen as his second onthe occasion. In the other were the bride, Mr Crummles, MissSnevellicci, Miss Ledrook, and the phenomenon. The costumeswere beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite covered with artificialflowers, and the phenomenon, in particular, was rendered almostinvisible by the portable arbour in which she was enshrined. MissLedrook, who was of a romantic turn, wore in her breast the miniature of some field-officer unknown, which she hadpurchased, a great bargain, not very long before; the other ladiesdisplayed several dazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almostequal to real, and Mrs Crummles came out in a stern and gloomymajesty, which attracted the admiration of all beholders.
　　But, perhaps the appearance of Mr Crummles was morestriking and appropriate than that of any member of the party.
　　This gentleman, who personated the bride’s father, had, inpursuance of a happy and original conception, ‘made up’ for thepart by arraying himself in a theatrical wig, of a style and patterncommonly known as a brown George, and moreover assuming asnuff-coloured suit, of the previous century, with grey silkstockings, and buckles to his shoes. The better to support hisassumed character he had determined to be greatly overcome,and, consequently, when they entered the church, the sobs of theaffectionate parent were so heart-rending that the pew-openersuggested the propriety of his retiring to the vestry, andcomforting himself with a glass of water before the ceremonybegan.
　　The procession up the aisle was beautiful. The bride, with thefour bridesmaids, forming a group previously arranged andrehearsed; the collector, followed by his second, imitating his walkand gestures to the indescribable amusement of some theatricalfriends in the gallery; Mr Crummles, with an infirm and feeblegait; Mrs Crummles advancing with that stage walk, whichconsists of a stride and a stop alternately—it was the completestthing ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly disposed of,and all parties present having signed the register (for whichpurpose, when it came to his turn, Mr Crummles carefully wiped and put on an immense pair of spectacles), they went back tobreakfast in high spirits. And here they found Nicholas awaitingtheir arrival.
　　‘Now then,’ said Crummles, who had been assisting MrsGrudden in the preparations, which were on a more extensivescale than was quite agreeable to the collector. ‘Breakfast,breakfast.’
　　No second invitation was required. The company crowded andsqueezed themselves at the table as well as they could, and fell to,immediately: Miss Petowker blushing very much when anybodywas looking, and eating very much when anybody was NOTlooking; and Mr Lillyvick going to work as though with the coolresolve, that since the good things must be paid for by him, hewould leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to eat upafterwards.
　　‘It’s very soon done, sir, isn’t it?’ inquired Mr Folair of thecollector, 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 hanghimself, either, eh? ha, ha!’
　　Mr Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round thetable with indignant astonishment.
　　‘To hang himself!’ repeated Mr Lillyvick.
　　A profound silence came upon all, for Mr Lillyvick wasdignified beyond expression.
　　 ‘To hang himself!’ cried Mr Lillyvick again. ‘Is any parallelattempted to be drawn in this company between matrimony andhanging?’
　　‘The noose, you know,’ said Mr Folair, a little crest-fallen.
　　‘The noose, sir?’ retorted Mr Lillyvick. ‘Does any man dare tospeak to me of a noose, and Henrietta Pe—’
　　‘Lillyvick,’ suggested Mr Crummles.
　　‘—And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?’ said thecollector. ‘In this house, in the presence of Mr and Mrs Crummles,who have brought up a talented and virtuous family, to beblessings and phenomenons, and what not, are we to hear talk ofnooses?’
　　‘Folair,’ said Mr Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency tobe affected by this allusion to himself and partner, ‘I’m astonishedat you.’
　　‘What are you going on in this way at me for?’ urged theunfortunate actor. ‘What have I done?’
　　‘Done, sir!’ cried Mr Lillyvick, ‘aimed a blow at the wholeframework 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 thecollector. ‘Noose! As if one was caught, trapped into the marriedstate, pinned by the leg, instead of going into it of one’s ownaccord 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’tsay 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, MrsLillyvick considered that the fittest occasion (the attention of thecompany being no longer distracted) to burst into tears, andrequire the assistance of all four bridesmaids, which wasimmediately rendered, though not without some confusion, for theroom being small and the table-cloth long, a whole detachment ofplates were swept off the board at the very first move. Regardlessof this circumstance, however, Mrs Lillyvick refused to becomforted until the belligerents had passed their words that thedispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient showof reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr Folair sat in moodysilence, contenting himself with pinching Nicholas’s leg whenanything was said, and so expressing his contempt both for thespeaker and the sentiments to which he gave utterance.
　　There were a great number of speeches made; some byNicholas, and some by Crummles, and some by the collector; twoby the Master Crummleses in returning thanks for themselves,and one by the phenomenon on behalf of the bridesmaids, atwhich Mrs Crummles shed tears. There was some singing, too,from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely there mighthave been more, if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happypair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde,had not sent in a peremptory message intimating, that if theydidn’t come directly he should infallibly demand eighteen-penceover and above his agreement.
　　This desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After amost pathetic leave-taking, Mr Lillyvick and his bride departed forRyde, 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’sexpress 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 Crummlesdeclared his intention of keeping it up till everything to drink wasdisposed of; but Nicholas having to play Romeo for the first timeon the ensuing evening, contrived to slip away in the midst of atemporary confusion, occasioned by the unexpected developmentof strong symptoms of inebriety in the conduct of Mrs Grudden.
　　To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his owninclinations, but by his anxiety on account of Smike, who, havingto sustain the character of the Apothecary, had been as yet whollyunable to get any more of the part into his head than the generalidea that he was very hungry, which—perhaps from oldrecollections—he had acquired with great aptitude.
　　‘I don’t know what’s to be done, Smike,’ said Nicholas, layingdown 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 littlebits, over and over again, I should be able to recollect it fromhearing you.’
　　‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Well said. Let us seewho tires first. Not I, Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls soloud?”
　　‘“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, overand over again; and when Smike had that by heart Nicholas wentto another sentence, and then to two at a time, and then to three,and so on, until at midnight poor Smike found to his unspeakablejoy 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, goton faster and with better heart. As soon as he began to acquire thewords pretty freely, Nicholas showed him how he must come inwith both hands spread out upon his stomach, and how he mustoccasionally rub it, in compliance with the established form bywhich people on the stage always denote that they want somethingto eat. After the morning’s rehearsal they went to work again, nordid they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time to repairto the theatre at night.
　　Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Neverhad pupil a more patient, unwearying, considerate, kind-heartedmaster.
　　As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when hewas not upon the stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. Theyprospered well. The Romeo was received with hearty plaudits andunbounded favour, and Smike was pronounced unanimously,alike by audience and actors, the very prince and prodigy ofApothecaries.
Chapter 26
Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby’sPeace of Mind.
　　The place was a handsome suite of private apartments inRegent Street; the time was three o’clock in the afternoonto the dull and plodding, and the first hour of morning tothe gay and spirited; the persons were Lord Frederick Verisopht,and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.
　　These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on acouple of sofas, with a table between them, on which werescattered 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 ofconversation prevented the attractions of the journals from beingcalled into request, for not a word was exchanged between thetwo, nor was any sound uttered, save when one, in tossing about tofind an easier resting-place for his aching head, uttered anexclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment tocommunicate a new restlessness to his companion.
　　These appearances would in themselves have furnished apretty strong clue to the extent of the debauch of the previousnight, even if there had not been other indications of theamusements in which it had been passed. A couple of billiardballs, all mud and dirt, two battered hats, a champagne bottle witha soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow of its being graspedmore surely in its capacity of an offensive weapon; a broken cane; a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a watch-guardsnapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments ofhalf-smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;—these,and many other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligiblyat the nature of last night’s gentlemanly frolics.
　　Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping hisslippered foot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggledinto a sitting posture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards hisfriend, 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 SirMulberry; ‘yet awhile, at least. I haven’t a grain of life in me thismorning.’
　　‘Life!’ cried Lord Verisopht. ‘I feel as if there would be nothingso 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 tooccupy himself in an attempt to fall asleep.
　　His hopeful fiend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table,and essayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to thewindow, then loitered up and down the room with his hand to hisfevered head, and finally threw himself again on his sofa, androused his friend once more.
　　‘What the devil’s the matter?’ groaned Sir Mulberry, sittingupright on the couch.
　　Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, hedid 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-seasonedfriend, remained there.
　　‘Suppose,’ said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on thepoint of his fork, ‘suppose we go back to the subject of littleNickleby, eh?’
　　‘Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?’ askedLord 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 thematter since then. You distrust me in the business—you shall findher out yourself.’
　　‘Na-ay,’ remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
　　‘But I say yes,’ returned his friend. ‘You shall find her outyourself. Don’t think that I mean, when you can—I know as well asyou that if I did, you could never get sight of her without me. No. Isay 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 speechhad produced a most reviving effect.
　　‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘She was at that dinner as abait for you.’
　　‘No!’ cried the young lord. ‘What the dey—’
　　‘As a bait for you,’ repeated his friend; ‘old Nickleby told me sohimself.’
　　‘What a fine old cock it is!’ exclaimed Lord Verisopht; ‘a noblerascal!’
　　‘Yes,’ said Sir Mulberry, ‘he knew she was a smart little creature—’
　　‘Smart!’ interposed the young lord. ‘Upon my soul, Hawk, she’sa perfect beauty—a—a picture, a statue, a—a—upon my soul sheis!’
　　‘Well,’ replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his shoulders andmanifesting an indifference, whether he felt it or not; ‘that’s amatter of taste; if mine doesn’t agree with yours, so much thebetter.’
　　‘Confound it!’ reasoned the lord, ‘you were thick enough withher that day, anyhow. I could hardly get in a word.’
　　‘Well enough for once, well enough for once,’ replied SirMulberry; ‘but not worth the trouble of being agreeable to again. Ifyou seriously want to follow up the niece, tell the uncle that youmust know where she lives and how she lives, and with whom, oryou are no longer a customer of his. He’ll tell you fast enough.’
　　‘Why didn’t you say this before?’ asked Lord Verisopht, ‘insteadof letting me go on burning, consuming, dragging out a miserableexistence for an a-age!’
　　‘I didn’t know it, in the first place,’ answered Sir Mulberrycarelessly; ‘and in the second, I didn’t believe you were so verymuch in earnest.’
　　Now, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed sincethe dinner at Ralph Nickleby’s, Sir Mulberry Hawk had beenfurtively trying by every means in his power to discover whenceKate had so suddenly appeared, and whither she had disappeared.
　　Unassisted by Ralph, however, with whom he had held nocommunication since their angry parting on that occasion, all hisefforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore arrived at thedetermination of communicating to the young lord the substance of the admission he had gleaned from that worthy. To this he wasimpelled by various considerations; among which the certainty ofknowing whatever the weak young man knew was decidedly notthe least, as the desire of encountering the usurer’s niece again,and using his utmost arts to reduce her pride, and revenge himselffor her contempt, was uppermost in his thoughts. It was a politiccourse of proceeding, and one which could not fail to redound tohis advantage in every point of view, since the very circumstanceof his having extorted from Ralph Nickleby his real design inintroducing his niece to such society, coupled with his extremedisinterestedness in communicating it so freely to his friend, couldnot but advance his interests in that quarter, and greatly facilitatethe passage of coin (pretty frequent and speedy already) from thepockets of Lord Frederick Verisopht to those of Sir MulberryHawk.
　　Thus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and in pursuance of thisreasoning he and his friend soon afterwards repaired to RalphNickleby’s, there to execute a plan of operations concerted by SirMulberry himself, avowedly to promote his friend’s object, andreally to attain his own.
　　They found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into thedrawing-room, the recollection of the scene which had taken placethere seemed to occur to him, for he cast a curious look at SirMulberry, who bestowed upon it no other acknowledgment than acareless smile.
　　They had a short conference upon some money matters then inprogress, which were scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe(in pursuance of his friend’s instructions) requested with someembarrassment to speak to Ralph alone.
　　 ‘Alone, eh?’ cried Sir Mulberry, affecting surprise. ‘Oh, verygood. I’ll walk into the next room here. Don’t keep me long, that’sall.’
　　So saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and humming afragment of a song disappeared through the door ofcommunication between the two drawing-rooms, and closed itafter him.
　　‘Now, my lord,’ said Ralph, ‘what is it?’
　　‘Nickleby,’ said his client, throwing himself along the sofa onwhich he had been previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearerto the old man’s ear, ‘what a pretty creature your niece is!’
　　‘Is she, my lord?’ replied Ralph. ‘Maybe—maybe—I don’ttrouble my head with such matters.’
　　‘You know she’s a deyvlish fine girl,’ said the client. ‘You mustknow that, Nickleby. Come, don’t deny that.’
　　‘Yes, I believe she is considered so,’ replied Ralph. ‘Indeed, Iknow she is. If I did not, you are an authority on such points, andyour taste, my lord—on all points, indeed—is undeniable.’
　　Nobody but the young man to whom these words wereaddressed could have been deaf to the sneering tone in which theywere spoken, or blind to the look of contempt by which they wereaccompanied. But Lord Frederick Verisopht was both, and tookthem to be complimentary.
　　‘Well,’ he said, ‘p’raps you’re a little right, and p’raps you’re alittle wrong—a little of both, Nickleby. I want to know where thisbeauty 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 ofhis lesson to a miracle. ‘I don’t want Hawk to hear.’
　　 ‘You know he is your rival, do you?’ said Ralph, looking sharplyat him.
　　‘He always is, d-a-amn him,’ replied the client; ‘and I want tosteal a march upon him. Ha, ha, ha! He’ll cut up so rough,Nickleby, at our talking together without him. Where does shelive, 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 overeach other, ‘I must think before I tell you.’
　　‘No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn’t think at all,’ repliedVerisopht. ‘Where is it?’
　　‘No good can come of your knowing,’ replied Ralph. ‘She hasbeen 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 itwere merely passing through his own mind, and he had nointention to speak aloud; but the shrewd sly look which hedirected at his companion as he delivered it, gave this poorassumption the lie.
　　‘I tell you I only want to see her,’ cried his client. ‘A ma-an maylook at a pretty woman without harm, mayn’t he? Now, whereDOES she live? You know you’re making a fortune out of me,Nickleby, and upon my soul nobody shall ever take me to anybodyelse, if you only tell me this.’
　　‘As you promise that, my lord,’ said Ralph, with feignedreluctance, ‘and as I am most anxious to oblige you, and as there’sno harm in it—no harm—I’ll tell you. But you had better keep it toyourself, 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 thenecessity of this precaution, Ralph disclosed the present addressand occupation of his niece, observing that from what he heard ofthe family they appeared very ambitious to have distinguishedacquaintances, and that a lord could, doubtless, introduce himselfwith great ease, if he felt disposed.
　　‘Your object being only to see her again,’ said Ralph, ‘you couldeffect it at any time you chose by that means.’
　　Lord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a great manysqueezes of Ralph’s hard, horny hand, and whispering that theywould now do well to close the conversation, called to SirMulberry 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 soama-azingly funny that I couldn’t tear myself away.’
　　‘No, no,’ said Ralph; ‘it was all his lordship. You know what awitty, 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 thesame cold sneer upon his face all the while, Ralph busied himselfin showing his visitors downstairs, and otherwise than by theslightest possible motion about the corners of his mouth, returnedno show of answer to the look of admiration with which SirMulberry Hawk seemed to compliment him on being such anaccomplished and most consummate scoundrel.
　　There had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, whichwas answered by Newman Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary course of business Newman would have eitheradmitted the new-comer in silence, or have requested him or herto stand aside while the gentlemen passed out. But he no soonersaw who it was, than as if for some private reason of his own, heboldly departed from the established custom of Ralph’s mansionin business hours, and looking towards the respectable trio whowere approaching, cried in a loud and sonorous voice, ‘MrsNickleby!’
　　‘Mrs Nickleby!’ cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, as his friend lookedback, and stared him in the face.
　　It was, indeed, that well-intentioned lady, who, having receivedan 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 theastonished lady. ‘Is this Mrs Nickleby—the mother of MissNickleby—the delightful creature that I had the happiness ofmeeting in this house the very last time I dined here? But no;’ saidSir Mulberry, stopping short. ‘No, it can’t be. There is the samecast of features, the same indescribable air of—But no; no. Thislady is too young for that.’
　　‘I think you can tell the gentleman, brother-in-law, if it concernshim to know,’ said Mrs Nickleby, acknowledging the complimentwith a graceful bend, ‘that Kate Nickleby is my daughter.’
　　‘Her daughter, my lord!’ cried Sir Mulberry, turning to hisfriend. ‘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 themother of sweet Miss Nickleby. Do you observe the extraordinarylikeness, my lord? Nickleby—introduce us.’
　　Ralph did so, in a kind of desperation.
　　‘Upon my soul, it’s a most delightful thing,” said LordFrederick, pressing forward. ‘How de do?’
　　Mrs Nickleby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kindsalutations, and her regrets at not having on her other bonnet, tomake any immediate reply, so she merely continued to bend andsmile, and betray great agitation.
　　‘A—and how is Miss Nickleby?’ said Lord Frederick. ‘Well, Ihope?’
　　‘She is quite well, I’m obliged to you, my lord,’ returned MrsNickleby, recovering. ‘Quite well. She wasn’t well for some daysafter that day she dined here, and I can’t help thinking, that shecaught cold in that hackney coach coming home. Hackneycoaches, my lord, are such nasty things, that it’s almost better towalk at any time, for although I believe a hackney coachman canbe transported for life, if he has a broken window, still they are soreckless, that they nearly all have broken windows. I once had aswelled face for six weeks, my lord, from riding in a hackneycoach—I think it was a hackney coach,’ said Mrs Nicklebyreflecting, ‘though I’m not quite certain whether it wasn’t achariot; at all events I know it was a dark green, with a very longnumber, beginning with a nought and ending with a nine—no,beginning with a nine, and ending with a nought, that was it, andof course the stamp-office people would know at once whether itwas 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 verysame hackney coach, that we found out afterwards, had the topopen all the time, and we should never even have known it, if theyhadn’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 itappears to be—I don’t understand the subject, but I should say theCorn Laws could be nothing to that act of Parliament.’
　　Having pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs Nicklebystopped as suddenly as she had started off; and repeated that Katewas quite well. ‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I don’t think she everwas better, since she had the hooping-cough, scarlet-fever, andmeasles, all at the same time, and that’s the fact.’
　　‘Is that letter for me?’ growled Ralph, pointing to the littlepacket Mrs Nickleby held in her hand.
　　‘For you, brother-in-law,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, ‘and I walkedall the way up here on purpose to give it you.’
　　‘All the way up here!’ cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon thechance of discovering where Mrs Nickleby had come from. ‘What aconfounded distance! How far do you call it now?’
　　‘How far do I call it?’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘Let me see. It’s just amile 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 downNewgate Street, all down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, downGracechurch Street, and along Thames Street, as far asSpigwiffin’s Wharf. Oh! It’s a mile.’
　　 ‘Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was,’ replied SirMulberry. ‘But you don’t surely mean to walk all the way back?’
　　‘Oh, no,’ rejoined Mrs Nickleby. ‘I shall go back in an omnibus. Ididn’t travel about in omnibuses, when my poor dear Nicholas wasalive, brother-in-law. But as it is, you know—’
　　‘Yes, yes,’ replied Ralph impatiently, ‘and you had better getback before dark.’
　　‘Thank you, brother-in-law, so I had,’ returned Mrs Nickleby. ‘Ithink I had better say goodbye, at once.’
　　‘Not stop and—rest?’ said Ralph, who seldom offeredrefreshments 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’sway. 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 peremptoryin their politeness, and leaving Ralph, who seemed to think, notunwisely, that he looked less ridiculous as a mere spectator, thanhe would have done if he had taken any part in these proceedings,they quitted the house with Mrs Nickleby between them; that goodlady in a perfect ecstasy of satisfaction, no less with the attentionsshown her by two titled gentlemen, than with the conviction thatKate might now pick and choose, at least between two largefortunes, and most unexceptionable husbands.
　　As she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible trainof thought, all connected with her daughter’s future greatness, SirMulberry Hawk and his friend exchanged glances over the top ofthe bonnet which the poor lady so much regretted not having left at home, and proceeded to dilate with great rapture, but muchrespect on the manifold perfections of Miss Nickleby.
　　‘What a delight, what a comfort, what a happiness, this amiablecreature must be to you,’ said Sir Mulberry, throwing into hisvoice 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 judgeof cleverness. ‘I assure you she is, my lord,’ returned MrsNickleby. ‘When she was at school in Devonshire, she wasuniversally allowed to be beyond all exception the very cleverestgirl there, and there were a great many very clever ones too, andthat’s the truth—twenty-five young ladies, fifty guineas a yearwithout the et-ceteras, both the Miss Dowdles the mostaccomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures—Oh dear me!’ saidMrs Nickleby, ‘I never shall forget what pleasure she used to giveme and her poor dear papa, when she was at that school, never—such a delightful letter every half-year, telling us that she was thefirst pupil in the whole establishment, and had made moreprogress than anybody else! I can scarcely bear to think of it evennow. The girls wrote all the letters themselves,’ added MrsNickleby, ‘and the writing-master touched them up afterwardswith a magnifying glass and a silver pen; at least I think they wrotethem, though Kate was never quite certain about that, because shedidn’t know the handwriting of hers again; but anyway, I know itwas a circular which they all copied, and of course it was a verygratifying thing—very gratifying.’
　　With similar recollections Mrs Nickleby beguiled thetediousness of the way, until they reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of her new friends would not allow them toleave until it actually started, when they took their hats, as MrsNickleby solemnly assured her hearers on many subsequentoccasions, ‘completely off,’ and kissed their straw-coloured kidgloves till they were no longer visible.
　　Mrs Nickleby leant back in the furthest corner of theconveyance, and, closing her eyes, resigned herself to a host ofmost pleasing meditations. Kate had never said a word abouthaving met either of these gentlemen; ‘that,’ she thought, ‘arguesthat she is strongly prepossessed in favour of one of them.’ Thenthe question arose, which one could it be. The lord was theyoungest, and his title was certainly the grandest; still Kate wasnot the girl to be swayed by such considerations as these. ‘I willnever put any constraint upon her inclinations,’ said Mrs Nicklebyto herself; ‘but upon my word I think there’s no comparisonbetween his lordship and Sir Mulberry—Sir Mulberry is such anattentive gentlemanly creature, so much manner, such a fine man,and has so much to say for himself. I hope it’s Sir Mulberry—Ithink it must be Sir Mulberry!’ And then her thoughts flew back toher old predictions, and the number of times she had said, thatKate with no fortune would marry better than other people’sdaughters with thousands; and, as she pictured with thebrightness of a mother’s fancy all the beauty and grace of the poorgirl who had struggled so cheerfully with her new life of hardshipand trial, her heart grew too full, and the tears trickled down herface.
　　Meanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his little back-office,troubled in mind by what had just occurred. To say that Ralphloved 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 athought of his niece which was tinged with compassion and pity;breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or indifference whichdarkened men and women in his eyes, there was, in her case, thefaintest gleam of light—a most feeble and sickly ray at the best oftimes—but there it was, and it showed the poor girl in a better andpurer aspect than any in which he had looked on human natureyet.
　　‘I wish,’ thought Ralph, ‘I had never done this. And yet it willkeep this boy to me, while there is money to be made. Selling agirl—throwing her in the way of temptation, and insult, and coarsespeech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him alreadythough. Pshaw! match-making mothers do the same thing everyday.’
　　He sat down, and told the chances, for and against, on hisfingers.
　　‘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 astrue to herself as she should be from what I have seen, what harmensues? A little teasing, a little humbling, a few tears. Yes,’ saidRalph, aloud, as he locked his iron safe. ‘She must take herchance. She must take her chance.’
Chapter 27
Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with MessrsPyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest arebeyond all Bounds.
　　Mrs Nickleby had not felt so proud and important formany a day, as when, on reaching home, she gaveherself wholly up to the pleasant visions which hadaccompanied her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry Hawk—thatwas the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry Hawk!—On Tuesday last,at St George’s, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend theBishop of Llandaff, Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, NorthWales, to Catherine, only daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby,Esquire, of Devonshire. ‘Upon my word!’ cried Mrs NicholasNickleby, ‘it sounds very well.’
　　Having dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities,to the perfect satisfaction of her own mind, the sanguine motherpictured to her imagination a long train of honours anddistinctions which could not fail to accompany Kate in her newand brilliant sphere. She would be presented at court, of course.
　　On the anniversary of her birthday, which was upon thenineteenth of July (‘at ten minutes past three o’clock in themorning,’ thought Mrs Nickleby in a parenthesis, ‘for I recollectasking what o’clock it was’), Sir Mulberry would give a great feastto all his tenants, and would return them three and a half per centon the amount of their last half-year’s rent, as would be fullydescribed 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 theannuals, and on the opposite page would appear, in delicate type,‘Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady Mulberry Hawk. BySir Dingleby Dabber.’ Perhaps some one annual, of morecomprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain aportrait of the mother of Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by thefather of Sir Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had come topass. Less interesting portraits had appeared. As this thoughtoccurred to the good lady, her countenance unconsciouslyassumed that compound expression of simpering and sleepinesswhich, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one reasonwhy they are always so charming and agreeable.
　　With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs Nicklebyoccupy the whole evening after her accidental introduction toRalph’s titled friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and equallypromising, haunted her sleep that night. She was preparing forher frugal dinner next day, still occupied with the same ideas—alittle softened down perhaps by sleep and daylight—when the girlwho attended her, partly for company, and partly to assist in thehousehold affairs, rushed into the room in unwonted agitation,and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the passagefor permission to walk upstairs.
　　‘Bless my heart!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, hastily arranging her capand front, ‘if it should be—dear me, standing in the passage all thistime—why don’t you go and ask them to walk up, you stupidthing?’
　　While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs Nickleby hastilyswept into a cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely done, and seated herself with looks as collectedas she could assume, when two gentlemen, both perfect strangers,presented themselves.
　　‘How do you do?’ said one gentleman, laying great stress on thelast word of the inquiry.
　　‘How do you do?’ said the other gentleman, altering theemphasis, as if to give variety to the salutation.
　　Mrs Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, andremarked, 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 firstgentleman.
　　‘Very often, Pluck,’ answered the second.
　　‘But now,’ said the first gentleman, ‘now we have the happinesswe have pined and languished for. Have we pined and languishedfor 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; ‘youhear the unimpeachable testimony of my friend Pyke—thatreminds me,—formalities, formalities, must not be neglected incivilised society. Pyke—Mrs Nickleby.’
　　Mr Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.
　　‘Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,’ saidMr Pluck—‘whether I shall say myself that my name is Pluck, orwhether I shall ask my friend Pyke (who being now regularlyintroduced, is competent to the office) to state for me, Mrs Nickleby, that my name is Pluck; whether I shall claim youracquaintance on the plain ground of the strong interest I take inyour welfare, or whether I shall make myself known to you as thefriend of Sir Mulberry Hawk—these, Mrs Nickleby, areconsiderations which I leave to you to determine.’
　　‘Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk’s requires no betterintroduction to me,’ observed Mrs Nickleby, graciously.
　　‘It is delightful to hear you say so,’ said Mr Pluck, drawing achair close to Mrs Nickleby, and sitting himself down. ‘It isrefreshing to know that you hold my excellent friend, SirMulberry, in such high esteem. A word in your ear, Mrs Nickleby.
　　When Sir Mulberry knows it, he will be a happy man—I say, MrsNickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be seated.’
　　‘My good opinion,’ said Mrs Nickleby, and the poor lady exultedin the idea that she was marvellously sly,—‘my good opinion canbe of very little consequence to a gentleman like Sir Mulberry.’
　　‘Of little consequence!’ exclaimed Mr Pluck. ‘Pyke, of whatconsequence to our friend, Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion ofMrs 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 theimmense impression which that sweet girl has—’
　　‘Pluck!’ said his friend, ‘beware!’
　　‘Pyke is right,’ muttered Mr Pluck, after a short pause; ‘I wasnot to mention it. Pyke is very right. Thank you, Pyke.’
　　‘Well now, really,’ thought Mrs Nickleby within herself. ‘Suchdelicacy as that, I never saw!’
　　 Mr Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of greatembarrassment for some minutes, resumed the conversation byentreating Mrs Nickleby to take no heed of what he hadinadvertently said—to consider him imprudent, rash, injudicious.
　　The only stipulation he would make in his own favour was, thatshe should give him credit for the best intentions.
　　‘But when,’ said Mr Pluck, ‘when I see so much sweetness andbeauty on the one hand, and so much ardour and devotion on theother, 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 coldlast night.’
　　‘Not the least in the world last night, sir,’ replied Mrs Nickleby,‘with many thanks to his lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing methe honour to inquire; not the least—which is the more singular,as I really am very subject to colds, indeed—very subject. I had acold once,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I think it was in the year eighteenhundred and seventeen; let me see, four and five are nine, and—yes, eighteen hundred and seventeen, that I thought I nevershould get rid of; actually and seriously, that I thought I nevershould get rid of. I was only cured at last by a remedy that I don’tknow whether you ever happened to hear of, Mr Pluck. You have agallon of water as hot as you can possibly bear it, with a pound ofsalt, and sixpen’orth of the finest bran, and sit with your head in itfor twenty minutes every night just before going to bed; at least, Idon’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 tothink 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 MrsNickleby recovered it, isn’t it, Pluck?’ cried Mr Pyke.
　　‘That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrillinginterest,’ replied Mr Pluck.
　　‘But come,’ said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; ‘wemust not forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. Wecome on a mission, Mrs Nickleby.’
　　‘On a mission,’ exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind adefinite proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself inlively 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 athousand entreaties that you’ll take a seat in a private box at theplay 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 youshould go out tonight,’ retorted Mr Pluck. ‘Pyke, entreat MrsNickleby.’
　　‘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. Yourbrother-in-law joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us—a refusal is out of the question. SirMulberry sends a carriage for you—twenty minutes before sevento the moment—you’ll not be so cruel as to disappoint the wholeparty, 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 excusablebreach of confidence in what I am about to say; and yet if myfriend Pyke there overheard it—such is that man’s delicate senseof 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 herhand, went on:
　　‘Your daughter has made a conquest—a conquest on which Imay congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma’am, Sir Mulberryis her devoted slave. Hem!’
　　‘Hah!’ cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching somethingfrom the chimney-piece with a theatrical air. ‘What is this! what doI 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; ‘feeblyportrayed, imperfectly caught, but still the face, the countenance,the expression.’
　　‘I recognise it at this distance!’ exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit ofenthusiasm. ‘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 ithome for inspection only two nights before.
　　Mr Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in hisconjecture, than he launched into the most extravagantencomiums of the divine original; and in the warmth of hisenthusiasm kissed the picture a thousand times, while Mr Pluckpressed Mrs Nickleby’s hand to his heart, and congratulated heron the possession of such a daughter, with so much earnestnessand affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand, in his eyes.
　　Poor Mrs Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviablecomplacency at first, became at length quite overpowered by thesetokens of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even theservant girl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted tothe spot in astonishment at the ecstasies of the two friendlyvisitors.
　　By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs Nickleby went onto entertain her guests with a lament over her fallen fortunes, anda picturesque account of her old house in the country: comprisinga full description of the different apartments, not forgetting thelittle store-room, and a lively recollection of how many steps youwent down to get into the garden, and which way you turned whenyou came out at the parlour door, and what capital fixtures therewere in the kitchen. This last reflection naturally conducted herinto the wash-house, where she stumbled upon the brewingutensils, among which she might have wandered for an hour, if themere mention of those implements had not, by an association ofideas, instantly reminded Mr Pyke that he was ‘amazing thirsty.’
　　‘And I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr Pyke; ‘if you’ll send round to thepublic-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 Pluckhelped him, while Mrs Nickleby looked on in divided admirationof the condescension of the two, and the aptitude with which theyaccommodated themselves to the pewter-pot; in explanation ofwhich seeming marvel it may be here observed, that gentlemenwho, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck, live upon their wits (or not somuch, perhaps, upon the presence of their own wits as upon theabsence of wits in other people) are occasionally reduced to verynarrow shifts and straits, and are at such periods accustomed toregale 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 thatsweet face. Ah! here it is. Unmoved, unchanged!’ This, by the way,was a very remarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to somany changes of expression—‘Oh, Pluck! Pluck!’
　　Mr Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs Nickleby’shand with a great show of feeling and attachment; Mr Pyke havingdone the same, both gentlemen hastily withdrew.
　　Mrs Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself creditfor a pretty tolerable share of penetration and acuteness, but shehad never felt so satisfied with her own sharp-sightedness as shedid that day. She had found it all out the night before. She hadnever seen Sir Mulberry and Kate together—never even heard SirMulberry’s name—and yet hadn’t she said to herself from the veryfirst, that she saw how the case stood? and what a triumph it was,for there was now no doubt about it. If these flattering attentionsto herself were not sufficient proofs, Sir Mulberry’s confidentialfriend 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 MrsNickleby.
　　There was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of thisgood fortune, and that was the having nobody by, to whom shecould confide it. Once or twice she almost resolved to walk straightto 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 amafraid too much beneath Sir Mulberry’s station for us to make acompanion of. Poor thing!’ Acting upon this grave considerationshe rejected the idea of taking the little portrait painter into herconfidence, and contented herself with holding out sundry vagueand mysterious hopes of preferment to the servant girl, whoreceived these obscure hints of dawning greatness with muchveneration and respect.
　　Punctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was nohackney coach, but a private chariot, having behind it a footman,whose legs, although somewhat large for his body, might, as mereabstract legs, have set themselves up for models at the RoyalAcademy. It was quite exhilarating to hear the clash and bustlewith which he banged the door and jumped up behind after MrsNickleby was in; and as that good lady was perfectly unconsciousthat he applied the gold-headed end of his long stick to his nose,and so telegraphed most disrespectfully to the coachman over hervery head, she sat in a state of much stiffness and dignity, not alittle proud of her position.
　　At the theatre entrance there was more banging and morebustle, and there were also Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting toescort her to her box; and so polite were they, that Mr Pykethreatened with many oaths to ‘smifligate’ a very old man with a lantern who accidentally stumbled in her way—to the great terrorof Mrs Nickleby, who, conjecturing more from Mr Pyke’sexcitement than any previous acquaintance with the etymology ofthe word that smifligation and bloodshed must be in the main oneand the same thing, was alarmed beyond expression, lestsomething should occur. Fortunately, however, Mr Pyke confinedhimself to mere verbal smifligation, and they reached their boxwith no more serious interruption by the way, than a desire on thepart of the same pugnacious gentleman to ‘smash’ the assistantbox-keeper for happening to mistake the number.
　　Mrs Nickleby had scarcely been put away behind the curtain ofthe box in an armchair, when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisophtarrived, arrayed from the crowns of their heads to the tips of theirgloves, and from the tips of their gloves to the toes of their boots,in the most elegant and costly manner. Sir Mulberry was a littlehoarser than on the previous day, and Lord Verisopht lookedrather sleepy and queer; from which tokens, as well as from thecircumstance of their both being to a trifling extent unsteady upontheir legs, Mrs Nickleby justly concluded that they had takendinner.
　　‘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.—Youare very kind, Sir Mulberry.’
　　‘No, no upon my soul!’ replied Sir Mulberry Hawk. ‘It’s youthat’s kind, upon my soul it is. It was so kind of you to cometonight.’
　　‘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 goodopinion, so desirous that there should be a delicious kind ofharmonious family understanding between us,’ said Sir Mulberry,‘that you mustn’t think I’m disinterested in what I do. I’m infernalselfish; I am—upon my soul I am.’
　　‘I am sure you can’t be selfish, Sir Mulberry!’ replied MrsNickleby. ‘You have much too open and generous a countenancefor that.’
　　‘What an extraordinary observer you are!’ said Sir MulberryHawk.
　　‘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 toinfer 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 amafraid of Mrs Nickleby. She is so immensely sharp.’
　　Messrs Pyke and Pluck shook their heads mysteriously, andobserved together that they had found that out long ago; uponwhich Mrs Nickleby tittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed, and Pykeand Pluck roared.
　　‘But where’s my brother-in-law, Sir Mulberry?’ inquired MrsNickleby. ‘I shouldn’t be here without him. I hope he’s coming.’
　　‘Pyke,’ said Sir Mulberry, taking out his toothpick and lollingback in his chair, as if he were too lazy to invent a reply to thisquestion. ‘Where’s Ralph Nickleby?’
　　‘Pluck,’ said Pyke, imitating the baronet’s action, and turningthe 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 attractthe attention of all four gentlemen, who exchanged glances ofmuch meaning. The new party beginning to converse together, SirMulberry suddenly assumed the character of a most attentivelistener, 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. ‘LordFrederick, do you recognise the tones of that voice?’
　　‘Deyvle take me if I didn’t think it was the voice of MissNickleby.’
　　‘Lor, my lord!’ cried Miss Nickleby’s mama, thrusting her headround 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 andkissing his hand.
　　‘Who do you suppose, my dear?’ replied Mrs Nickleby, bendingtowards Mrs Wititterly, and speaking a little louder for that lady’sedification. ‘There’s Mr Pyke, Mr Pluck, Sir Mulberry Hawk, andLord Frederick Verisopht.’
　　‘Gracious Heaven!’ thought Kate hurriedly. ‘How comes she insuch society?’
　　Now, Kate thought thus so hurriedly, and the surprise was sogreat, and moreover brought back so forcibly the recollection ofwhat had passed at Ralph’s delectable dinner, that she turnedextremely pale and appeared greatly agitated, which symptomsbeing observed by Mrs Nickleby, were at once set down by thatacute 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 ofperception, it did not lessen her motherly anxiety in Kate’s behalf;and accordingly, with a vast quantity of trepidation, she quittedher own box to hasten into that of Mrs Wititterly. Mrs Wititterly,keenly alive to the glory of having a lord and a baronet among hervisiting acquaintance, lost no time in signing to Mr Wititterly toopen the door, and thus it was that in less than thirty seconds MrsNickleby’s party had made an irruption into Mrs Wititterly’s box,which it filled to the very door, there being in fact only room forMessrs Pyke and Pluck to get in their heads and waistcoats.
　　‘My dear Kate,’ said Mrs Nickleby, kissing her daughteraffectionately. ‘How ill you looked a moment ago! You quitefrightened me, I declare!’
　　‘It was mere fancy, mama,—the—the—reflection of the lightsperhaps,’ replied Kate, glancing nervously round, and finding itimpossible 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 towardsthe stage.
　　But Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so easily repulsed, for headvanced with extended hand; and Mrs Nickleby officiouslyinforming Kate of this circumstance, she was obliged to extend herown. Sir Mulberry detained it while he murmured a profusion ofcompliments, which Kate, remembering what had passed betweenthem, rightly considered as so many aggravations of the insult hehad already put upon her. Then followed the recognition of LordVerisopht, and then the greeting of Mr Pyke, and then that of MrPluck, and finally, to complete the young lady’s mortification, she was compelled at Mrs Wititterly’s request to perform theceremony of introducing the odious persons, whom she regardedwith the utmost indignation and abhorrence.
　　‘Mrs Wititterly is delighted,’ said Mr Wititterly, rubbing hishands; ‘delighted, my lord, I am sure, with this opportunity ofcontracting an acquaintance which, I trust, my lord, we shallimprove. Julia, my dear, you must not allow yourself to be toomuch excited, you must not. Indeed you must not. Mrs Wititterly isof a most excitable nature, Sir Mulberry. The snuff of a candle, thewick of a lamp, the bloom on a peach, the down on a butterfly. Youmight blow her away, my lord; you might blow her away.’
　　Sir Mulberry seemed to think that it would be a greatconvenience if the lady could be blown away. He said, however,that the delight was mutual, and Lord Verisopht added that it wasmutual, whereupon Messrs Pyke and Pluck were heard tomurmur from the distance that it was very mutual indeed.
　　‘I take an interest, my lord,’ said Mrs Wititterly, with a faintsmile, ‘such an interest in the drama.’
　　‘Ye—es. It’s very interesting,’ replied Lord Verisopht.
　　‘I’m always ill after Shakespeare,’ said Mrs Wititterly. ‘Iscarcely exist the next day; I find the reaction so very great after atragedy, 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 beento 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, butafter you’ve seen the place and written your name in the littlebook, somehow or other you seem to be inspired; it kindles upquite a fire within one.’
　　‘Ye—es!’ replied Lord Verisopht, ‘I shall certainly go there.’
　　‘Julia, my life,’ interposed Mr Wititterly, ‘you are deceiving hislordship—unintentionally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is yourpoetical temperament, my dear—your ethereal soul—your fervidimagination, which throws you into a glow of genius andexcitement. There is nothing in the place, my dear—nothing,nothing.’
　　‘I think there must be something in the place,’ said MrsNickleby, who had been listening in silence; ‘for, soon after I wasmarried, I went to Stratford with my poor dear Mr Nickleby, in apost-chaise from Birmingham—was it a post-chaise though?’ saidMrs Nickleby, considering; ‘yes, it must have been a post-chaise,because I recollect remarking at the time that the driver had agreen shade over his left eye;—in a post-chaise from Birmingham,and after we had seen Shakespeare’s tomb and birthplace, wewent back to the inn there, where we slept that night, and Irecollect that all night long I dreamt of nothing but a blackgentleman, at full length, in plaster-of-Paris, with a lay-down collartied with two tassels, leaning against a post and thinking; andwhen I woke in the morning and described him to Mr Nickleby, hesaid it was Shakespeare just as he had been when he was alive,which was very curious indeed. Stratford—Stratford,’ continuedMrs Nickleby, considering. ‘Yes, I am positive about that, becauseI recollect I was in the family way with my son Nicholas at thetime, and I had been very much frightened by an Italian image boy that very morning. In fact, it was quite a mercy, ma’am,’ addedMrs Nickleby, in a whisper to Mrs Wititterly, ‘that my son didn’tturn out to be a Shakespeare, and what a dreadful thing thatwould have been!’
　　When Mrs Nickleby had brought this interesting anecdote to aclose, Pyke and Pluck, ever zealous in their patron’s cause,proposed the adjournment of a detachment of the party into thenext box; and with so much skill were the preliminaries adjusted,that Kate, despite all she could say or do to the contrary, had noalternative but to suffer herself to be led away by Sir MulberryHawk. Her mother and Mr Pluck accompanied them, but theworthy lady, pluming herself upon her discretion, took particularcare not so much as to look at her daughter during the wholeevening, and to seem wholly absorbed in the jokes andconversation of Mr Pluck, who, having been appointed sentry overMrs Nickleby for that especial purpose, neglected, on his side, nopossible opportunity of engrossing her attention.
　　Lord Frederick Verisopht remained in the next box to be talkedto by Mrs Wititterly, and Mr Pyke was in attendance to throw in aword or two when necessary. As to Mr Wititterly, he wassufficiently busy in the body of the house, informing such of hisfriends and acquaintance as happened to be there, that those twogentlemen upstairs, whom they had seen in conversation with MrsW., were the distinguished Lord Frederick Verisopht and his mostintimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk—a communicationwhich inflamed several respectable house-keepers with the utmostjealousy and rage, and reduced sixteen unmarried daughters tothe 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 skilfullywere the manoeuvres of Messrs Pyke and Pluck conducted, thatshe and the baronet were the last of the party, and were even—without an appearance of effort or design—left at some littledistance behind.
　　‘Don’t hurry, don’t hurry,’ said Sir Mulberry, as Kate hastenedon, and attempted to release her arm.
　　She made no reply, but still pressed forward.
　　‘Nay, then—’ coolly observed Sir Mulberry, stopping heroutright.
　　‘You had best not seek to detain me, sir!’ said Kate, angrily.
　　‘And why not?’ retorted Sir Mulberry. ‘My dear creature, nowwhy do you keep up this show of displeasure?’
　　‘Show!’ repeated Kate, indignantly. ‘How dare you presume tospeak to me, sir—to address me—to come into my presence?’
　　‘You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,’ said SirMulberry Hawk, stooping down, the better to see her face.
　　‘I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,’ saidKate. ‘If you find any attraction in looks of disgust and aversion,you—let me rejoin my friends, sir, instantly. Whateverconsiderations may have withheld me thus far, I will disregardthem all, and take a course that even you might feel, if you do notimmediately suffer me to proceed.’
　　Sir Mulberry smiled, and still looking in her face and retainingher arm, walked towards the door.
　　‘If no regard for my sex or helpless situation will induce you todesist from this coarse and unmanly persecution,’ said Kate,scarcely knowing, in the tumult of her passions, what she said,—‘Ihave a brother who will resent it dearly, one day.’
　　 ‘Upon my soul!’ exclaimed Sir Mulberry, as though quietlycommuning with himself; passing his arm round her waist as hespoke, ‘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 waitingshe never knew, but she hurried across it without at all regardingthem, and disengaged herself suddenly from her companion,sprang into the coach, and throwing herself into its darkest cornerburst into tears.
　　Messrs Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue, at once threw theparty into great commotion by shouting for the carriages, andgetting up a violent quarrel with sundry inoffensive bystanders; inthe midst of which tumult they put the affrighted Mrs Nickleby inher chariot, and having got her safely off, turned their thoughts toMrs Wititterly, whose attention also they had now effectuallydistracted from the young lady, by throwing her into a state of theutmost bewilderment and consternation. At length, theconveyance in which she had come rolled off too with its load, andthe four worthies, being left alone under the portico, enjoyed ahearty laugh together.
　　‘There,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning to his noble friend. ‘Didn’t Itell you last night that if we could find where they were going bybribing a servant through my fellow, and then establishedourselves close by with the mother, these people’s honour wouldbe our own? Why here it is, done in four-and-twenty hours.’
　　‘Ye—es,’ replied the dupe. ‘But I have been tied to the oldwoman all ni-ight.’
　　‘Hear him,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning to his two friends. ‘Hearthis discontented grumbler. Isn’t it enough to make a man swear never to help him in his plots and schemes again? Isn’t it aninfernal shame?’
　　Pyke asked Pluck whether it was not an infernal shame, andPluck 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 hadit? How could we have got a general invitation at first sight—comewhen you like, go when you like, stop as long as you like, do whatyou like—if you, the lord, had not made yourself agreeable to thefoolish mistress of the house? Do I care for this girl, except as yourfriend? Haven’t I been sounding your praises in her ears, andbearing her pretty sulks and peevishness all night for you? Whatsort of stuff do you think I’m made of? Would I do this for everyman? Don’t I deserve even gratitude in return?’
　　‘You’re a deyvlish good fellow,’ said the poor young lord, takinghis 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’sgo and have our revenge on the German baron and theFrenchman, who cleaned you out so handsomely last night.’
　　With these words the friendly creature took his companion’sarm and led him away, turning half round as he did so, andbestowing a wink and a contemptuous smile on Messrs Pyke andPluck, who, cramming their handkerchiefs into their mouths todenote their silent enjoyment of the whole proceedings, followed their patron and his victim at a little distance.
Chapter 28
Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by thePersecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and theComplicated Difficulties and Distresses whichsurround her, appeals, as a last resource, to herUncle for Protection.
　　The ensuing morning brought reflection with it, as morningusually does; but widely different was the train of thoughtit awakened in the different persons who had been sounexpectedly brought together on the preceding evening, by theactive agency of Messrs Pyke and Pluck.
　　The reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk—if such a term can beapplied to the thoughts of the systematic and calculating man ofdissipation, whose joys, regrets, pains, and pleasures, are all ofself, and who would seem to retain nothing of the intellectualfaculty but the power to debase himself, and to degrade the verynature whose outward semblance he wears—the reflections of SirMulberry Hawk turned upon Kate Nickleby, and were, in brief,that she was undoubtedly handsome; that her coyness must beeasily conquerable by a man of his address and experience, andthat the pursuit was one which could not fail to redound to hiscredit, and greatly to enhance his reputation with the world. Andlest this last consideration—no mean or secondary one with SirMulberry—should sound strangely in the ears of some, let it beremembered that most men live in a world of their own, and that in that limited circle alone are they ambitious for distinction andapplause. Sir Mulberry’s world was peopled with profligates, andhe acted accordingly.
　　Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and themost extravagant bigotry, are in constant occurrence among usevery day. It is the custom to trumpet forth much wonder andastonishment at the chief actors therein setting at defiance socompletely the opinion of the world; but there is no greater fallacy;it is precisely because they do consult the opinion of their ownlittle world that such things take place at all, and strike the greatworld dumb with amazement.
　　The reflections of Mrs Nickleby were of the proudest and mostcomplacent kind; and under the influence of her very agreeabledelusion she straightway sat down and indited a long letter toKate, in which she expressed her entire approval of the admirablechoice she had made, and extolled Sir Mulberry to the skies;asserting, for the more complete satisfaction of her daughter’sfeelings, that he was precisely the individual whom she (MrsNickleby) would have chosen for her son-in-law, if she had had thepicking and choosing from all mankind. The good lady then, withthe preliminary observation that she might be fairly supposed notto have lived in the world so long without knowing its ways,communicated a great many subtle precepts applicable to thestate of courtship, and confirmed in their wisdom by her ownpersonal experience. Above all things she commended a strictmaidenly reserve, as being not only a very laudable thing in itself,but as tending materially to strengthen and increase a lover’sardour. ‘And I never,’ added Mrs Nickleby, ‘was more delighted inmy life than to observe last night, my dear, that your good sense had already told you this.’ With which sentiment, and varioushints of the pleasure she derived from the knowledge that herdaughter inherited so large an instalment of her own excellentsense and discretion (to nearly the full measure of which shemight hope, with care, to succeed in time), Mrs Nicklebyconcluded a very long and rather illegible letter.
　　Poor Kate was well-nigh distracted on the receipt of fourclosely-written and closely-crossed sides of congratulation on thevery subject which had prevented her closing her eyes all night,and kept her weeping and watching in her chamber; still worseand more trying was the necessity of rendering herself agreeableto Mrs Wititterly, who, being in low spirits after the fatigue of thepreceding night, of course expected her companion (elsewherefore had she board and salary?) to be in the best spiritspossible. As to Mr Wititterly, he went about all day in a tremor ofdelight at having shaken hands with a lord, and having actuallyasked him to come and see him in his own house. The lordhimself, not being troubled to any inconvenient extent with thepower of thinking, regaled himself with the conversation of MessrsPyke and Pluck, who sharpened their wit by a plentiful indulgencein various costly stimulants at his expense.
　　It was four in the afternoon—that is, the vulgar afternoon of thesun and the clock—and Mrs Wititterly reclined, according tocustom, on the drawing-room sofa, while Kate read aloud a newnovel in three volumes, entitled ‘The Lady Flabella,’ whichAlphonse the doubtful had procured from the library that verymorning. And it was a production admirably suited to a ladylabouring under Mrs Wititterly’s complaint, seeing that there wasnot a line in it, from beginning to end, which could, by the most remote contingency, awaken the smallest excitement in anyperson breathing.
　　Kate read on.
　　‘“Cherizette,” said the Lady Flabella, inserting her mouse-likefeet in the blue satin slippers, which had unwittingly occasionedthe half-playful half-angry altercation between herself and theyouthful Colonel Befillaire, in the Duke of Mincefenille’s salon dedanse on the previous night. “Cherizette, ma chère, donnez-moi del’eau-de-Cologne, s’il vous pla.t, mon enfant.”
　　‘“Merci—thank you,” said the Lady Flabella, as the lively butdevoted Cherizette plentifully besprinkled with the fragrantcompound the Lady Flabella’s mouchoir of finest cambric, edgedwith richest lace, and emblazoned at the four corners with theFlabella crest, and gorgeous heraldic bearings of that noble family.
　　“Merci—that will do.”
　　‘At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet inhaled thatdelicious fragrance by holding the mouchoir to her exquisite, butthoughtfully-chiselled nose, the door of the boudoir (artfullyconcealed by rich hangings of silken damask, the hue of Italy’sfirmament) 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—silkstockings—who, while they remained at some distance making themost graceful obeisances, advanced to the feet of his lovelymistress, and dropping on one knee presented, on a golden salvergorgeously 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 wasfrom Befillaire—the young, the slim, the low-voiced—her own Befillaire.’
　　‘Oh, charming!’ interrupted Kate’s patroness, who wassometimes taken literary. ‘Poetic, really. Read that descriptionagain, 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 hearnothing more today; I should be sorry to disturb the impression ofthat sweet description. Close the book.’
　　Kate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she did so, MrsWititterly raising her glass with a languid hand, remarked, thatshe 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 ofsurprise. And certainly, when one comes to think of it, it was veryodd that anything should have disturbed a companion. A steam-engine, or other ingenious piece of mechanism out of order, wouldhave been nothing to it.
　　‘How did you come to know Lord Frederick, and those otherdelightful creatures, child?’ asked Mrs Wititterly, still eyeing Katethrough her glass.
　　‘I met them at my uncle’s,’ said Kate, vexed to feel that she wascolouring deeply, but unable to keep down the blood which rushedto 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 respectableperson, your mother, gave us of being known to them,’ said MrsWititterly, in a lofty manner. ‘Some friends of ours were on thevery point of introducing us, which makes it quite remarkable.’
　　This was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow conceited on thehonour and dignity of having known four great people (for Pykeand Pluck were included among the delightful creatures), whomMrs Wititterly did not know. But as the circumstance had made noimpression one way or other upon Kate’s mind, the force of theobservation was quite lost upon her.
　　‘They asked permission to call,’ said Mrs Wititterly. ‘I gave itthem of course.’
　　‘Do you expect them today?’ Kate ventured to inquire.
　　Mrs Wititterly’s answer was lost in the noise of a tremendousrapping at the street-door, and before it had ceased to vibrate,there drove up a handsome cabriolet, out of which leaped SirMulberry Hawk and his friend Lord Verisopht.
　　‘They are here now,’ said Kate, rising and hurrying away.
　　‘Miss Nickleby!’ cried Mrs Wititterly, perfectly aghast at acompanion’s attempting to quit the room, without her permissionfirst 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 somuch,’ said Mrs Wititterly, with great sharpness. ‘Dear me, MissNickleby, I beg—’
　　It was in vain for Kate to protest that she was unwell, for thefootsteps of the knockers, whoever they were, were already on thestairs. She resumed her seat, and had scarcely done so, when thedoubtful page darted into the room and announced, Mr Pyke, and Mr Pluck, and Lord Verisopht, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, all at oneburst.
　　‘The most extraordinary thing in the world,’ said Mr Pluck,saluting both ladies with the utmost cordiality; ‘the mostextraordinary thing. As Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry drove upto 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 MrsWititterly, who, by dint of lying on the same sofa for three yearsand a half, had got up quite a little pantomime of gracefulattitudes, and now threw herself into the most striking of thewhole series, to astonish the visitors. ‘I am delighted, I am sure.’
　　‘And how is Miss Nickleby?’ said Sir Mulberry Hawk, accostingKate, in a low voice—not so low, however, but that it reached theears 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 arequite torn to pieces.’
　　‘And yet you look,’ observed Sir Mulberry, turning round; ‘andyet you look—’
　　‘Beyond everything,’ said Mr Pyke, coming to his patron’sassistance. Of course Mr Pluck said the same.
　　‘I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my lord,’ said MrsWititterly, turning to that young gentleman, who had been suckingthe head of his cane in silence, and staring at Kate.
　　‘Oh, deyvlish!’ replied Verisopht. Having given utterance towhich 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 yourown good looks to her besides.’
　　To judge from the glow which suffused the poor girl’scountenance after this speech, Mrs Wititterly might, with someshow of reason, have been supposed to have imparted to it some ofthat artificial bloom which decorated her own. Mrs Wititterlyadmitted, though not with the best grace in the world, that Katedid look pretty. She began to think, too, that Sir Mulberry was notquite so agreeable a creature as she had at first supposed him; for,although a skilful flatterer is a most delightful companion if youcan keep him all to yourself, his taste becomes very doubtful whenhe takes to complimenting other people.
　　‘Pyke,’ said the watchful Mr Pluck, observing the effect whichthe praise of Miss Nickleby had produced.
　　‘Well, Pluck,’ said Pyke.
　　‘Is there anybody,’ demanded Mr Pluck, mysteriously, ‘anybodyyou 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 mysteriousmanner. ‘The D. of B.?’
　　‘The C. of B.,’ replied Pyke, with the faintest trace of a grinlingering 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, uponthe testimony of two veracious and competent witnesses, to be thevery picture of a countess! This was one of the consequences ofgetting into good society. Why, she might have moved among grovelling people for twenty years, and never heard of it. Howcould she, indeed? what did they know about countesses?
　　The two gentlemen having, by the greediness with which thislittle bait was swallowed, tested the extent of Mrs Wititterly’sappetite for adulation, proceeded to administer that commodity invery large doses, thus affording to Sir Mulberry Hawk anopportunity of pestering Miss Nickleby with questions andremarks, to which she was absolutely obliged to make some reply.
　　Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed unmolested the full flavour ofthe gold knob at the top of his cane, as he would have done to theend of the interview if Mr Wititterly had not come home, andcaused 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—mostproud.’
　　It was to the secret annoyance of his wife that Mr Wititterly saidall this, for, although she was bursting with pride and arrogance,she would have had the illustrious guests believe that their visitwas quite a common occurrence, and that they had lords andbaronets to see them every day in the week. But Mr Wititterly’sfeelings were beyond the power of suppression.
　　‘It is an honour, indeed!’ said Mr Wititterly. ‘Julia, my soul, youwill suffer for this tomorrow.’
　　‘Suffer!’ cried Lord Verisopht.
　　‘The reaction, my lord, the reaction,’ said Mr Wititterly. ‘Thisviolent strain upon the nervous system over, my lord, whatensues? A sinking, a depression, a lowness, a lassitude, a debility.
　　My lord, if Sir Tumley Snuffim was to see that delicate creature atthis moment, he would not give a—a—this for her life.’ In illustration of which remark, Mr Wititterly took a pinch of snufffrom his box, and jerked it lightly into the air as an emblem ofinstability.
　　‘Not THAT,’ said Mr Wititterly, looking about him with aserious countenance. ‘Sir Tumley Snuffim would not give that forMrs Wititterly’s existence.’
　　Mr Wititterly told this with a kind of sober exultation, as if itwere no trifling distinction for a man to have a wife in such adesperate state, and Mrs Wititterly sighed and looked on, as if shefelt the honour, but had determined to bear it as meekly as mightbe.
　　‘Mrs Wititterly,’ said her husband, ‘is Sir Tumley Snuffim’sfavourite patient. I believe I may venture to say, that MrsWititterly is the first person who took the new medicine which issupposed to have destroyed a family at Kensington Gravel Pits. Ibelieve she was. If I am wrong, Julia, my dear, you will correctme.’
　　‘I believe I was,’ said Mrs Wititterly, in a faint voice.
　　As there appeared to be some doubt in the mind of his patronhow he could best join in this conversation, the indefatigable MrPyke threw himself into the breach, and, by way of sayingsomething to the point, inquired—with reference to the aforesaidmedicine—whether it was nice.
　　‘No, sir, it was not. It had not even that recommendation,’ saidMr W.
　　‘Mrs Wititterly is quite a martyr,’ observed Pyke, with acomplimentary 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 insistupon their privileges. ‘If anybody, my lord,’ added Mr Wititterly,wheeling round to the nobleman, ‘will produce to me a greatermartyr than Mrs Wititterly, all I can say is, that I shall be glad tosee that martyr, whether male or female—that’s all, my lord.’
　　Pyke and Pluck promptly remarked that certainly nothingcould be fairer than that; and the call having been by this timeprotracted to a very great length, they obeyed Sir Mulberry’s look,and rose to go. This brought Sir Mulberry himself and LordVerisopht on their legs also. Many protestations of friendship, andexpressions anticipative of the pleasure which must inevitablyflow from so happy an acquaintance, were exchanged, and thevisitors departed, with renewed assurances that at all times andseasons the mansion of the Wititterlys would be honoured byreceiving them beneath its roof.
　　That they came at all times and seasons—that they dined thereone day, supped the next, dined again on the next, and wereconstantly to and fro on all—that they made parties to visit publicplaces, and met by accident at lounges—that upon all theseoccasions Miss Nickleby was exposed to the constant andunremitting persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, who now began tofeel his character, even in the estimation of his two dependants,involved in the successful reduction of her pride—that she had nointervals of peace or rest, except at those hours when she could sitin her solitary room, and weep over the trials of the day—all thesewere consequences naturally flowing from the well-laid plans ofSir Mulberry, and their able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke andPluck.
　　And thus for a fortnight matters went on. That any but the weakest and silliest of people could have seen in one interviewthat Lord Verisopht, though he was a lord, and Sir MulberryHawk, though he was a baronet, were not persons accustomed tobe the best possible companions, and were certainly not calculatedby habits, manners, tastes, or conversation, to shine with any verygreat 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 themost charming eccentricity; insolence took the guise of an easyabsence of reserve, attainable only by those who had had the goodfortune to mix with high folks.
　　If the mistress put such a construction upon the behaviour ofher new friends, what could the companion urge against them? Ifthey accustomed themselves to very little restraint before the ladyof the house, with how much more freedom could they address herpaid dependent! Nor was even this the worst. As the odious SirMulberry Hawk attached himself to Kate with less and less ofdisguise, Mrs Wititterly began to grow jealous of the superiorattractions of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling had led to herbanishment from the drawing-room when such company wasthere, Kate would have been only too happy and willing that itshould have existed, but unfortunately for her she possessed thatnative grace and true gentility of manner, and those thousandnameless accomplishments which give to female society itsgreatest charm; if these be valuable anywhere, they wereespecially so where the lady of the house was a mere animateddoll. The consequence was, that Kate had the double mortificationof being an indispensable part of the circle when Sir Mulberry andhis friends were there, and of being exposed, on that very account, to all Mrs Wititterly’s ill-humours and caprices when they weregone. She became utterly and completely miserable.
　　Mrs Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to SirMulberry, but when she was more than usually out of temper,attributed the circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to nervousindisposition. However, as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisophtalso was somewhat taken with Kate, and that she, Mrs Wititterly,was quite a secondary person, dawned upon that lady’s mind andgradually developed itself, she became possessed with a largequantity of highly proper and most virtuous indignation, and felt ither duty, as a married lady and a moral member of society, tomention the circumstance to ‘the young person’ without delay.
　　Accordingly Mrs Wititterly broke ground next morning, duringa pause in the novel-reading.
　　‘Miss Nickleby,’ said Mrs Wititterly, ‘I wish to speak to you verygravely. I am sorry to have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry,but you leave me no alternative, Miss Nickleby.’ Here MrsWititterly tossed her head—not passionately, only virtuously—andremarked, with some appearance of excitement, that she fearedthat palpitation of the heart was coming on again.
　　‘Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,’ resumed the lady, ‘is very farfrom pleasing me—very far. I am very anxious indeed that youshould do well, but you may depend upon it, Miss Nickleby, youwill 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 toring the bell.’
　　Kate looked at her, but said nothing.
　　 ‘You needn’t suppose,’ resumed Mrs Wititterly, ‘that yourlooking at me in that way, Miss Nickleby, will prevent my sayingwhat I am going to say, which I feel to be a religious duty. Youneedn’t direct your glances towards me,’ said Mrs Wititterly, witha sudden burst of spite; ‘I am not Sir Mulberry, no, nor LordFrederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby, nor am I Mr Pyke, nor MrPluck either.’
　　Kate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; andresting her elbow on the table, covered her eyes with her hand.
　　‘If such things had been done when I was a young girl,’ said MrsWititterly (this, by the way, must have been some little timebefore), ‘I don’t suppose anybody would have believed it.’
　　‘I don’t think they would,’ murmured Kate. ‘I do not thinkanybody would believe, without actually knowing it, what I seemdoomed to undergo!’
　　‘Don’t talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, ifyou please,’ said Mrs Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quitesurprising in so great an invalid. ‘I will not be answered, MissNickleby. I am not accustomed to be answered, nor will I permit itfor an instant. Do you hear?’ she added, waiting with someapparent inconsistency for an answer.
　　‘I do hear you, ma’am,’ replied Kate, ‘with surprise—withgreater surprise than I can express.’
　　‘I have always considered you a particularly well-behavedyoung person for your station in life,’ said Mrs Wititterly; ‘and asyou are a person of healthy appearance, and neat in your dressand 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 insistupon your immediately altering your very forward behaviour tothe gentleman who visit at this house. It really is not becoming,’
　　said Mrs Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke; ‘it isimproper—quite improper.”
　　‘Oh!’ cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; ‘isnot this, is not this, too cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enoughthat I should have suffered as I have, night and day; that I shouldalmost have sunk in my own estimation from very shame of havingbeen brought into contact with such people; but must I also beexposed to this unjust and most unfounded charge!’
　　‘You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,’ saidMrs Wititterly, ‘that when you use such terms as “unjust”, and“unfounded”, you charge me, in effect, with stating that which isuntrue.’
　　‘I do,’ said Kate with honest indignation. ‘Whether you makethis accusation of yourself, or at the prompting of others, is alike tome. I say it is vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it possible!’ criedKate, ‘that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not haveseen the misery these men have caused me? Is it possible that you,ma’am, can have been present, and failed to mark the insultingfreedom that their every look bespoke? Is it possible that you canhave avoided seeing, that these libertines, in their utter disrespectfor you, and utter disregard of all gentlemanly behaviour, andalmost of decency, have had but one object in introducingthemselves here, and that the furtherance of their designs upon afriendless, helpless girl, who, without this humiliating confession,might have hoped to receive from one so much her seniorsomething like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not—I cannot believe it!’
　　If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of theworld, she certainly would not have ventured, even in theexcitement into which she had been lashed, upon such aninjudicious speech as this. Its effect was precisely what a moreexperienced observer would have foreseen. Mrs Wititterlyreceived the attack upon her veracity with exemplary calmness,and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate’s account ofher own sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held indisregard by the gentlemen, she evinced violent emotion, and thisblow was no sooner followed up by the remark concerning herseniority, than she fell back upon the sofa, uttering dismalscreams.
　　‘What is the matter?’ cried Mr Wititterly, bouncing into theroom. ‘Heavens, what do I see? Julia! Julia! look up, my life, lookup!’
　　But Julia looked down most perseveringly, and screamed stilllouder; so Mr Wititterly rang the bell, and danced in a frenziedmanner round the sofa on which Mrs Wititterly lay; utteringperpetual cries for Sir Tumley Snuffim, and never once leaving offto ask for any explanation of the scene before him.
　　‘Run for Sir Tumley,’ cried Mr Wititterly, menacing the pagewith both fists. ‘I knew it, Miss Nickleby,’ he said, looking roundwith an air of melancholy triumph, ‘that society has been too muchfor her. This is all soul, you know, every bit of it.’ With thisassurance Mr Wititterly took up the prostrate form of MrsWititterly, and carried her bodily off to bed.
　　Kate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffim had paid his visit andlooked in with a report, that, through the special interposition of a merciful Providence (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs Wititterly hadgone to sleep. She then hastily attired herself for walking, andleaving 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 handsclasped behind him, adding up in his own mind all the sums thathad been, or would be, netted from the business done sincemorning, his mouth was drawn into a hard stern smile; while thefirmness of the lines and curves that made it up, as well as thecunning glance of his cold, bright eye, seemed to tell, that if anyresolution or cunning would increase the profits, they would notfail to be excited for the purpose.
　　‘Very good!’ said Ralph, in allusion, no doubt, to someproceeding of the day. ‘He defies the usurer, does he? Well, weshall 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 hisknown 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 thatshe 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 apadlocked cash-box that was on the table, and substituted in itsstead an empty purse. ‘There,’ said Ralph. ‘Now she may come in.’
　　Newman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre, beckoned theyoung lady to advance, and having placed a chair for her, retired;looking stealthily over his shoulder at Ralph as he limped slowlyout.
　　‘Well,’ said Ralph, roughly enough; but still with somethingmore of kindness in his manner than he would have exhibitedtowards anybody else. ‘Well, my—dear. What now?’
　　Kate raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and with aneffort to master her emotion strove to speak, but in vain. Sodrooping her head again, she remained silent. Her face washidden from his view, but Ralph could see that she was weeping.
　　‘I can guess the cause of this!’ thought Ralph, after looking ather for some time in silence. ‘I can—I can—guess the cause. Well!
　　Well!’ thought Ralph—for the moment quite disconcerted, as hewatched the anguish of his beautiful niece. ‘Where is the harm?
　　only a few tears; and it’s an excellent lesson for her, an excellentlesson.’
　　‘What is the matter?’ asked Ralph, drawing a chair opposite,and sitting down.
　　He was rather taken aback by the sudden firmness with whichKate looked up and answered him.
　　‘The matter which brings me to you, sir,’ she said, ‘is one whichshould call the blood up into your cheeks, and make you burn tohear, as it does me to tell. I have been wronged; my feelings havebeen 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 theywere no friends of yours, and you knew what they were,—oh, themore shame on you, uncle, for bringing me among them. To havesubjected me to what I was exposed to here, through anymisplaced confidence or imperfect knowledge of your guests,would have required some strong excuse; but if you did it—as Inow believe you did—knowing them well, it was most dastardlyand cruel.’
　　Ralph drew back in utter amazement at this plain speaking,and regarded Kate with the sternest look. But she met his gazeproudly and firmly, and although her face was very pale, it lookedmore noble and handsome, lighted up as it was, than it had everappeared 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 eyereminded him of Nicholas at their last meeting.
　　‘I hope there is!’ replied Kate. ‘I should be proud to know it. Iam young, uncle, and all the difficulties and miseries of mysituation have kept it down, but I have been roused today beyondall endurance, and come what may, I will not, as I am yourbrother’s child, bear these insults longer.’
　　‘What insults, girl?’ demanded Ralph, sharply.
　　‘Remember what took place here, and ask yourself,’ repliedKate, colouring deeply. ‘Uncle, you must—I am sure you will—release me from such vile and degrading companionship as I amexposed to now. I do not mean,’ said Kate, hurrying to the oldman, 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, dearuncle,—but you do not know what I have suffered, you do notindeed. You cannot tell what the heart of a young girl is—I have noright 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 amsure, 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, andtimidly placing her little hand in his, ‘in the hope that thispersecution would cease; I have gone on day after day, compelledto assume the appearance of cheerfulness, when I was mostunhappy. I have had no counsellor, no adviser, no one to protectme. Mama supposes that these are honourable men, rich anddistinguished, and how can I—how can I undeceive her—whenshe is so happy in these little delusions, which are the onlyhappiness she has? The lady with whom you placed me, is not theperson to whom I could confide matters of so much delicacy, and Ihave come at last to you, the only friend I have at hand—almostthe only friend I have at all—to entreat and implore you to assistme.’
　　‘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,’ rejoinedKate, emphatically. ‘Would not a word from you induce them todesist from this unmanly course?’
　　‘No,’ said Ralph, suddenly turning; ‘at least—that—I can’t sayit, if it would.’
　　‘Can’t say it!’
　　 ‘No,’ said Ralph, coming to a dead stop, and clasping his handsmore tightly behind him. ‘I can’t say it.’
　　Kate fell back a step or two, and looked at him, as if in doubtwhether she had heard aright.
　　‘We are connected in business,’ said Ralph, poising himselfalternately on his toes and heels, and looking coolly in his niece’sface, ‘in business, and I can’t afford to offend them. What is it afterall? We have all our trials, and this is one of yours. Some girlswould be proud to have such gallants at their feet.’
　　‘Proud!’ cried Kate.
　　‘I don’t say,’ rejoined Ralph, raising his forefinger, ‘but that youdo right to despise them; no, you show your good sense in that, asindeed I knew from the first you would. Well. In all other respectsyou are comfortably bestowed. It’s not much to bear. If this younglord does dog your footsteps, and whisper his drivelling inanitiesin your ears, what of it? It’s a dishonourable passion. So be it; itwon’t last long. Some other novelty will spring up one day, andyou will be released. In the mean time—’
　　‘In the mean time,’ interrupted Kate, with becoming pride andindignation, ‘I am to be the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of theother; justly condemned by all women of right feeling, anddespised by all honest and honourable men; sunken in my ownesteem, and degraded in every eye that looks upon me. No, not if Iwork my fingers to the bone, not if I am driven to the roughest andhardest labour. Do not mistake me. I will not disgrace yourrecommendation. 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 hidemyself 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 helpme.’
　　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 alittle niche in the wall like some scarecrow or Guy Faux laid up inwinter quarters, almost occasioned her to call aloud. But, Newmanlaying his finger upon his lips, she had the presence of mind torefrain.
　　‘Don’t,’ said Newman, gliding out of his recess, andaccompanying her across the hall. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry.’ Two verylarge tears, by-the-bye, were running down Newman’s face as hespoke.
　　‘I see how it is,’ said poor Noggs, drawing from his pocket whatseemed to be a very old duster, and wiping Kate’s eyes with it, asgently 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 waybefore him. Yes, yes! Ha, ha, ha! Oh, yes. Poor thing!’
　　With these disjointed exclamations, Newman wiped his owneyes 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 littleway to say so. ‘Ha, ha, ha! Ho! ho! ho!’
　　And Newman Noggs opened the door once again to nodcheerfully, and laugh—and shut it, to shake his head mournfully, and cry.
　　Ralph remained in the same attitude till he heard the noise ofthe closing door, when he shrugged his shoulders, and after a fewturns about the room—hasty at first, but gradually becomingslower, as he relapsed into himself—sat down before his desk.
　　It is one of those problems of human nature, which may benoted down, but not solved;—although Ralph felt no remorse atthat moment for his conduct towards the innocent, true-heartedgirl; although his libertine clients had done precisely what he hadexpected, precisely what he most wished, and precisely whatwould 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 clenchedhand 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, aperformance was going on outside his office door, which wouldhave occasioned him no small surprise, if he could by any meanshave become acquainted with it.
　　Newman Noggs was the sole actor. He stood at a little distancefrom the door, with his face towards it; and with the sleeves of hiscoat turned back at the wrists, was occupied in bestowing the mostvigorous, scientific, and straightforward blows upon the empty air.
　　At first sight, this would have appeared merely a wiseprecaution in a man of sedentary habits, with the view of openingthe chest and strengthening the muscles of the arms. But theintense eagerness and joy depicted in the face of Newman Noggs,which was suffused with perspiration; the surprising energy withwhich he directed a constant succession of blows towards a particular panel about five feet eight from the ground, and stillworked away in the most untiring and persevering manner, wouldhave sufficiently explained to the attentive observer, that hisimagination was thrashing, to within an inch of his life, his body’smost active employer, Mr Ralph Nickleby.
Chapter 29
Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain InternalDivisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.
　　The unexpected success and favour with which hisexperiment at Portsmouth had been received, induced MrCrummles to prolong his stay in that town for a fortnightbeyond the period he had originally assigned for the duration ofhis visit, during which time Nicholas personated a vast variety ofcharacters with undiminished success, and attracted so manypeople to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that abenefit was considered by the manager a very promisingspeculation. Nicholas assenting to the terms proposed, the benefitwas had, and by it he realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.
　　Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to encloseto honest John Browdie the amount of his friendly loan, which heaccompanied with many expressions of gratitude and esteem, andmany cordial wishes for his matrimonial happiness. To NewmanNoggs he forwarded one half of the sum he had realised,entreating him to take an opportunity of handing it to Kate insecret, and conveying to her the warmest assurances of his loveand affection. He made no mention of the way in which he hademployed himself; merely informing Newman that a letteraddressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office,Portsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthyfriend to write full particulars of the situation of his mother andsister, 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 letterhad been dispatched.
　　‘Not I!’ rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for theconfession would have made the boy miserable all night; ‘I wasthinking about my sister, Smike.’
　　‘Sister!’
　　‘Ay.’
　　‘Is she like you?’ inquired Smike.
　　‘Why, so they say,’ replied Nicholas, laughing, ‘only a great dealhandsomer.’
　　‘She must be very beautiful,’ said Smike, after thinking a littlewhile with his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon hisfriend.
　　‘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 hishead. ‘Shall I ever see your sister?’
　　‘To be sure,’ cried Nicholas; ‘we shall all be together one ofthese days—when we are rich, Smike.’
　　‘How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, havenobody to be kind to you?’ asked Smike. ‘I cannot make that out.’
　　‘Why, it is a long story,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and one you wouldhave 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 notso 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. ‘Whatis his name? Tell me his name.’
　　‘Ralph—Ralph Nickleby.’
　　‘Ralph Nickleby,’ repeated Smike. ‘Ralph. I’ll get that name byheart.’
　　He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when aloud knock at the door disturbed him from his occupation. Beforehe 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 thebrims. On the present occasion he wore it very much on one side,with the back part forward in consequence of its being the leastrusty; round his neck he wore a flaming red worsted comforter,whereof the straggling ends peeped out beneath his threadbareNewmarket coat, which was very tight and buttoned all the wayup. He carried in his hand one very dirty glove, and a cheap dresscane with a glass handle; in short, his whole appearance wasunusually dashing, and demonstrated a far more scrupulousattention to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestowing uponit.
　　‘Good-evening, sir,’ said Mr Folair, taking off the tall hat, andrunning his fingers through his hair. ‘I bring a communication.
　　Hem!’
　　‘From whom and what about?’ inquired Nicholas. ‘You areunusually mysterious tonight.’
　　‘Cold, perhaps,’ returned Mr Folair; ‘cold, perhaps. That is thefault of my position—not of myself, Mr Johnson. My position as amutual friend requires it, sir.’ Mr Folair paused with a mostimpressive 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 andbroke the seal, glancing at Mr Folair as he did so, who, knitting hisbrow and pursing up his mouth with great dignity, was sitting withhis eyes steadily fixed upon the ceiling.
　　It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of AugustusFolair, Esq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degreelessened, when he found it to be couched in the following laconicterms:—“Mr Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr Johnson, and willfeel obliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morningit will be most convenient to him to meet Mr L. at the Theatre, forthe purpose of having his nose pulled in the presence of thecompany.
　　“Mr Lenville requests Mr Johnson not to neglect making anappointment, as he has invited two or three professional friends towitness the ceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon anyaccount whatever.
　　“PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT.”
　　Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was somethingso exquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholaswas obliged to bite his lip and read the note over two or threetimes before he could muster sufficient gravity and sternness toaddress the hostile messenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the expression of his face in the slightestdegree.
　　‘Do you know the contents of this note, sir?’ he asked, at length.
　　‘Yes,’ rejoined Mr Folair, looking round for an instant, andimmediately carrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.
　　‘And how dare you bring it here, sir?’ asked Nicholas, tearing itinto very little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards themessenger. ‘Had you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?’
　　Mr Folair turned his head—now ornamented with severalfragments of the note—towards Nicholas, and with the sameimperturbable dignity, briefly replied ‘No.’
　　‘Then,’ said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing ittowards the door, ‘you had better follow that article of your dress,sir, or you may find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and thatwithin a dozen seconds.’
　　‘I say, Johnson,’ remonstrated Mr Folair, suddenly losing all hisdignity, ‘none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman’swardrobe.’
　　‘Leave the room,’ returned Nicholas. ‘How could you presumeto come here on such an errand, you scoundrel?’
　　‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Mr Folair, unwinding his comforter, andgradually getting himself out of it. ‘There—that’s enough.’
　　‘Enough!’ cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. ‘Takeyourself off, sir.’
　　‘Pooh! pooh! I tell you,’ returned Mr Folair, waving his hand indeprecation of any further wrath; ‘I wasn’t in earnest. I onlybrought 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 itwritten in joke, too, pray?’
　　‘No, no, that’s the best of it,’ returned the actor; ‘right downearnest—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 theground, Mr Folair twirled his old hat round upon his hand, andaffected the extremest agony lest any of the nap should have beenknocked off—an ornament which it is almost superfluous to say, ithad not boasted for many months.
　　‘Come, sir,’ said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. ‘Have thegoodness to explain.’
　　‘Why, I’ll tell you how it is,’ said Mr Folair, sitting himself downin a chair with great coolness. ‘Since you came here Lenville hasdone nothing but second business, and, instead of having areception every night as he used to have, they have let him comeon as if he was nobody.’
　　‘What do you mean by a reception?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Jupiter!’ exclaimed Mr Folair, ‘what an unsophisticatedshepherd you are, Johnson! Why, applause from the house whenyou first come on. So he has gone on night after night, nevergetting a hand, and you getting a couple of rounds at least, andsometimes three, till at length he got quite desperate, and had halfa 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 professionalreputation being at stake,’ said Mr Folair, quite seriously. ‘But his heart failed him, and he cast about for some other way of annoyingyou, and making himself popular at the same time—for that’s thepoint. Notoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinkedyou,’ said Mr Folair, stopping to make a calculation in his mind, ‘itwould have been worth—ah, it would have been worth eight or tenshillings a week to him. All the town would have come to see theactor who nearly killed a man by mistake; I shouldn’t wonder if ithad got him an engagement in London. However, he was obligedto try some other mode of getting popular, and this one occurredto him. It’s 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 youhad sworn the peace against him, it would have been in the papertoo, and he’d have been just as much talked about as you—don’tyou see?’
　　‘Oh, certainly,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘but suppose I were to turnthe tables, and pull his nose, what then? Would that make hisfortune?’
　　‘Why, I don’t think it would,’ replied Mr Folair, scratching hishead, ‘because there wouldn’t be any romance about it, and hewouldn’t be favourably known. To tell you the truth though, hedidn’t calculate much upon that, for you’re always so mild-spoken,and are so popular among the women, that we didn’t suspect youof showing fight. If you did, however, he has a way of getting out ofit easily, depend upon that.’
　　‘Has he?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘We will try, tomorrow morning. Inthe meantime, you can give whatever account of our interview youlike best. Good-night.’
　　As Mr Folair was pretty well known among his fellow-actors fora man who delighted in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not much doubt but that he had secretlyprompted the tragedian in the course he had taken, and,moreover, that he would have carried his mission with a very highhand if he had not been disconcerted by the very unexpecteddemonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worthhis while to be serious with him, however, so he dismissed thepantomimist, with a gentle hint that if he offended again it wouldbe under the penalty of a broken head; and Mr Folair, taking thecaution in exceedingly good part, walked away to confer with hisprincipal, and give such an account of his proceedings as he mightthink best calculated to carry on the joke.
　　He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state ofextreme bodily fear; for when that young gentleman walked withmuch deliberation down to the theatre next morning at the usualhour, he found all the company assembled in evident expectation,and Mr Lenville, with his severest stage face, sitting majesticallyon 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; sothat the latter formed a little group about the redoubtable MrLenville, and the former looked on at a little distance in sometrepidation and anxiety. On Nicholas stopping to salute them, MrLenville laughed a scornful laugh, and made some general remarktouching the natural history of puppies.
　　‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, looking quietly round, ‘are you there?’
　　‘Slave!’ returned Mr Lenville, flourishing his right arm, andapproaching Nicholas with a theatrical stride. But somehow heappeared just at that moment a little startled, as if Nicholas did notlook quite so frightened as he had expected, and came all at once to an awkward halt, at which the assembled ladies burst into ashrill laugh.
　　‘Object of my scorn and hatred!’ said Mr Lenville, ‘I hold ye incontempt.’
　　Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of thisperformance; and the ladies, by way of encouragement, laughedlouder than before; whereat Mr Lenville assumed his bitterestsmile, and expressed his opinion that they were ‘minions’.
　　‘But they shall not protect ye!’ said the tragedian, taking anupward look at Nicholas, beginning at his boots and ending at thecrown of his head, and then a downward one, beginning at thecrown of his head, and ending at his boots—which two looks, aseverybody knows, express defiance on the stage. ‘They shall notprotect ye—boy!’
　　Thus speaking, Mr Lenville folded his arms, and treatedNicholas to that expression of face with which, in melodramaticperformances, he was in the habit of regarding the tyrannicalkings when they said, ‘Away with him to the deepest dungeonbeneath the castle moat;’ and which, accompanied with a littlejingling of fetters, had been known to produce great effects in itstime.
　　Whether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no verydeep impression on Mr Lenville’s adversary, however, but ratherseemed to increase the good-humour expressed in hiscountenance; in which stage of the contest, one or two gentlemen,who had come out expressly to witness the pulling of Nicholas’snose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it were to be done at all ithad better be done at once, and that if Mr Lenville didn’t mean todo it he had better say so, and not keep them waiting there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of his right coat sleeve forthe performance of the operation, and walked in a very statelymanner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to withinthe requisite distance, and then, without the smallestdiscomposure, knocked him down.
　　Before the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from theboards, Mrs Lenville (who, as has been before hinted, was in aninteresting state) rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and utteringa 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 himvery tight round the waist.
　　‘Come,’ said Nicholas, nodding his head, ‘apologise for theinsolent note you wrote to me last night, and waste no more timein 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 blightedcorpse at your feet.’
　　‘This is affecting!’ said Mr Lenville, looking round him, anddrawing the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘The ties of natureare strong. The weak husband and the father—the father that isyet to be—relents. I apologise.’
　　‘Humbly and submissively?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Humbly and submissively,’ returned the tragedian, scowlingupwards. ‘But only to save her,—for a time will come—’
　　‘Very good,’ said Nicholas; ‘I hope Mrs Lenville may have agood one; and when it does come, and you are a father, you shallretract 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 ashstick which had flown out of his hand, and breaking it in half,threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing slightly to thespectators as he walked out.
　　The profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, andthe people who had been most anxious to have his nose pulled inthe morning, embraced occasions of taking him aside, and tellinghim with great feeling, how very friendly they took it that heshould have treated that Lenville so properly, who was a mostunbearable fellow, and on whom they had all, by a remarkablecoincidence, at one time or other contemplated the infliction ofcondign punishment, which they had only been restrained fromadministering by considerations of mercy; indeed, to judge fromthe invariable termination of all these stories, there never wassuch a charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the malemembers of Mr Crummles’s company.
　　Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the littleworld of the theatre, with the utmost moderation and goodhumour. The crestfallen Mr Lenville made an expiring effort toobtain revenge by sending a boy into the gallery to hiss, but he fella sacrifice to popular indignation, and was promptly turned outwithout having his money back.
　　‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas when the first piece was over, andhe had almost finished dressing to go home, ‘is there any letteryet?’
　　‘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. Letme see—let me see.’
　　By dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrivedto make himself master of the contents, which were certainly notof a nature to set his mind at ease. Newman took upon himself tosend back the ten pounds, observing that he had ascertained thatneither Mrs Nickleby nor Kate was in actual want of money at themoment, and that a time might shortly come when Nicholas mightwant it more. He entreated him not to be alarmed at what he wasabout 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 haveher brother’s protection, and if so, Newman said, he would writeto him to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.
　　Nicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thoughtof it the more he began to fear some treachery upon the part ofRalph. Once or twice he felt tempted to repair to London at allhazards without an hour’s delay, but a little reflection assured himthat if such a step were necessary, Newman would have spokenout and told him so at once.
　　‘At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility ofmy going away suddenly,’ said Nicholas; ‘I should lose no time indoing that.’ As the thought occurred to him, he took up his hat andhurried to the green-room.
　　‘Well, Mr Johnson,’ said Mrs Crummles, who was seated therein full regal costume, with the phenomenon as the Maiden in hermaternal arms, ‘next week for Ryde, then for Winchester, thenfor—’
　　‘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 inastonishment.
　　‘Closed!’ cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tightsthat she actually laid her hand upon the shoulder of themanageress 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 moreoverexcitable, raised a loud cry, and Miss Belvawney and MissBravassa actually shed tears. Even the male performers stopped intheir conversation, and echoed the word ‘Going!’ although someamong them (and they had been the loudest in theircongratulations that day) winked at each other as though theywould not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an opinion,indeed, which the honest Mr Folair, who was ready dressed for thesavage, openly stated in so many words to a demon with whom hewas sharing a pot of porter.
　　Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although hecould not yet speak with any degree of certainty; and getting awayas 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 thoughtsfor many weeks seemed to him during that sleepless night, andhow constantly and incessantly present to his imagination was theone idea that Kate in the midst of some great trouble and distressmight even then be looking—and vainly too—for him!
Chapter 30
Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, whosuddenly withdraws himself from the Society of MrVincent Crummles and his Theatrical Companions.
　　Mr Vincent Crummles was no sooner acquainted with thepublic announcement which Nicholas had maderelative to the probability of his shortly ceasing to be amember of the company, than he evinced many tokens of grief andconsternation; and, in the extremity of his despair, even held outcertain vague promises of a speedy improvement not only in theamount of his regular salary, but also in the contingentemoluments appertaining to his authorship. Finding Nicholas bentupon quitting the society—for he had now determined that, even ifno further tidings came from Newman, he would, at all hazards,ease his mind by repairing to London and ascertaining the exactposition of his sister—Mr Crummles was fain to content himself bycalculating the chances of his coming back again, and takingprompt and energetic measures to make the most of him before hewent away.
　　‘Let me see,’ said Mr Crummles, taking off his outlaw’s wig, thebetter to arrive at a cool-headed view of the whole case. ‘Let mesee. This is Wednesday night. We’ll have posters out the first thingin the morning, announcing positively your last appearance fortomorrow.’
　　‘But perhaps it may not be my last appearance, you know,’ saidNicholas. ‘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 havepositively your last appearance, on Thursday—re-engagement forone night more, on Friday—and, yielding to the wishes ofnumerous influential patrons, who were disappointed in obtainingseats, on Saturday. That ought to bring three very decent houses.’
　　‘Then I am to make three last appearances, am I?’ inquiredNicholas, smiling.
　　‘Yes,’ rejoined the manager, scratching his head with an air ofsome vexation; ‘three is not enough, and it’s very bungling andirregular not to have more, but if we can’t help it we can’t, sothere’s no use in talking. A novelty would be very desirable. Youcouldn’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 alook of disappointment. ‘What do you think of a brilliant display offireworks?’
　　‘That it would be rather expensive,’ replied Nicholas, drily.
　　‘Eighteen-pence would do it,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘You on thetop of a pair of steps with the phenomenon in an attitude;“Farewell!” on a transparency behind; and nine people at thewings with a squib in each hand—all the dozen and a half going offat once—it would be very grand—awful from the front, quiteawful.’
　　As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with thesolemnity of the proposed effect, but, on the contrary, received theproposition in a most irreverent manner, and laughed at it veryheartily, Mr Crummles abandoned the project in its birth, andgloomily 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 thehabiliments of a melodramatic empress for the ordinary attire ofmatrons in the nineteenth century. And with the assistance of thislady, and the accomplished Mrs Grudden (who had quite a geniusfor making out bills, being a great hand at throwing in the notes ofadmiration, and knowing from long experience exactly where thelargest capitals ought to go), he seriously applied himself to thecomposition of the poster.
　　‘Heigho!’ sighed Nicholas, as he threw himself back in theprompter’s chair, after telegraphing the needful directions toSmike, who had been playing a meagre tailor in the interlude,with one skirt to his coat, and a little pocket-handkerchief with alarge hole in it, and a woollen nightcap, and a red nose, and otherdistinctive marks peculiar to tailors on the stage. ‘Heigho! I wishall this were over.’
　　‘Over, Mr Johnson!’ repeated a female voice behind him, in akind of plaintive surprise.
　　‘It was an ungallant speech, certainly,’ said Nicholas, looking upto see who the speaker was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. ‘Iwould not have made it if I had known you had been withinhearing.’
　　‘What a dear that Mr Digby is!’ said Miss Snevellicci, as thetailor went off on the opposite side, at the end of the piece, withgreat 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 knowthough, that I should much mind his knowing my opinion of him;with some other people, indeed, it might be—’ Here MissSnevellicci stopped, as though waiting to be questioned, but noquestioning came, for Nicholas was thinking about more seriousmatters.
　　‘How kind it is of you,’ resumed Miss Snevellicci, after a shortsilence, ‘to sit waiting here for him night after night, night afternight, no matter how tired you are; and taking so much pains withhim, and doing it all with as much delight and readiness as if youwere coining gold by it!’
　　‘He well deserves all the kindness I can show him, and a greatdeal 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 comeup a little before, and now joined in the conversation. ‘Nobody canever get anything out of him.’
　　‘What should they get out of him?’ asked Nicholas, turninground 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 thenatural curiosity of the people here, to know what he has beenabout all his life.’
　　‘Poor fellow! it is pretty plain, I should think, that he has not theintellect to have been about anything of much importance to themor anybody else,’ said Nicholas.
　　 ‘Ay,’ rejoined the actor, contemplating the effect of his face in alamp 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 areso 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 youhave, he said this before he was silenced: Lenville says that you’rea regular stick of an actor, and that it’s only the mystery about youthat has caused you to go down with the people here, and thatCrummles keeps it up for his own sake; though Lenville says hedon’t believe there’s anything at all in it, except your having gotinto a scrape and run away from somewhere, for doing somethingor other.’
　　‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, forcing a smile.
　　‘That’s a part of what he says,’ added Mr Folair. ‘I mention it asthe friend of both parties, and in strict confidence. I don’t agreewith him, you know. He says he takes Digby to be more knavethan fool; and old Fluggers, who does the heavy business youknow, he says that when he delivered messages at Covent Gardenthe season before last, there used to be a pickpocket hoveringabout the coach-stand who had exactly the face of Digby; though, as he very properly says, Digby may not be the same, but only hisbrother, or some near relation.’
　　‘Oh!’ cried Nicholas again.
　　‘Yes,’ said Mr Folair, with undisturbed calmness, ‘that’s whatthey say. I thought I’d tell you, because really you ought to know.
　　Oh! here’s this blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh, you littleimposition, 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 werecomplimentary to the unconscious phenomenon, and giving therest in a confidential ‘aside’ to Nicholas, Mr Folair followed theascent of the curtain with his eyes, regarded with a sneer thereception of Miss Crummles as the Maiden, and, falling back astep or two to advance with the better effect, uttered a preliminaryhowl, and ‘went on’ chattering his teeth and brandishing his tintomahawk as the Indian Savage.
　　‘So these are some of the stories they invent about us, andbandy from mouth to mouth!’ thought Nicholas. ‘If a man wouldcommit 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, MrJohnson?’ observed Miss Snevellicci in her most winning tones.
　　‘Not I,’ replied Nicholas. ‘If I were going to remain here, I mightthink it worth my while to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk tillthey are hoarse. But here,’ added Nicholas, as Smike approached,‘here comes the subject of a portion of their good-nature, so let heand 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 considerablevivacity, ‘if you can’t persuade him—’ Miss Ledrook said no more,but intimated, by a dexterous playfulness, that if Miss Snevelliccicouldn’t persuade him, nobody could.
　　‘Mr and Mrs Lillyvick have taken lodgings in our house, andshare our sitting-room for the present,’ said Miss Snevellicci.
　　‘Won’t that induce you?’
　　‘Surely,’ returned Nicholas, ‘I can require no possibleinducement beyond your invitation.’
　　‘Oh no! I dare say,’ rejoined Miss Snevellicci. And Miss Ledrooksaid, ‘Upon my word!’ Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that MissLedrook was a giddy thing; and Miss Ledrook said that MissSnevellicci needn’t colour up quite so much; and Miss Snevelliccibeat Miss Ledrook, and Miss Ledrook beat Miss Snevellicci.
　　‘Come,’ said Miss Ledrook, ‘it’s high time we were there, or weshall have poor Mrs Snevellicci thinking that you have run awaywith her daughter, Mr Johnson; and then we should have a prettyto-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 itpleased them, or rather pleased Nicholas, who had no great fancyfor a tête-à-tête under the circumstances, to do at once.
　　There were not wanting matters of conversation when theyreached the street, for it turned out that Miss Snevellicci had asmall 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. Nicholaswould insist upon carrying the basket, and Miss Snevellicci wouldinsist upon carrying it herself, which gave rise to a struggle, inwhich Nicholas captured the basket and the bandbox likewise.
　　Then Nicholas said, that he wondered what could possibly beinside the basket, and attempted to peep in, whereat MissSnevellicci screamed, and declared that if she thought he hadseen, she was sure she should faint away. This declaration wasfollowed by a similar attempt on the bandbox, and similardemonstrations on the part of Miss Ledrook, and then both ladiesvowed that they wouldn’t move a step further until Nicholas hadpromised that he wouldn’t offer to peep again. At last Nicholaspledged himself to betray no further curiosity, and they walked on:
　　both ladies giggling very much, and declaring that they never hadseen such a wicked creature in all their born days—never.
　　Lightening the way with such pleasantry as this, they arrived atthe tailor’s house in no time; and here they made quite a littleparty, there being present besides Mr Lillyvick and Mrs Lillyvick,not only Miss Snevellicci’s mama, but her papa also. And anuncommonly fine man Miss Snevellicci’s papa was, with a hooknose, and a white forehead, and curly black hair, and high cheekbones, and altogether quite a handsome face, only a little pimplyas though with drinking. He had a very broad chest had MissSnevellicci’s papa, and he wore a threadbare blue dress-coatbuttoned with gilt buttons tight across it; and he no sooner sawNicholas come into the room, than he whipped the two forefingersof his right hand in between the two centre buttons, and stickinghis 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 theten-year-old imps in the Christmas pantomimes; who could sing alittle, dance a little, fence a little, act a little, and do everything alittle, but not much; who had been sometimes in the ballet, andsometimes in the chorus, at every theatre in London; who wasalways selected in virtue of his figure to play the military visitorsand the speechless noblemen; who always wore a smart dress, andcame on arm-in-arm with a smart lady in short petticoats,—andalways did it too with such an air that people in the pit had beenseveral times known to cry out ‘Bravo!’ under the impression thathe was somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci’s papa, upon whomsome envious persons cast the imputation that he occasionallybeat Miss Snevellicci’s mama, who was still a dancer, with a neatlittle figure and some remains of good looks; and who now sat, asshe danced,—being rather too old for the full glare of the footlights,—in the background.
　　To these good people Nicholas was presented with muchformality. The introduction being completed, Miss Snevellicci’spapa (who was scented with rum-and-water) said that he wasdelighted to make the acquaintance of a gentleman so highlytalented; and furthermore remarked, that there hadn’t been sucha hit made—no, not since the first appearance of his friend MrGlavormelly, 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 MissSnevellicci’s papa. ‘Then you have never seen acting yet. If he hadlived—’
　　 ‘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 thatbourne from whence no traveller returns. I hope he is appreciatedthere.’
　　So saying Miss Snevellicci’s papa rubbed the tip of his nosewith a very yellow silk handkerchief, and gave the company tounderstand that these recollections overcame him.
　　‘Well, Mr Lillyvick,’ said Nicholas, ‘and how are you?’
　　‘Quite well, sir,’ replied the collector. ‘There is nothing like themarried state, sir, depend upon it.’
　　‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas, laughing.
　　‘Ah! nothing like it, sir,’ replied Mr Lillyvick solemnly. ‘How doyou think,’ whispered the collector, drawing him aside, ‘how doyou think she looks tonight?’
　　‘As handsome as ever,’ replied Nicholas, glancing at the lateMiss Petowker.
　　‘Why, there’s air about her, sir,’ whispered the collector, ‘that Inever saw in anybody. Look at her, now she moves to put thekettle 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 amthough, eh? Perhaps I may be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn’thave done much better if I had been a young man, could I? Youcouldn’t have done much better yourself, could you—eh—couldyou?’ With such inquires, and many more such, Mr Lillyvickjerked his elbow into Nicholas’s side, and chuckled till his facebecame 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. Therewere oysters at the top, sausages at the bottom, a pair of snuffersin the centre, and baked potatoes wherever it was most convenientto put them. Two additional chairs were brought in from thebedroom: Miss Snevellicci sat at the head of the table, and MrLillyvick at the foot; and Nicholas had not only the honour ofsitting next Miss Snevellicci, but of having Miss Snevellicci’smama 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 wascleared and something warm introduced, Miss Snevellicci’s papagot up and proposed his health in a speech containing suchaffecting allusions to his coming departure, that Miss Snevellicciwept, and was compelled to retire into the bedroom.
　　‘Hush! Don’t take any notice of it,’ said Miss Ledrook, peepingin from the bedroom. ‘Say, when she comes back, that she exertsherself too much.’
　　Miss Ledrook eked out this speech with so many mysteriousnods and frowns before she shut the door again, that a profoundsilence came upon all the company, during which MissSnevellicci’s papa looked very big indeed—several sizes largerthan life—at everybody in turn, but particularly at Nicholas, andkept on perpetually emptying his tumbler and filling it again, untilthe ladies returned in a cluster, with Miss Snevellicci among them.
　　‘You needn’t alarm yourself a bit, Mr Snevellicci,’ said MrsLillyvick. ‘She is only a little weak and nervous; she has been soever 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 MrSnevellicci’s importance as a man and a father, so he picked outthe unfortunate Mrs Snevellicci, and asked her what the devil shemeant 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 youplease.’
　　‘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 supposethere’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 amnot ashamed of myself, Snevellicci is my name; I’m to be found inBroad Court, Bow Street, when I’m in town. If I’m not at home, letany man ask for me at the stage-door. Damme, they know me atthe stage-door I suppose. Most men have seen my portrait at thecigar shop round the corner. I’ve been mentioned in thenewspapers before now, haven’t I? Talk! I’ll tell you what; if Ifound out that any man had been tampering with the affections ofmy 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 threesmart blows with his clenched fist; pulled a phantom nose with hisright thumb and forefinger, and swallowed another glassful at adraught. ‘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 wholetruth must be told, that he was scarcely ever sober. He knew in hiscups three distinct stages of intoxication,—the dignified—thequarrelsome—the amorous. When professionally engaged henever got beyond the dignified; in private circles he went throughall three, passing from one to another with a rapidity of transitionoften rather perplexing to those who had not the honour of hisacquaintance.
　　Thus Mr Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed another glassfulthan he smiled upon all present in happy forgetfulness of havingexhibited symptoms of pugnacity, and proposed ‘The ladies! Blesstheir 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 MrLillyvick.
　　‘I love them too, sir,’ said Mr Snevellicci.
　　The collector looked into the surrounding faces with an aspectof grave astonishment, seeming to say, ‘This is a nice man!’ andappeared a little surprised that Mrs Lillyvick’s manner yielded noevidences of horror and indignation.
　　‘One good turn deserves another,’ said Mr Snevellicci. ‘I lovethem and they love me.’ And as if this avowal were not made insufficient disregard and defiance of all moral obligations, what didMr 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 HenriettaPetowker, it would have been indecorous in the last degree; but asMrs Lillyvick! While he thought of it in a cold perspiration, andwondered whether it was possible that he could be dreaming, MrSnevellicci repeated the wink, and drinking to Mrs Lillyvick indumb show, actually blew her a kiss! Mr Lillyvick left his chair,walked straight up to the other end of the table, and fell uponhim—literally fell upon him—instantaneously. Mr Lillyvick was nolight weight, and consequently when he fell upon Mr Snevellicci,Mr Snevellicci fell under the table. Mr Lillyvick followed him, andthe ladies screamed.
　　‘What is the matter with the men! Are they mad?’ criedNicholas, diving under the table, dragging up the collector bymain force, and thrusting him, all doubled up, into a chair, as if hehad been a stuffed figure. ‘What do you mean to do? What do youwant to do? What is the matter with you?’
　　While Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike had performedthe same office for Mr Snevellicci, who now regarded his lateadversary in tipsy amazement.
　　‘Look here, sir,’ replied Mr Lillyvick, pointing to his astonishedwife, ‘here is purity and elegance combined, whose feelings havebeen outraged—violated, sir!’
　　‘Lor, what nonsense he talks!’ exclaimed Mrs Lillyvick inanswer to the inquiring look of Nicholas. ‘Nobody has saidanything to me.’
　　‘Said, Henrietta!’ cried the collector. ‘Didn’t I see him—’ MrLillyvick couldn’t bring himself to utter the word, but hecounterfeited 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 togo down on your knees and beg everybody’s pardon, that youought.’
　　‘Pardon, my dear?’ said the dismayed collector.
　　‘Yes, and mine first,’ replied Mrs Lillyvick. ‘Do you suppose Iain’t the best judge of what’s proper and what’s improper?’
　　‘To be sure,’ cried all the ladies. ‘Do you suppose WE shouldn’tbe the first to speak, if there was anything that ought to be takennotice of?’
　　‘Do you suppose they don’t know, sir?’ said Miss Snevellicci’spapa, pulling up his collar, and muttering something about apunching of heads, and being only withheld by considerations ofage. With which Miss Snevellicci’s papa looked steadily andsternly at Mr Lillyvick for some seconds, and then risingdeliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies all round, beginningwith Mrs Lillyvick.
　　The unhappy collector looked piteously at his wife, as if to seewhether there was any one trait of Miss Petowker left in MrsLillyvick, and finding too surely that there was not, begged pardonof all the company with great humility, and sat down such a crestfallen, dispirited, disenchanted man, that despite all his selfishnessand 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, quicklygrew convivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering more than onesong of no inconsiderable length, and regaling the social circlebetween-whiles with recollections of divers splendid women who had been supposed to entertain a passion for himself, several ofwhom he toasted by name, taking occasion to remark at the sametime that if he had been a little more alive to his own interest, hemight have been rolling at that moment in his chariot-and-four.
　　These reminiscences appeared to awaken no very torturing pangsin the breast of Mrs Snevellicci, who was sufficiently occupied indescanting to Nicholas upon the manifold accomplishments andmerits of her daughter. Nor was the young lady herself at allbehind-hand in displaying her choicest allurements; but these,heightened as they were by the artifices of Miss Ledrook, had noeffect whatever in increasing the attentions of Nicholas, who, withthe precedent of Miss Squeers still fresh in his memory, steadilyresisted every fascination, and placed so strict a guard upon hisbehaviour that when he had taken his leave the ladies wereunanimous in pronouncing him quite a monster of insensibility.
　　Next day the posters appeared in due course, and the publicwere informed, in all the colours of the rainbow, and in lettersafflicted with every possible variation of spinal deformity, how thatMr Johnson would have the honour of making his last appearancethat evening, and how that an early application for places wasrequested, in consequence of the extraordinary overflow attendanton his performances,—it being a remarkable fact in theatricalhistory, but one long since established beyond dispute, that it is ahopeless endeavour to attract people to a theatre unless they canbe first brought to believe that they will never get into it.
　　Nicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering the theatre atnight, to account for the unusual perturbation and excitementvisible in the countenances of all the company, but he was not longin doubt as to the cause, for before he could make any inquiry respecting it Mr Crummles approached, and in an agitated tone ofvoice, informed him that there was a London manager in theboxes.
　　‘It’s the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,’ said Crummles,dragging Nicholas to the little hole in the curtain that he mightlook through at the London manager. ‘I have not the smallestdoubt it’s the fame of the phenomenon—that’s the man; him in thegreat-coat and no shirt-collar. She shall have ten pound a week,Johnson; she shall not appear on the London boards for a farthingless. They shan’t engage her either, unless they engage MrsCrummles too—twenty pound a week for the pair; or I’ll tell youwhat, I’ll throw in myself and the two boys, and they shall have thefamily 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 theLondon 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 VincentCrummles taking several huge pinches of snuff to compose hisfeelings, hurried away to tell Mrs Crummles that he had quitesettled the only terms that could be accepted, and had resolvednot to abate one single farthing.
　　When everybody was dressed and the curtain went up, theexcitement occasioned by the presence of the London managerincreased a thousand-fold. Everybody happened to know that theLondon manager had come down specially to witness his or herown performance, and all were in a flutter of anxiety andexpectation. Some of those who were not on in the first scene,hurried to the wings, and there stretched their necks to have apeep at him; others stole up into the two little private boxes over the stage-doors, and from that position reconnoitred the Londonmanager. Once the London manager was seen to smile—he smiledat the comic countryman’s pretending to catch a blue-bottle, whileMrs Crummles was making her greatest effect. ‘Very good, my finefellow,’ said Mr Crummles, shaking his fist at the comiccountryman when he came off, ‘you leave this company nextSaturday night.’
　　In the same way, everybody who was on the stage beheld noaudience but one individual; everybody played to the Londonmanager. When Mr Lenville in a sudden burst of passion calledthe emperor a miscreant, and then biting his glove, said, ‘But Imust dissemble,’ instead of looking gloomily at the boards and sowaiting for his cue, as is proper in such cases, he kept his eye fixedupon the London manager. When Miss Bravassa sang her song ather lover, who according to custom stood ready to shake handswith her between the verses, they looked, not at each other, but atthe London manager. Mr Crummles died point blank at him; andwhen the two guards came in to take the body off after a very harddeath, it was seen to open its eyes and glance at the Londonmanager. At length the London manager was discovered to beasleep, and shortly after that he woke up and went away,whereupon all the company fell foul of the unhappy comiccountryman, declaring that his buffoonery was the sole cause; andMr Crummles said, that he had put up with it a long time, but thathe really couldn’t stand it any longer, and therefore would feelobliged 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 satisfactionthat the great man went away before he appeared. He went through his part in the two last pieces as briskly as he could, andhaving been received with unbounded favour and unprecedentedapplause—so said the bills for next day, which had been printedan hour or two before—he took Smike’s arm and walked home tobed.
　　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 aninstant; to be there that night if possible.
　　‘I will,’ said Nicholas. ‘Heaven knows I have remained here forthe best, and sorely against my own will; but even now I may havedallied too long. What can have happened? Smike, my good fellow,here—take my purse. Put our things together, and pay what littledebts we owe—quick, and we shall be in time for the morningcoach. I will only tell them that we are going, and will return toyou immediately.’
　　So saying, he took his hat, and hurrying away to the lodgings ofMr Crummles, applied his hand to the knocker with such heartygood-will, that he awakened that gentleman, who was still in bed,and caused Mr Bulph the pilot to take his morning’s pipe verynearly out of his mouth in the extremity of his surprise.
　　The door being opened, Nicholas ran upstairs without anyceremony, and bursting into the darkened sitting-room on theone-pair front, found that the two Master Crummleses had sprungout of the sofa-bedstead and were putting on their clothes withgreat rapidity, under the impression that it was the middle of thenight, and the next house was on fire.
　　Before he could undeceive them, Mr Crummles came down in aflannel gown and nightcap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that circumstances had occurred which rendered it necessary forhim to repair to London immediately.
　　‘So goodbye,’ said Nicholas; ‘goodbye, goodbye.’
　　He was half-way downstairs before Mr Crummles hadsufficiently recovered his surprise to gasp out something about theposters.
　　‘I can’t help it,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Set whatever I may haveearned this week against them, or if that will not repay you, say atonce what will. Quick, quick.’
　　‘We’ll cry quits about that,’ returned Crummles. ‘But can’t wehave one last night more?’
　　‘Not an hour—not a minute,’ replied Nicholas, impatiently.
　　‘Won’t you stop to say something to Mrs Crummles?’ asked themanager, 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 heartythanks.—Oh! that I should have been fooling here!’
　　Accompanying these words with an impatient stamp upon theground, he tore himself from the manager’s detaining grasp, anddarting rapidly down the street was out of sight in an instant.
　　‘Dear me, dear me,’ said Mr Crummles, looking wistfullytowards the point at which he had just disappeared; ‘if he onlyacted like that, what a deal of money he’d draw! He should havekept upon this circuit; he’d have been very useful to me. But hedon’t know what’s good for him. He is an impetuous youth. Youngmen are rash, very rash.’
　　Mr Crummles being in a moralising mood, might possibly havemoralised for some minutes longer if he had not mechanically puthis hand towards his waistcoat pocket, where he was accustomed to keep his snuff. The absence of any pocket at all in the usualdirection, suddenly recalled to his recollection the fact that he hadno waistcoat on; and this leading him to a contemplation of theextreme scantiness of his attire, he shut the door abruptly, andretired upstairs with great precipitation.
　　Smike had made good speed while Nicholas was absent, andwith his help everything was soon ready for their departure. Theyscarcely stopped to take a morsel of breakfast, and in less than halfan hour arrived at the coach-office: quite out of breath with thehaste they had made to reach it in time. There were yet a fewminutes to spare, so, having secured the places, Nicholas hurriedinto a slopseller’s hard by, and bought Smike a great-coat. Itwould have been rather large for a substantial yeoman, but theshopman averring (and with considerable truth) that it was a mostuncommon fit, Nicholas would have purchased it in his impatienceif it had been twice the size.
　　As they hurried up to the coach, which was now in the openstreet and all ready for starting, Nicholas was not a littleastonished to find himself suddenly clutched in a close and violentembrace, which nearly took him off his legs; nor was hisamazement at all lessened by hearing the voice of Mr Crummlesexclaim, ‘It is he—my friend, my friend!’
　　‘Bless my heart,’ cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager’sarms, ‘what are you about?’
　　The manager made no reply, but strained him to his breastagain, exclaiming as he did so, ‘Farewell, my noble, my lionhearted boy!’
　　In fact, Mr Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity forprofessional display, had turned out for the express purpose of taking a public farewell of Nicholas; and to render it the moreimposing, he was now, to that young gentleman’s most profoundannoyance, inflicting upon him a rapid succession of stageembraces, which, as everybody knows, are performed by theembracer’s laying his or her chin on the shoulder of the object ofaffection, and looking over it. This Mr Crummles did in the higheststyle of melodrama, pouring forth at the same time all the mostdismal forms of farewell he could think of, out of the stock pieces.
　　Nor was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was going througha similar ceremony with Smike; while Master Percy Crummles,with a very little second-hand camlet cloak, worn theatrically overhis 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 toput a good face upon the matter, Nicholas laughed too when hehad succeeded in disengaging himself; and rescuing theastonished Smike, climbed up to the coach roof after him, andkissed his hand in honour of the absent Mrs Crummles as theyrolled away.
Chapter 31
Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and somewise Precautions, the success or failure of whichwill appear in the Sequel.
　　In blissful unconsciousness that his nephew was hastening atthe utmost speed of four good horses towards his sphere ofaction, and that every passing minute diminished the distancebetween them, Ralph Nickleby sat that morning occupied in hiscustomary avocations, and yet unable to prevent his thoughtswandering from time to time back to the interview which hadtaken place between himself and his niece on the previous day. Atsuch intervals, after a few moments of abstraction, Ralph wouldmutter some peevish interjection, and apply himself with renewedsteadiness of purpose to the ledger before him, but again andagain the same train of thought came back despite all his efforts toprevent it, confusing him in his calculations, and utterlydistracting his attention from the figures over which he bent. Atlength Ralph laid down his pen, and threw himself back in hischair as though he had made up his mind to allow the obtrusivecurrent of reflection to take its own course, and, by giving it fullscope, to rid himself of it effectually.
　　‘I am not a man to be moved by a pretty face,’ muttered Ralphsternly. ‘There is a grinning skull beneath it, and men like me wholook and work below the surface see that, and not its delicatecovering. And yet I almost like the girl, or should if she had beenless proudly and squeamishly brought up. If the boy were drowned or hanged, and the mother dead, this house should beher home. I wish they were, with all my soul.’
　　Notwithstanding the deadly hatred which Ralph felt towardsNicholas, and the bitter contempt with which he sneered at poorMrs Nickleby—notwithstanding the baseness with which he hadbehaved, and was then behaving, and would behave again if hisinterest prompted him, towards Kate herself—still there was,strange though it may seem, something humanising and evengentle in his thoughts at that moment. He thought of what hishome might be if Kate were there; he placed her in the emptychair, looked upon her, heard her speak; he felt again upon hisarm the gentle pressure of the trembling hand; he strewed hiscostly rooms with the hundred silent tokens of feminine presenceand occupation; he came back again to the cold fireside and thesilent dreary splendour; and in that one glimpse of a better nature,born as it was in selfish thoughts, the rich man felt himselffriendless, childless, and alone. Gold, for the instant, lost its lustrein his eyes, for there were countless treasures of the heart which itcould never purchase.
　　A very slight circumstance was sufficient to banish suchreflections from the mind of such a man. As Ralph looked vacantlyout across the yard towards the window of the other office, hebecame suddenly aware of the earnest observation of NewmanNoggs, who, with his red nose almost touching the glass, feigned tobe mending a pen with a rusty fragment of a knife, but was inreality staring at his employer with a countenance of the closestand most eager scrutiny.
　　Ralph exchanged his dreamy posture for his accustomedbusiness 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 thesummons, and Ralph raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if healmost feared to read there, a knowledge of his recent thoughts.
　　There was not the smallest speculation, however, in thecountenance of Newman Noggs. If it be possible to imagine a man,with two eyes in his head, and both wide open, looking in nodirection whatever, and seeing nothing, Newman appeared to bethat man while Ralph Nickleby regarded him.
　　‘How now?’ growled Ralph.
　　‘Oh!’ said Newman, throwing some intelligence into his eyes allat once, and dropping them on his master, ‘I thought you rang.’
　　With which laconic remark Newman turned round and hobbledaway.
　　‘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 theexplanation Newman deigned to offer.
　　‘Be careful, sir,’ said Ralph, looking steadily at him. ‘Let mehave 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 affirmativereply, and, leaving the room for a few seconds, returned with hishat. Having made various ineffective attempts to fit the parcel(which was some two feet square) into the crown thereof, Newmantook it under his arm, and after putting on his fingerless gloveswith great precision and nicety, keeping his eyes fixed upon MrRalph Nickleby all the time, he adjusted his hat upon his headwith as much care, real or pretended, as if it were a bran-new oneof the most expensive quality, and at last departed on his errand.
　　He executed his commission with great promptitude anddispatch, only calling at one public-house for half a minute, andeven that might be said to be in his way, for he went in at one doorand came out at the other; but as he returned and had got so farhomewards as the Strand, Newman began to loiter with theuncertain air of a man who has not quite made up his mindwhether to halt or go straight forwards. After a very shortconsideration, the former inclination prevailed, and makingtowards the point he had had in his mind, Newman knocked amodest double knock, or rather a nervous single one, at Miss LaCreevy’s door.
　　It was opened by a strange servant, on whom the odd figure ofthe visitor did not appear to make the most favourable impressionpossible, inasmuch as she no sooner saw him than she very nearlyclosed it, and placing herself in the narrow gap, inquired what hewanted. But Newman merely uttering the monosyllable ‘Noggs,’
　　as if it were some cabalistic word, at sound of which bolts wouldfly back and doors open, pushed briskly past and gained the doorof 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 thesound 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 ofthe head. ‘I wonder at that. That nobody should remember mewho knew me in other days, is natural enough; but there are fewpeople who, seeing me once, forget me now.’ He glanced, as hespoke, at his shabby clothes and paralytic limb, and slightly shookhis head.
　　‘I did forget you, I declare,’ said Miss La Creevy, rising toreceive Newman, who met her half-way, ‘and I am ashamed ofmyself for doing so; for you are a kind, good creature, Mr Noggs.
　　Sit down and tell me all about Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing! Ihaven’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 havebeen 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 awaypeacefully and happily enough,’ replied the miniature painter. ‘Ihave a brother, Mr Noggs—the only relation I have—and all thattime I never saw him once. Not that we ever quarrelled, but hewas apprenticed down in the country, and he got married there;and new ties and affections springing up about him, he forgot apoor little woman like me, as it was very reasonable he should, youknow. Don’t suppose that I complain about that, because I always said to myself, “It is very natural; poor dear John is making hisway 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 nomore.” But what do you think, Mr Noggs,’ said the miniaturepainter, brightening up and clapping her hands, ‘of that very samebrother coming up to London at last, and never resting till hefound me out; what do you think of his coming here and sittingdown in that very chair, and crying like a child because he was soglad to see me—what do you think of his insisting on taking medown all the way into the country to his own house (quite asumptuous place, Mr Noggs, with a large garden and I don’t knowhow many fields, and a man in livery waiting at table, and cowsand horses and pigs and I don’t know what besides), and makingme 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—andthere were four of them, and one, the eldest girl of all, they—theyhad 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 soulhid her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud; for it was thefirst opportunity she had had of unburdening her heart, and itwould have its way. ‘But bless my life,’ said Miss La Creevy,wiping her eyes after a short pause, and cramming herhandkerchief into her pocket with great bustle and dispatch; ‘whata foolish creature I must seem to you, Mr Noggs! I shouldn’t havesaid anything about it, only I wanted to explain to you how it was Ihadn’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 thatquarter, you had better not call her the old lady any more, for Isuspect she wouldn’t be best pleased to hear you. Yes, I went therethe night before last, but she was quite on the high ropes aboutsomething, and was so grand and mysterious, that I couldn’t makeanything of her: so, to tell you the truth, I took it into my head tobe grand too, and came away in state. I thought she would havecome 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 LaCreevy. ‘I was afraid she mightn’t like to have me calling on heramong those great folks in what’s-its-name Place, so I thought I’dwait 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 ofGolden Square? Well, of course; such people always are. I don’tmean how is he in health, but how is he going on: how is hebehaving himself?’
　　‘Damn him!’ cried Newman, dashing his cherished hat on thefloor; ‘like a false hound.’
　　‘Gracious, Mr Noggs, you quite terrify me!’ exclaimed Miss LaCreevy, turning pale.
　　‘I should have spoilt his features yesterday afternoon if I couldhave afforded it,’ said Newman, moving restlessly about, andshaking his fist at a portrait of Mr Canning over the mantelpiece. ‘Iwas very near it. I was obliged to put my hands in my pockets, andkeep ’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 myselfin 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,’ saidMiss 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 Iknow; he little thinks I care. Cunning scoundrel! he don’t thinkthat. Not he, not he. Never mind, I’ll thwart him—I, NewmanNoggs. Ho, ho, the rascal!’
　　Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of fury, NewmanNoggs jerked himself about the room with the most eccentricmotion ever beheld in a human being: now sparring at the littleminiatures on the wall, and now giving himself violent thumps onthe head, as if to heighten the delusion, until he sank down in hisformer 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 hadbeen almost frightened out of her senses by this remarkabledemonstration; but that done, Newman faithfully related all thathad passed in the interview between Kate and her uncle,prefacing his narrative with a statement of his previous suspicionson the subject, and his reasons for forming them; and concludingwith a communication of the step he had taken in secretly writingto Nicholas.
　　Though little Miss La Creevy’s indignation was not sosingularly displayed as Newman’s, it was scarcely inferior inviolence and intensity. Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had happened tomake his appearance in the room at that moment, there is some doubt whether he would not have found Miss La Creevy a moredangerous opponent than even Newman Noggs himself.
　　‘God forgive me for saying so,’ said Miss La Creevy, as a windup to all her expressions of anger, ‘but I really feel as if I couldstick this into him with pleasure.’
　　It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, itbeing in fact nothing more nor less than a black-lead pencil; butdiscovering her mistake, the little portrait painter exchanged it fora mother-of-pearl fruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperatethoughts, she made a lunge as she spoke, which would havescarcely 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, weeksago.’
　　‘—If we had known of this,’ rejoined Newman. ‘But we didn’t.
　　Nobody could properly interfere but her mother or brother. Themother’s weak—poor thing—weak. The dear young man will behere tonight.’
　　‘Heart alive!’ cried Miss La Creevy. ‘He will do somethingdesperate, Mr Noggs, if you tell him all at once.’
　　Newman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtfullook.
　　‘Depend upon it,’ said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, ‘if you are notvery careful in breaking out the truth to him, he will do someviolence upon his uncle or one of these men that will bring someterrible calamity upon his own head, and grief and sorrow to usall.’
　　‘I never thought of that,’ rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more and more. ‘I came to ask you to receive his sister incase he brought her here, but—’
　　‘But this is a matter of much greater importance,’ interruptedMiss La Creevy; ‘that you might have been sure of before youcame, but the end of this, nobody can foresee, unless you are veryguarded and careful.’
　　‘What can I do?’ cried Newman, scratching his head with an airof great vexation and perplexity. ‘If he was to talk of pistoling ’emall, I should be obliged to say, “Certainly—serve ’em right.”’
　　Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearingthis, and instantly set about extorting a solemn pledge fromNewman that he would use his utmost endeavours to pacify thewrath of Nicholas; which, after some demur, was conceded. Theythen consulted together on the safest and surest mode ofcommunicating to him the circumstances which had rendered hispresence necessary.
　　‘He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,’
　　said Miss La Creevy. ‘That is of the greatest consequence. He mustnot 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. ‘Youcan easily have been kept away by business, and must not returntill nearly midnight.’
　　‘Then he will come straight here,’ retorted Newman.
　　‘So I suppose,’ observed Miss La Creevy; ‘but he won’t find meat 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 thetheatre, so that he may not even know where his sister lives.’
　　 Upon further discussion, this appeared the safest and mostfeasible mode of proceeding that could possibly be adopted.
　　Therefore it was finally determined that matters should be soarranged, and Newman, after listening to many supplementarycautions and entreaties, took his leave of Miss La Creevy andtrudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as he went upon avast number of possibilities and impossibilities which crowdedupon his brain, and arose out of the conversation that had justterminated.
Chapter 32
Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation,and some remarkable Proceedings to which it givesrise.
　　‘L ondon at last!’ cried Nicholas, throwing back hisgreatcoat and rousing Smike from a long nap. ‘Itseemed to me as though we should never reach it.’
　　‘And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,’ observed thecoachman, looking over his shoulder at Nicholas with no verypleasant expression of countenance.
　　‘Ay, I know that,’ was the reply; ‘but I have been very anxious tobe at my journey’s end, and that makes the way seem long.’
　　‘Well,’ remarked the coachman, ‘if the way seemed long withsuch cattle as you’ve sat behind, you must have been mostuncommon anxious;’ and so saying, he let out his whip-lash andtouched up a little boy on the calves of his legs by way ofemphasis.
　　They rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street ofLondon, now displaying long double rows of brightly-burninglamps, dotted here and there with the chemists’ glaring lights, andilluminated besides with the brilliant flood that streamed from thewindows of the shops, where sparkling jewellery, silks and velvetsof the richest colours, the most inviting delicacies, and mostsumptuous articles of luxurious ornament, succeeded each otherin rich and glittering profusion. Streams of people apparentlywithout end poured on and on, jostling each other in the crowd and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches thatsurrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes andmakes, mingled up together in one moving mass, like runningwater, lent their ceaseless roar to swell the noise and tumult.
　　As they dashed by the quickly-changing and ever-varyingobjects, it was curious to observe in what a strange processionthey passed before the eye. Emporiums of splendid dresses, thematerials brought from every quarter of the world; temptingstores of everything to stimulate and pamper the sated appetiteand give new relish to the oft-repeated feast; vessels of burnishedgold and silver, wrought into every exquisite form of vase, anddish, and goblet; guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines ofdestruction; screws and irons for the crooked, clothes for thenewly-born, drugs for the sick, coffins for the dead, andchurchyards for the buried—all these jumbled each with the otherand flocking side by side, seemed to flit by in motley dance like thefantastic groups of the old Dutch painter, and with the same sternmoral for the unheeding restless crowd.
　　Nor were there wanting objects in the crowd itself to give newpoint and purpose to the shifting scene. The rags of the squalidballad-singer fluttered in the rich light that showed thegoldsmith’s treasures, pale and pinched-up faces hovered aboutthe windows where was tempting food, hungry eyes wanderedover the profusion guarded by one thin sheet of brittle glass—aniron wall to them; half-naked shivering figures stopped to gaze atChinese shawls and golden stuffs of India. There was a christeningparty at the largest coffin-maker’s and a funeral hatchment hadstopped some great improvements in the bravest mansion. Lifeand 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 hadput her head out of the coach-window a mile or two this sideKingston, and cried out to the driver that she was sure he musthave passed it and forgotten to set her down, was satisfied at last.
　　Nicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike at the inn wherethe coach stopped, and repaired, without the delay of anothermoment, to the lodgings of Newman Noggs; for his anxiety andimpatience had increased with every succeeding minute, and werealmost beyond control.
　　There was a fire in Newman’s garret; and a candle had been leftburning; the floor was cleanly swept, the room was as comfortablyarranged as such a room could be, and meat and drink wereplaced in order upon the table. Everything bespoke theaffectionate care and attention of Newman Noggs, but Newmanhimself 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 amextremely 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 unwillingto go, I can tell you, but there was no help for it. However, he leftword that you were to make yourself comfortable till he cameback, and that I was to entertain you, which I shall be very glad todo.’
　　In proof of his extreme readiness to exert himself for the general entertainment, Mr Crowl drew a chair to the table as hespoke, and helping himself plentifully to the cold meat, invitedNicholas 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, hewalked out (despite a great many dissuasions uttered by Mr Crowlwith his mouth full), and left Smike to detain Newman in case hereturned first.
　　As Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas betook himselfstraight to her house. Finding her from home, he debated withinhimself for some time whether he should go to his mother’sresidence, and so compromise her with Ralph Nickleby. Fullypersuaded, however, that Newman would not have solicited him toreturn unless there was some strong reason which required hispresence at home, he resolved to go there, and hastened eastwardswith all speed.
　　Mrs Nickleby would not be at home, the girl said, until pasttwelve, or later. She believed Miss Nickleby was well, but shedidn’t live at home now, nor did she come home except veryseldom. She couldn’t say where she was stopping, but it was not atMadame Mantalini’s. She was sure of that.
　　With his heart beating violently, and apprehending he knew notwhat 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 tofetch him if it were only for an instant, or forwarding to him oneline of writing to which he might return a verbal reply? That wasquite impracticable. He was not at Golden Square, and probablyhad been sent to execute some commission at a distance.
　　 Nicholas tried to remain quietly where he was, but he felt sonervous and excited that he could not sit still. He seemed to belosing time unless he was moving. It was an absurd fancy, heknew, but he was wholly unable to resist it. So, he took up his hatand rambled out again.
　　He strolled westward this time, pacing the long streets withhurried footsteps, and agitated by a thousand misgivings andapprehensions which he could not overcome. He passed into HydePark, now silent and deserted, and increased his rate of walking asif in the hope of leaving his thoughts behind. They crowded uponhim more thickly, however, now there were no passing objects toattract his attention; and the one idea was always uppermost, thatsome stroke of ill-fortune must have occurred so calamitous in itsnature that all were fearful of disclosing it to him. The old questionarose again and again—What could it be? Nicholas walked till hewas weary, but was not one bit the wiser; and indeed he came outof the Park at last a great deal more confused and perplexed thanwhen he went in.
　　He had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink since early inthe morning, and felt quite worn out and exhausted. As hereturned languidly towards the point from which he had started,along one of the thoroughfares which lie between Park Lane andBond Street, he passed a handsome hotel, before which hestopped mechanically.
　　‘An expensive place, I dare say,’ thought Nicholas; ‘but a pint ofwine 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 longvista 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 inwhich a man is most disposed to yield to his first impulse—andbeing, besides, strongly attracted to the hotel, in part by curiosity,and in part by some odd mixture of feelings which he would havebeen troubled to define—Nicholas turned back again, and walkedinto the coffee-room.
　　It was very handsomely furnished. The walls were ornamentedwith the choicest specimens of French paper, enriched with agilded cornice of elegant design. The floor was covered with a richcarpet; and two superb mirrors, one above the chimney-piece andone at the opposite end of the room reaching from floor to ceiling,multiplied the other beauties and added new ones of their own toenhance the general effect. There was a rather noisy party of fourgentlemen in a box by the fire-place, and only two other personspresent—both elderly gentlemen, and both alone.
　　Observing all this in the first comprehensive glance with whicha stranger surveys a place that is new to him, Nicholas sat himselfdown in the box next to the noisy party, with his back towardsthem, and postponing his order for a pint of claret until such timeas the waiter and one of the elderly gentlemen should have settleda disputed question relative to the price of an item in the bill offare, 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. ‘LittleKate Nickleby’ were the words that caught his ear. He raised hishead in amazement, and as he did so, saw by the reflection in theopposite glass, that two of the party behind him had risen andwere standing before the fire. ‘It must have come from one ofthem,’ thought Nicholas. He waited to hear more with a countenance of some indignation, for the tone of speech had beenanything but respectful, and the appearance of the individualwhom he presumed to have been the speaker was coarse andswaggering.
　　This person—so Nicholas observed in the same glance at themirror which had enabled him to see his face—was standing withhis back to the fire conversing with a younger man, who stoodwith his back to the company, wore his hat, and was adjusting hisshirt-collar by the aid of the glass. They spoke in whispers, nowand then bursting into a loud laugh, but Nicholas could catch norepetition of the words, nor anything sounding at all like thewords, which had attracted his attention.
　　At length the two resumed their seats, and more wine beingordered, the party grew louder in their mirth. Still there was noreference made to anybody with whom he was acquainted, andNicholas became persuaded that his excited fancy had eitherimagined the sounds altogether, or converted some other wordsinto 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 thesentence. He swallowed a glassful and took up the paper again. Atthat 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 glasseswere set down empty.
　　Keenly alive to the tone and manner of this slight and carelessmention of his sister’s name in a public place, Nicholas fired atonce; but he kept himself quiet by a great effort, and did not eventurn his head.
　　‘The jade!’ said the same voice which had spoken before. ‘She’sa true Nickleby—a worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph—shehangs back to be more sought after—so does he; nothing to be gotout of Ralph unless you follow him up, and then the money comesdoubly welcome, and the bargain doubly hard, for you’reimpatient and he isn’t. Oh! infernal cunning.’
　　‘Infernal cunning,’ echoed two voices.
　　Nicholas was in a perfect agony as the two elderly gentlemenopposite, rose one after the other and went away, lest they shouldbe the means of his losing one word of what was said. But theconversation was suspended as they withdrew, and resumed witheven greater freedom when they had left the room.
　　‘I am afraid,’ said the younger gentleman, ‘that the old womanhas grown jea-a-lous, and locked her up. Upon my soul it looks likeit.’
　　‘If they quarrel and little Nickleby goes home to her mother, somuch the better,’ said the first. ‘I can do anything with the oldlady. She’ll believe anything I tell her.’
　　‘Egad that’s true,’ returned the other voice. ‘Ha, ha, ha! Poordeyvle!’
　　The laugh was taken up by the two voices which always came intogether, and became general at Mrs Nickleby’s expense. Nicholas turned burning hot with rage, but he commanded himself for themoment, and waited to hear more.
　　What he heard need not be repeated here. Suffice it that as thewine went round he heard enough to acquaint him with thecharacters and designs of those whose conversation he overhead;to possess him with the full extent of Ralph’s villainy, and the realreason of his own presence being required in London. He heardall this and more. He heard his sister’s sufferings derided, and hervirtuous conduct jeered at and brutally misconstrued; he heardher name bandied from mouth to mouth, and herself made thesubject of coarse and insolent wagers, free speech, and licentiousjesting.
　　The man who had spoken first, led the conversation, andindeed almost engrossed it, being only stimulated from time totime by some slight observation from one or other of hiscompanions. To him then Nicholas addressed himself when hewas sufficiently composed to stand before the party, and force thewords 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 indisdainful surprise.
　　‘I said with you,’ replied Nicholas, speaking with greatdifficulty, 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 hisfriends.
　　‘Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do yourefuse?’ 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 withsome confusion, appeared in the face of Sir Mulberry as he readthe name; but he subdued it in an instant, and tossing the card toLord Verisopht, who sat opposite, drew a toothpick from a glassbefore him, and very leisurely applied it to his mouth.
　　‘Your name and address?’ said Nicholas, turning paler as hispassion kindled.
　　‘I shall give you neither,’ replied Sir Mulberry.
　　‘If there is a gentleman in this party,’ said Nicholas, lookinground and scarcely able to make his white lips form the words, ‘hewill 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 ofconversation here,’ said Nicholas. ‘I denounce this person as a liar,and impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend here, he will savehim the disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name—andutterly useless one—for I will find it out, nor leave him until Ihave.’
　　Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressinghis companions, said—‘Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of hisstation; and his pretty sister shall save him a broken head, if hetalks till midnight.’
　　‘You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!’ said Nicholas, ‘andshall be proclaimed so to the world. I will know you; I will followyou 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 hischallenger. 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 inan audible voice; pointing out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.
　　Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which hadalways spoken together, echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.
　　‘That gentleman, sir?’ replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knewhis cue, and answered with just as little respect, and just as muchimpertinence as he could safely show: ‘no, sir, I do not, sir.’
　　‘Here, you sir,’ cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; ‘doyou know that person’s name?’
　　‘Name, sir? No, sir.’
　　‘Then you’ll find it there,’ said Sir Mulberry, throwingNicholas’s card towards him; ‘and when you have made yourselfmaster of it, put that piece of pasteboard in the fire—do you hearme?’
　　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 firmdetermination to carry his threat of following Sir Mulberry home,into steady execution.
　　It was evident from the tone in which the younger member ofthe party appeared to remonstrate with his friend, that he objectedto this course of proceeding, and urged him to comply with the request which Nicholas had made. Sir Mulberry, however, whowas not quite sober, and who was in a sullen and dogged state ofobstinacy, soon silenced the representations of his weak youngfriend, and further seemed—as if to save himself from a repetitionof them—to insist on being left alone. However this might havebeen, the young gentleman and the two who had always spokentogether, actually rose to go after a short interval, and presentlyretired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.
　　It will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition ofNicholas, the minutes appeared to move with leaden wingsindeed, and that their progress did not seem the more rapid fromthe monotonous ticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of itslittle bell which told the quarters. But there he sat; and in his oldseat on the opposite side of the room reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk,with his legs upon the cushion, and his handkerchief thrownnegligently over his knees: finishing his magnum of claret with theutmost 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 thelittle bell had only gone four times. Twice or thrice he lookedangrily and impatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in thesame attitude, putting his glass to his lips from time to time, andlooking vacantly at the wall, as if he were wholly ignorant of thepresence of any living person.
　　At length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coollyto the glass, and having surveyed himself therein, turned roundand honoured Nicholas with a long and contemptuous stare.
　　Nicholas stared again with right good-will; Sir Mulberry shruggedhis 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 ofclaret which he had poured out a few minutes before, walkedagain, put on his hat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves,and, at last, walked slowly out. Nicholas, who had been fumingand chafing until he was nearly wild, darted from his seat, andfollowed him: so closely, that before the door had swung upon itshinges after Sir Mulberry’s passing out, they stood side by side inthe street together.
　　There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened theapron, and jumped out to the horse’s head.
　　‘Will you make yourself known to me?’ asked Nicholas in asuppressed voice.
　　‘No,’ replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal withan oath. ‘No.’
　　‘If you trust to your horse’s speed, you will find yourselfmistaken,’ 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 MulberryHawk.
　　‘I am the son of a country gentleman,’ returned Nicholas, ‘yourequal in birth and education, and your superior I trust ineverything 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 SirMulberry, 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 SirMulberry jumped in, and catching at the reins. ‘He has nocommand over the horse, mind. You shall not go—you shall not, Iswear—till you have told me who you are.’
　　The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high-spiritedanimal and thorough-bred, plunged so violently that he couldscarcely hold her.
　　‘Leave go, I tell you!’ thundered his master.
　　The man obeyed. The animal reared and plunged as though itwould 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 wordswere exchanged, and Sir Mulberry shortening his whip, applied itfuriously to the head and shoulders of Nicholas. It was broken inthe struggle; Nicholas gained the heavy handle, and with it laidopen one side of his antagonist’s face from the eye to the lip. Hesaw the gash; knew that the mare had darted off at a wild madgallop; a hundred lights danced in his eyes, and he felt himselfflung 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, andscreaming to those ahead to clear the way. He was conscious of atorrent of people rushing quickly by—looking up, could discernthe cabriolet whirled along the foot-pavement with frightfulrapidity—then heard a loud cry, the smashing of some heavy body,and the breaking of glass—and then the crowd closed in in thedistance, and he could see or hear no more.
　　The general attention had been entirely directed from himselfto the person in the carriage, and he was quite alone. Rightlyjudging that under such circumstances it would be madness tofollow, he turned down a bye-street in search of the nearest coach-stand, finding after a minute or two that he was reeling like adrunken man, and aware for the first time of a stream of bloodthat was trickling down his face and breast.
Chapter 33
In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a veryexpeditious Process, from all Commerce with hisRelations.
　　S mike and Newman Noggs, who in his impatience hadreturned home long before the time agreed upon, satbefore the fire, listening anxiously to every footstep on thestairs, and the slightest sound that stirred within the house, for theapproach of Nicholas. Time had worn on, and it was growing late.
　　He had promised to be back in an hour; and his prolongedabsence began to excite considerable alarm in the minds of both,as was abundantly testified by the blank looks they cast upon eachother at every new disappointment.
　　At length a coach was heard to stop, and Newman ran out tolight Nicholas up the stairs. Beholding him in the trim describedat the conclusion of the last chapter, he stood aghast in wonderand consternation.
　　‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Nicholas, hurrying him back into theroom. ‘There is no harm done, beyond what a basin of water canrepair.’
　　‘No harm!’ cried Newman, passing his hands hastily over theback and arms of Nicholas, as if to assure himself that he hadbroken no bones. ‘What have you been doing?’
　　‘I know all,’ interrupted Nicholas; ‘I have heard a part, andguessed the rest. But before I remove one jot of these stains, Imust hear the whole from you. You see I am collected. My resolution is taken. Now, my good friend, speak out; for the timefor any palliation or concealment is past, and nothing will availRalph Nickleby now.’
　　‘Your dress is torn in several places; you walk lame, and I amsure you are suffering pain,’ said Newman. ‘Let me see to yourhurts first.’
　　‘I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little soreness and stiffnessthat will soon pass off,’ said Nicholas, seating himself with somedifficulty. ‘But if I had fractured every limb, and still preserved mysenses, you should not bandage one till you had told me what Ihave the right to know. Come,’ said Nicholas, giving his hand toNoggs. ‘You had a sister of your own, you told me once, who diedbefore 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, asit corroborated the particulars he had already gleaned; but hefixed his eyes upon the fire, and did not look round once.
　　His recital ended, Newman insisted upon his young friend’sstripping off his coat and allowing whatever injuries he hadreceived to be properly tended. Nicholas, after some opposition, atlength consented, and, while some pretty severe bruises on hisarms and shoulders were being rubbed with oil and vinegar, andvarious other efficacious remedies which Newman borrowed fromthe different lodgers, related in what manner they had beenreceived. The recital made a strong impression on the warmimagination of Newman; for when Nicholas came to the violentpart of the quarrel, he rubbed so hard, as to occasion him the mostexquisite pain, which he would not have exhibited, however, for the world, it being perfectly clear that, for the moment, Newmanwas operating on Sir Mulberry Hawk, and had quite lost sight ofhis real patient.
　　This martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with Newman thatwhile he was otherwise occupied next morning, arrangementsshould be made for his mother’s immediately quitting her presentresidence, and also for dispatching Miss La Creevy to break theintelligence to her. He then wrapped himself in Smike’s greatcoat,and repaired to the inn where they were to pass the night, andwhere (after writing a few lines to Ralph, the delivery of which wasto be intrusted to Newman next day), he endeavoured to obtainthe repose of which he stood so much in need.
　　Drunken men, they say, may roll down precipices, and be quiteunconscious of any serious personal inconvenience when theirreason returns. The remark may possibly apply to injuriesreceived in other kinds of violent excitement: certain it is, thatalthough Nicholas experienced some pain on first awakening nextmorning, he sprung out of bed as the clock struck seven, with verylittle difficulty, and was soon as much on the alert as if nothinghad occurred.
　　Merely looking into Smike’s room, and telling him thatNewman Noggs would call for him very shortly, Nicholasdescended into the street, and calling a hackney coach, bade theman drive to Mrs Wititterly’s, according to the direction whichNewman 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 earlyhour, 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 hairand a very warm and glossy face, as of a page who had just got outof bed.
　　By this young gentleman he was informed that Miss Nicklebywas then taking her morning’s walk in the gardens before thehouse. On the question being propounded whether he could goand find her, the page desponded and thought not; but beingstimulated with a shilling, the page grew sanguine and thought hecould.
　　‘Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in greathaste to see her,’ said Nicholas.
　　The plated buttons disappeared with an alacrity most unusualto them, and Nicholas paced the room in a state of feverishagitation which made the delay even of a minute insupportable.
　　He soon heard a light footstep which he well knew, and before hecould advance to meet her, Kate had fallen on his neck and burstinto tears.
　　‘My darling girl,’ said Nicholas as he embraced her. ‘How paleyou are!’
　　‘I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,’ sobbed poor Kate;‘so very, very miserable. Do not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or Ishall 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 hisheart. ‘Tell me that I acted for the best. Tell me that we partedbecause I feared to bring misfortune on your head; that it was atrial to me no less than to yourself, and that if I did wrong it was inignorance 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 waythus?’
　　‘It is such bitter reproach to me to know what you haveundergone,’ returned her brother; ‘to see you so much altered, andyet so kind and patient—God!’ cried Nicholas, clenching his fistand suddenly changing his tone and manner, ‘it sets my wholeblood on fire again. You must leave here with me directly; youshould not have slept here last night, but that I knew all this toolate. To whom can I speak, before we drive away?’
　　This question was most opportunely put, for at that instant MrWititterly walked in, and to him Kate introduced her brother, whoat once announced his purpose, and the impossibility of deferringit.
　　‘The quarter’s notice,’ said Mr Wititterly, with the gravity of aman on the right side, ‘is not yet half expired. Therefore—’
　　‘Therefore,’ interposed Nicholas, ‘the quarter’s salary must belost, sir. You will excuse this extreme haste, but circumstancesrequire that I should immediately remove my sister, and I havenot a moment’s time to lose. Whatever she brought here I will sendfor, if you will allow me, in the course of the day.’
　　Mr Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposition to Kate’simmediate departure; with which, indeed, he was rather gratifiedthan 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 MrWititterly, ‘I will’—here he was interrupted by a violent fit ofcoughing—‘I will—owe it to Miss Nickleby.’
　　Mr Wititterly, it should be observed, was accustomed to owesmall 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 hurriedapology for so sudden a departure, he hurried Kate into thevehicle, and bade the man drive with all speed into the city.
　　To the city they went accordingly, with all the speed thehackney coach could make; and as the horses happened to live atWhitechapel and to be in the habit of taking their breakfast there,when they breakfasted at all, they performed the journey withgreater expedition than could reasonably have been expected.
　　Nicholas sent Kate upstairs a few minutes before him, that hisunlooked-for appearance might not alarm his mother, and whenthe way had been paved, presented himself with much duty andaffection. Newman had not been idle, for there was a little cart atthe door, and the effects were hurrying out already.
　　Now, Mrs Nickleby was not the sort of person to be toldanything in a hurry, or rather to comprehend anything of peculiardelicacy or importance on a short notice. Wherefore, although thegood lady had been subjected to a full hour’s preparation by littleMiss La Creevy, and was now addressed in most lucid terms bothby Nicholas and his sister, she was in a state of singularbewilderment and confusion, and could by no means be made tocomprehend the necessity of such hurried proceedings.
　　‘Why don’t you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he canpossibly mean by it?’ said Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘My dear mother,’ returned Nicholas, ‘the time for talking hasgone by. There is but one step to take, and that is to cast him offwith the scorn and indignation he deserves. Your own honour andgood name demand that, after the discovery of his vileproceedings, 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, amonster; and the walls are very bare, and want painting too, and Ihave had this ceiling whitewashed at the expense of eighteen-pence, which is a very distressing thing, considering that it is somuch gone into your uncle’s pocket. I never could have believedit—never.’
　　‘Nor I, nor anybody else,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Lord bless my life!’ exclaimed Mrs Nickleby. ‘To think that thatSir Mulberry Hawk should be such an abandoned wretch as MissLa Creevy says he is, Nicholas, my dear; when I wascongratulating myself every day on his being an admirer of ourdear Kate’s, and thinking what a thing it would be for the family ifhe was to become connected with us, and use his interest to getyou some profitable government place. There are very good placesto be got about the court, I know; for a friend of ours (MissCropley, at Exeter, my dear Kate, you recollect), he had one, and Iknow 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 itshould come to this after all—oh, dear, dear, it’s enough to kill one,that it is!’ With which expressions of sorrow, Mrs Nickleby gavefresh vent to her grief, and wept piteously.
　　As Nicholas and his sister were by this time compelled tosuperintend the removal of the few articles of furniture, Miss LaCreevy devoted herself to the consolation of the matron, andobserved with great kindness of manner that she must really makean effort, and cheer up.
　　‘Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,’ returned Mrs Nickleby, with apetulance not unnatural in her unhappy circumstances, ‘it’s very easy to say cheer up, but if you had as many occasions to cheer upas I have had—and there,’ said Mrs Nickleby, stopping short.
　　‘Think of Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck, two of the most perfectgentlemen that ever lived, what am I too say to them—what can Isay to them? Why, if I was to say to them, “I’m told your friend SirMulberry 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 untilMonday, at all events, we will return to our old quarters.’
　　‘—Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into thebargain,’ added Miss La Creevy. ‘Now, let me go with youdownstairs.’
　　But Mrs Nickleby was not to be so easily moved, for first sheinsisted on going upstairs to see that nothing had been left, andthen on going downstairs to see that everything had been takenaway; and when she was getting into the coach she had a vision ofa forgotten coffee-pot on the back-kitchen hob, and after she wasshut in, a dismal recollection of a green umbrella behind someunknown door. At last Nicholas, in a condition of absolute despair,ordered the coachman to drive away, and in the unexpected jerkof a sudden starting, Mrs Nickleby lost a shilling among the straw,which fortunately confined her attention to the coach until it wastoo late to remember anything else.
　　Having seen everything safely out, discharged the servant, andlocked the door, Nicholas jumped into a cabriolet and drove to abye place near Golden Square where he had appointed to meetNoggs; and so quickly had everything been done, that it wasbarely 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. Illnews travels fast, and they will know it soon enough. Have youheard 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 arefevered and ill.’
　　Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing theindisposition he really felt, now that the excitement which hadsustained him was over, took a hurried farewell of NewmanNoggs, and left him.
　　Newman was not three minutes’ walk from Golden Square, butin the course of that three minutes he took the letter out of his hatand put it in again twenty times at least. First the front, then theback, then the sides, then the superscription, then the seal, wereobjects of Newman’s admiration. Then he held it at arm’s lengthas if to take in the whole at one delicious survey, and then herubbed his hands in a perfect ecstasy with his commission.
　　He reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laidthe letter and key upon the desk, and waited impatiently untilRalph Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes, the well-known creaking of his boots was heard on the stairs, and then thebell 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 asfollows:—‘You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I couldheap upon your head which would carry with them onethousandth part of the grovelling shame that this assurance willawaken even in your breast.
　　‘Your brother’s widow and her orphan child spurn the shelterof your roof, and shun you with disgust and loathing. Your kindredrenounce you, for they know no shame but the ties of blood whichbind them in name with you.
　　‘You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May everyrecollection of your life cling to your false heart, and cast theirdarkness on your death-bed.’
　　Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fellinto a fit of musing; the paper fluttered from his hand and droppedupon the floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he held it still.
　　Suddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it allcrumpled into his pocket, turned furiously to Newman Noggs, asthough to ask him why he lingered. But Newman stood unmoved,with his back towards him, following up, with the worn andblackened stump of an old pen, some figures in an Interest-tablewhich was pasted against the wall, and apparently quiteabstracted from every other object.
Chapter 34
Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Personswith whom the Reader has been already madeacquainted.
　　‘W hat a demnition long time you have kept me ringingat this confounded old cracked tea-kettle of a bell,every tinkle of which is enough to throw a strongman into blue convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh demmit,’—said Mr Mantalini to Newman Noggs, scraping his boots, as hespoke, 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 MrMantalini, ‘as deaf as a demnition post.’
　　Mr Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and wasmaking his way to the door of Ralph’s office with very littleceremony, when Newman interposed his body; and hinting thatMr Nickleby was unwilling to be disturbed, inquired whether theclient’s business was of a pressing nature.
　　‘It is most demnebly particular,’ said Mr Mantalini. ‘It is to meltsome scraps of dirty paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling,demd mint sauce.’
　　Newman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr Mantalini’sproffered card, limped with it into his master’s office. As he thrusthis head in at the door, he saw that Ralph had resumed thethoughtful posture into which he had fallen after perusing hisnephew’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 butmomentary, for Ralph, being disturbed, turned to demand thecause of the interruption.
　　As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into theroom, 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 MrMantalini, seating himself unbidden, and arranging his hair andwhiskers. ‘You look quite juvenile and jolly, demmit!’
　　‘We are alone,’ returned Ralph, tartly. ‘What do you want withme?’
　　‘Good!’ cried Mr Mantalini, displaying his teeth. ‘What did Iwant! 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, andshaking 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 Iwould rather not; but as you are a friend—how many bills haveyou 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 manypeople—for five-and-twenty pounds,’ said Ralph, deliberately.
　　 ‘Oh demmit!’ cried Mr Mantalini, whose face lengthenedconsiderably at this handsome proposal.
　　‘Why, that leaves you fifty,’ retorted Ralph. ‘What would youhave? Let me see the names.’
　　‘You are so demd hard, Nickleby,’ remonstrated Mr Mantalini.
　　‘Let me see the names,’ replied Ralph, impatiently extendinghis hand for the bills. ‘Well! They are not sure, but they are safeenough. Do you consent to the terms, and will you take themoney? 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 themoney—down, mind; no delay, no going into the city andpretending to negotiate with some other party who has noexistence, and never had. Is it a bargain, or is it not?’
　　Ralph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, andcarelessly rattled his cash-box, as though by mere accident. Thesound was too much for Mr Mantalini. He closed the bargaindirectly it reached his ears, and Ralph told the money out uponthe table.
　　He had scarcely done so, and Mr Mantalini had not yetgathered it all up, when a ring was heard at the bell, andimmediately afterwards Newman ushered in no less a person thanMadame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr Mantalini evincedconsiderable discomposure, and swept the cash into his pocketwith remarkable alacrity.
　　‘Oh, you are here,’ said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.
　　‘Yes, my life and soul, I am,’ replied her husband, dropping onhis knees, and pouncing with kitten-like playfulness upon a straysovereign. ‘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 muchindignation.
　　‘Ashamed—of me, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charmingsweetness, but naughty fibs,’ returned Mr Mantalini. ‘It knows it isnot ashamed of its own popolorum tibby.’
　　Whatever were the circumstances which had led to such aresult, it certainly appeared as though the popolorum tibby hadrather miscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady’saffection. 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 grossmisconduct 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 notsubmit to be ruined by the extravagance and profligacy of anyman. I call Mr Nickleby to witness the course I intend to pursuewith 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, ‘tohear me give him notice of what it is my fixed intention to do—myfixed intention, sir,’ repeated Madame Mantalini, darting an angrylook at her husband.
　　‘Will she call me “Sir”?’ cried Mantalini. ‘Me who dote upon herwith the demdest ardour! She, who coils her fascinations roundme like a pure angelic rattlesnake! It will be all up with myfeelings; 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 MrMantalini, Madame Mantalini still said no, and said it too withsuch determined and resolute ill-temper, that Mr Mantalini wasclearly taken aback.
　　‘His extravagance, Mr Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini,addressing herself to Ralph, who leant against his easy-chair withhis hands behind him, and regarded the amiable couple with asmile of the supremest and most unmitigated contempt,—‘hisextravagance is beyond all bounds.’
　　‘I should scarcely have supposed it,’ answered Ralph,sarcastically.
　　‘I assure you, Mr Nickleby, however, that it is,’ returnedMadame Mantalini. ‘It makes me miserable! I am under constantapprehensions, and in constant difficulty. And even this,’ saidMadame Mantalini, wiping her eyes, ‘is not the worst. He tooksome papers of value out of my desk this morning without askingmy permission.’
　　Mr Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trouserspocket.
　　‘I am obliged,’ continued Madame Mantalini, ‘since our latemisfortunes, to pay Miss Knag a great deal of money for havingher name in the business, and I really cannot afford to encouragehim in all his wastefulness. As I have no doubt that he camestraight here, Mr Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of,into money, and as you have assisted us very often before, and arevery much connected with us in this kind of matters, I wish you to know the determination at which his conduct has compelled me toarrive.’
　　Mr Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife’s bonnet,and fitting a sovereign into one of his eyes, winked with the otherat Ralph. Having achieved this performance with great dexterity,he whipped the coin into his pocket, and groaned again withincreased penitence.
　　‘I have made up my mind,’ said Madame Mantalini, as tokens ofimpatience manifested themselves in Ralph’s countenance, ‘toallowance him.’
　　‘To do that, my joy?’ inquired Mr Mantalini, who did not seemto have caught the words.
　　‘To put him,’ said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, andprudently abstaining from the slightest glance at her husband, lesthis many graces should induce her to falter in her resolution, ‘toput him upon a fixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundredand twenty pounds a year for his clothes and pocket-money, hemay consider himself a very fortunate man.’
　　Mr Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amountof the proposed stipend, but when it reached his ears, he cast hishat 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 hischair, and as suddenly skipping into it again, to the greatdiscomposure of his lady’s nerves. ‘But no. It is a demd horriddream. It is not reality. No!’
　　Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr Mantalini closed hiseyes 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 thesound of Ralph’s voice, ‘it is a horrid reality. She is sitting therebefore me. There is the graceful outline of her form; it cannot bemistaken—there is nothing like it. The two countesses had nooutlines at all, and the dowager’s was a demd outline. Why is sheso excruciatingly beautiful that I cannot be angry with her, evennow?’
　　‘You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,’ returned MadameMantalini—still reproachfully, but in a softened tone.
　　‘I am a demd villain!’ cried Mr Mantalini, smiting himself on thehead. ‘I will fill my pockets with change for a sovereign inhalfpence and drown myself in the Thames; but I will not be angrywith her, even then, for I will put a note in the twopenny-post as Igo along, to tell her where the body is. She will be a lovely widow. Ishall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she will laughdemnebly.’
　　‘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 ademd, damp, moist, unpleasant body!’ exclaimed Mr Mantalini.
　　‘You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk ofsuch a thing,’ replied Madame Mantalini.
　　‘Can I live to be mistrusted?’ cried her husband. ‘Have I cut myheart into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and giventhem all away, one after another, to the same little engrossingdemnition 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; ‘Ishall require no demd allowance. I will be a body.’
　　On this repetition of Mr Mantalini’s fatal threat, MadameMantalini wrung her hands, and implored the interference ofRalph Nickleby; and after a great quantity of tears and talking,and several attempts on the part of Mr Mantalini to reach thedoor, preparatory to straightway committing violence uponhimself, that gentleman was prevailed upon, with difficulty, topromise that he wouldn’t be a body. This great point attained,Madame Mantalini argued the question of the allowance, and MrMantalini did the same, taking occasion to show that he could livewith uncommon satisfaction upon bread and water, and go clad inrags, but that he could not support existence with the additionalburden of being mistrusted by the object of his most devoted anddisinterested affection. This brought fresh tears into MadameMantalini’s eyes, which having just begun to open to some few ofthe demerits of Mr Mantalini, were only open a very little way, andcould be easily closed again. The result was, that without quitegiving up the allowance question, Madame Mantalini, postponedits further consideration; and Ralph saw, clearly enough, that MrMantalini had gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and that, forsome time longer at all events, his degradation and downfall werepostponed.
　　‘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 awhiskered face like that of yonder baboon, perhaps lasts thelongest, as it originates in the greater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime the fools bring grist to my mill, so let them liveout their day, and the longer it is, the better.’
　　These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, assundry 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,’ saidMadame Mantalini, ‘we will take our leaves. I am sure we havedetained him much too long already.’
　　Mr Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tappingMadame Mantalini several times on the nose, and then, byremarking 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 friendSir Mulberry. Such a demd extraordinary out-of-the-way kind ofthing 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 lastnight, and severely injured, and that his life is in some danger,’
　　answered Ralph with great composure; ‘but I see nothingextraordinary in that—accidents are not miraculous events, whenmen live hard, and drive after dinner.’
　　‘Whew!’ cried Mr Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. ‘Then don’tyou 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 tounderstand 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 ofNewman Noggs, which had several times appeared behind acouple of panes of glass in the room door; it being a part ofNewman’s duty, when unimportant people called, to make variousfeints of supposing that the bell had rung for him to show themout: 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 thebutton, ‘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 lividwhite.
　　‘Demmit, Nickleby, you’re as great a tiger as he is,’ saidMantalini, alarmed at these demonstrations.
　　‘Go on,’ cried Ralph. ‘Tell me what you mean. What is thisstory? 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 tofrighten the life and soul out of her little delicious wits—flying allat 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 amanner,’ said Mr Mantalini, picking up his cane.
　　Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom MrMantalini 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 herode upon the horse’s back or hooked himself on to the horse’stail; smashed his countenance, which is a demd fine countenancein its natural state; frightened the horse, pitched out Sir Mulberryand himself, and—’
　　‘And was killed?’ interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. ‘Washe? 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, orput his shoulder out, or fractured his collar-bone, or ground a ribor two? His neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painfuland slow-healing injury for his trouble? Did he? You must haveheard that, at least.’
　　‘No,’ rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. ‘Unless he wasdashed 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 ofquarrel?’
　　‘You are the demdest, knowing hand,’ replied Mr Mantalini, inan admiring tone, ‘the cunningest, rummest, superlativest oldfox—oh dem!—to pretend now not to know that it was the littlebright-eyed niece—the softest, sweetest, prettiest—’
　　‘Alfred!’ interposed Madame Mantalini.
　　‘She is always right,’ rejoined Mr Mantalini soothingly, ‘andwhen she says it is time to go, it is time, and go she shall; and whenshe walks along the streets with her own tulip, the women shall say, with envy, she has got a demd fine husband; and the menshall say with rapture, he has got a demd fine wife; and they shallboth be right and neither wrong, upon my life and soul—ohdemmit!’
　　With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and tothe purpose, Mr Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to RalphNickleby, and drawing his lady’s arm through his, led hermincingly away.
　　‘So, so,’ muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; ‘this devil isloose 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 surelycome.’
　　‘Are you at home?’ asked Newman, suddenly popping in hishead.
　　‘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, andmay have heard your voice—that’s all,’ said Newman, rubbing hishands.
　　‘Who has?’ demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence hehad just heard, and his clerk’s provoking coolness, to an intensepitch of irritation.
　　The necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked-forentrance of a third party—the individual in question—who,bringing his one eye (for he had but one) to bear on RalphNickleby, made a great many shambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with his hands on his knees, and his shortblack trousers drawn up so high in the legs by the exertion ofseating himself, that they scarcely reached below the tops of hisWellington boots.’
　　‘Why, this IS a surprise!’ said Ralph, bending his gaze upon thevisitor, and half smiling as he scrutinised him attentively; ‘I shouldknow 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 thatlittle boy off the tall stool in the back-office, and tell him to come inhere, will you, my man?’ said Squeers, addressing himself toNewman. ‘Oh, he’s lifted his-self off. My son, sir, little Wackford.
　　What do you think of him, sir, for a specimen of the DotheboysHall feeding? Ain’t he fit to bust out of his clothes, and start theseams, and make the very buttons fly off with his fatness? Here’sflesh!’ cried Squeers, turning the boy about, and indenting theplumpest parts of his figure with divers pokes and punches, to thegreat discomposure of his son and heir. ‘Here’s firmness, here’ssolidness! Why you can hardly get up enough of him between yourfinger and thumb to pinch him anywheres.’
　　In however good condition Master Squeers might have been, hecertainly did not present this remarkable compactness of person,for on his father’s closing his finger and thumb in illustration of hisremark, he uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the mostnatural manner possible.
　　‘Well,’ remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, ‘I had him there;but that’s because we breakfasted early this morning, and hehasn’t had his lunch yet. Why you couldn’t shut a bit of him in adoor, when he’s had his dinner. Look at them tears, sir,’ said Squeers, with a triumphant air, as Master Wackford wiped hiseyes with the cuff of his jacket, ‘there’s oiliness!’
　　‘He looks well, indeed,’ returned Ralph, who, for some purposesof his own, seemed desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. ‘Buthow is Mrs Squeers, and how are you?’
　　‘Mrs Squeers, sir,’ replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, ‘is asshe always is—a mother to them lads, and a blessing, and acomfort, 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 himwith a pen-knife! Oh Lor!’ said Squeers, heaving a sigh, andnodding his head a great many times, ‘what a member of societythat woman is!’
　　Mr Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarterof a minute, as if this allusion to his lady’s excellences hadnaturally led his mind to the peaceful village of Dotheboys nearGreta Bridge in Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waitingfor him to say something.
　　‘Have you quite recovered that scoundrel’s attack?’ askedRalph.
　　‘I’ve only just done it, if I’ve done it now,’ replied Squeers. ‘Iwas one blessed bruise, sir,’ said Squeers, touching first the rootsof his hair, and then the toes of his boots, ‘from here to there.
　　Vinegar and brown paper, vinegar and brown paper, frommorning to night. I suppose there was a matter of half a ream ofbrown paper stuck upon me, from first to last. As I laid all of aheap in our kitchen, plastered all over, you might have thought Iwas 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 sentimentalmanner.
　　‘Gl—’
　　‘Eh?’ cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
　　‘Sorry,’ rejoined his son.
　　‘Oh!’ said Squeers, catching him a smart box on the ear. ‘Thentake your hands out of your pockets, and don’t stammer whenyou’re asked a question. Hold your noise, sir, in a gentleman’soffice, or I’ll run away from my family and never come back anymore; and then what would become of all them precious andforlorn lads as would be let loose on the world, without their bestfriend at their elbers?’
　　‘Were you obliged to have medical attendance?’ inquiredRalph.
　　‘Ay, was I,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘and a precious bill the medicalattendant brought in too; but I paid it though.’
　　Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might beexpressive of either sympathy or astonishment—just as thebeholder was pleased to take it.
　　‘Yes, I paid it, every farthing,’ replied Squeers, who seemed toknow the man he had to deal with, too well to suppose that anyblinking of the question would induce him to subscribe towardsthe 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 onlyone 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 surepay) that had never had the scarlet fever, and we sent one to acottage where they’d got it, and he took it, and then we put thefour others to sleep with him, and they took it, and then the doctorcame and attended ’em once all round, and we divided my totalamong ’em, and added it on to their little bills, and the parentspaid it. Ha! ha! ha!’
　　‘And a good plan too,’ said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmasterstealthily.
　　‘I believe you,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We always do it. Why, whenMrs Squeers was brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ranthe hooping-cough through half-a-dozen boys, and charged herexpenses among ’em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!’
　　Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced thenearest approach to it that he could, and waiting until Mr Squeershad enjoyed the professional joke to his heart’s content, inquiredwhat had brought him to town.
　　‘Some bothering law business,’ replied Squeers, scratching hishead, ‘connected with an action, for what they call neglect of aboy. 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 impressionthat as Ralph failed to comprehend him, he must be deaf. ‘When aboy gets weak and ill and don’t relish his meals, we give him achange 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, aturnip field and a piece of carrots alternately, and let him eat asmany as he likes. There an’t better land in the country than thisperwerse lad grazed on, and yet he goes and catches cold andindigestion and what not, and then his friends brings a lawsuitagainst me! Now, you’d hardly suppose,’ added Squeers, moving inhis chair with the impatience of an ill-used man, ‘that people’singratitude 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,’ repliedSqueers. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a man going, as possesses thefondness for youth that I do. There’s youth to the amount of eighthundred pound a year at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I’dtake sixteen hundred pound worth if I could get ’em, and be asfond of every individual twenty pound among ’em as nothingshould equal it!’
　　‘Are you stopping at your old quarters?’ asked Ralph.
　　‘Yes, we are at the Saracen,’ replied Squeers, ‘and as it don’twant very long to the end of the half-year, we shall continney tostop there till I’ve collected the money, and some new boys too, Ihope. I’ve brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show toparents and guardians. I shall put him in the advertisement, thistime. Look at that boy—himself a pupil. Why he’s a miracle of highfeeding, that boy is!’
　　‘I should like to have a word with you,’ said Ralph, who hadboth spoken and listened mechanically for some time, and seemedto 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 thingas twopence, Mr Nickleby, have you?’ said Squeers, rattling abunch of keys in his coat pocket, and muttering something aboutits being all silver.
　　‘I—think I have,’ said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, aftermuch rummaging in an old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and twofarthings.
　　‘Thankee,’ said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. ‘Here! Yougo and buy a tart—Mr Nickleby’s man will show you where—andmind you buy a rich one. Pastry,’ added Squeers, closing the dooron Master Wackford, ‘makes his flesh shine a good deal, andparents thinks that a healthy sign.’
　　With this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke itout, Mr Squeers moved his chair so as to bring himself opposite toRalph Nickleby at no great distance off; and having planted it tohis 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 toforgive or forget, very readily, the violence that was committedupon you, or the exposure which accompanied it?’
　　‘Devil a bit,’ replied Squeers, tartly.
　　‘Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if youcould get one?’ said Ralph.
　　‘Show me one, and try,’ rejoined Squeers.
　　‘Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?’ saidRalph, raising his eyes to the schoolmaster’s face.
　　‘N-n-no, I don’t know that,’ replied Squeers. ‘I thought that if itwas 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 incontemplation, 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 youngfor 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 thesuggestion, ‘he might have been nigh twenty. He wouldn’t seem soold, though, to them as didn’t know him, for he was a little wantinghere,’ touching his forehead; ‘nobody at home, you know, if youknocked 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 ofmoney as you call it,’ said Ralph, ‘you told me his friends haddeserted him long ago, and that you had not the faintest clue ortrace to tell you who he was. Is that the truth?’
　　‘It is, worse luck!’ replied Squeers, becoming more and moreeasy and familiar in his manner, as Ralph pursued his inquirieswith the less reserve. ‘It’s fourteen years ago, by the entry in mybook, since a strange man brought him to my place, one autumnnight, and left him there; paying five pound five, for his firstquarter in advance. He might have been five or six year old at thattime—not more.’
　　 ‘What more do you know about him?’ demanded Ralph.
　　‘Devilish little, I’m sorry to say,’ replied Squeers. ‘The moneywas paid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He hadgiven an address in London, had this chap; but when it came tothe point, of course nobody knowed anything about him. So I keptthe lad out of—out of—’
　　‘Charity?’ suggested Ralph drily.
　　‘Charity, to be sure,’ returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, ‘andwhen he begins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this youngscoundrel of a Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the mostvexatious and aggeravating part of the whole affair is,’ saidSqueers, dropping his voice, and drawing his chair still closer toRalph, ‘that some questions have been asked about him at last—not of me, but, in a roundabout kind of way, of people in ourvillage. So, that just when I might have had all arrears paid up,perhaps, and perhaps—who knows? such things have happened inour business before—a present besides for putting him out to afarmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up todisgrace his parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as manyof our boys are—damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don’t collarhim in open day, and commit as good as highway robbery uponmy pocket.’
　　‘We will both cry quits with him before long,’ said Ralph, layinghis hand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.
　　‘Quits!’ echoed Squeers. ‘Ah! and I should like to leave a smallbalance in his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish MrsSqueers could catch hold of him. Bless her heart! She’d murderhim, 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 himhard 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 lifthim off the stool will you?’
　　Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr Squeers betookhimself to the little back-office, and fitted on his child’s hat withparental anxiety, while Newman, with his pen behind his ear, sat,stiff and immovable, on his stool, regarding the father and son byturns with a broad stare.
　　‘He’s a fine boy, an’t he?’ said Squeers, throwing his head alittle on one side, and falling back to the desk, the better toestimate the proportions of little Wackford.
　　‘Very,’ said Newman.
　　‘Pretty well swelled out, an’t he?’ pursued Squeers. ‘He has thefatness of twenty boys, he has.’
　　‘Ah!’ replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that ofSqueers, ‘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, Newmandropped upon his desk and began to write with most marvellousrapidity.
　　‘Why, what does the man mean?’ cried Squeers, colouring. ‘Ishe drunk?’
　　Newman made no reply.
　　‘Is he mad?’ said Squeers.
　　But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presencesave his own; so, Mr Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk and mad; and, with this parting observation, heled his hopeful son away.
　　In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of astruggling and lingering regard for Kate, had his detestation ofNicholas augmented. It might be, that to atone for the weakness ofinclining to any one person, he held it necessary to hate someother more intensely than before; but such had been the course ofhis feelings. And now, to be defied and spurned, to be held up toher in the worst and most repulsive colours, to know that she wastaught to hate and despise him: to feel that there was infection inhis touch, and taint in his companionship—to know all this, and toknow that the mover of it all was that same boyish poor relationwho had twitted him in their very first interview, and openlybearded and braved him since, wrought his quiet and stealthymalignity to such a pitch, that there was scarcely anything hewould not have hazarded to gratify it, if he could have seen hisway to some immediate retaliation.
　　But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; andalthough he cast about all that day, and kept a corner of his brainworking on the one anxious subject through all the round ofschemes and business that came with it, night found him at last,still harping on the same theme, and still pursuing the sameunprofitable reflections.
　　‘When my brother was such as he,’ said Ralph, ‘the firstcomparisons were drawn between us—always in my disfavour. HEwas open, liberal, gallant, gay; I a crafty hunks of cold andstagnant blood, with no passion but love of saving, and no spiritbeyond a thirst for gain. I recollected it well when I first saw thiswhipster; 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, andfrom countless quarters. As a portion of the world affect to despisethe power of money, I must try and show them what it is.’
　　And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind forslumber, 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 theapartments of the kind-hearted miniature painter, andascertained that Sir Mulberry Hawk was in no danger oflosing his life, Nicholas turned his thoughts to poor Smike, who,after breakfasting with Newman Noggs, had remained, in adisconsolate state, at that worthy creature’s lodgings, waiting, withmuch 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 mustpresent the poor fellow in due form. They will be kind to him forhis own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent Icould wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.’
　　Nicholas said ‘they’, but his misgivings were confined to oneperson. He was sure of Kate, but he knew his mother’speculiarities, and was not quite so certain that Smike would findfavour in the eyes of Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘However,’ thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolenterrand; ‘she cannot fail to become attached to him, when sheknows what a devoted creature he is, and as she must quicklymake 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 soeasily, I promise you. I shall rise to the surface many thousandtimes yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me down, themore quickly I shall rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here isto 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 andnight, for many years. I longed for home till I was weary, andpined 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,’ repliedSmike, pressing his hand; ‘except one, except one. I shall never bean old man; and if your hand placed me in the grave, and I couldthink, before I died, that you would come and look upon itsometimes with one of your kind smiles, and in the summerweather, when everything was alive—not dead like me—I could goto that home almost without a tear.’
　　‘Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one withme?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Because I should change; not those about me. And if theyforgot me, I should never know it,’ replied Smike. ‘In thechurchyard we are all alike, but here there are none like me. I ama poor creature, but I know that.’
　　‘You are a foolish, silly creature,’ said Nicholas cheerfully. ‘Ifthat is what you mean, I grant you that. Why, here’s a dismal facefor ladies’ company!—my pretty sister too, whom you have so often asked me about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? Forshame! for shame!’
　　Smike brightened up and smiled.
　　‘When I talk of home,’ pursued Nicholas, ‘I talk of mine—whichis yours of course. If it were defined by any particular four wallsand a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently puzzled to saywhereabouts it lay; but that is not what I mean. When I speak ofhome, I speak of the place where—in default of a better—those Ilove are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, ora barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.
　　And now, for what is my present home, which, however alarmingyour expectations may be, will neither terrify you by its extent norits magnificence!’
　　So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and sayinga great deal more to the same purpose, and pointing out variousthings to amuse and interest him as they went along, led the wayto Miss La Creevy’s house.
　　‘And this, Kate,’ said Nicholas, entering the room where hissister 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, insuch a sweet voice, how anxious she had been to see him after allher brother had told her, and how much she had to thank him forhaving comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses,that he began to be very doubtful whether he should shed tears ornot, and became still more flurried. However, he managed to say,in a broken voice, that Nicholas was his only friend, and that hewould lay down his life to help him; and Kate, although she was so kind and considerate, seemed to be so wholly unconscious of hisdistress and embarrassment, that he recovered almostimmediately and felt quite at home.
　　Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to bepresented also. And Miss La Creevy was very kind too, andwonderfully talkative: not to Smike, for that would have made himuneasy at first, but to Nicholas and his sister. Then, after a time,she would speak to Smike himself now and then, asking himwhether he was a judge of likenesses, and whether he thought thatpicture in the corner was like herself, and whether he didn’t thinkit would have looked better if she had made herself ten yearsyounger, and whether he didn’t think, as a matter of generalobservation, that young ladies looked better not only in pictures,but out of them too, than old ones; with many more small jokesand facetious remarks, which were delivered with such good-humour and merriment, that Smike thought, within himself, shewas the nicest lady he had ever seen; even nicer than MrsGrudden, of Mr Vincent Crummles’s theatre; and she was a nicelady too, and talked, perhaps more, but certainly louder, than MissLa Creevy.
　　At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning camein; and Nicholas kissing the lady in mourning affectionately, andcalling her his mother, led her towards the chair from whichSmike had risen when she entered the room.
　　‘You are always kind-hearted, and anxious to help theoppressed, my dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘so you will befavourably disposed towards him, I know.’
　　‘I am sure, my dear Nicholas,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, lookingvery hard at her new friend, and bending to him with something more of majesty than the occasion seemed to require: ‘I am sureany friend of yours has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, andmust have, of course, you know, a great claim upon me, and ofcourse, it is a very great pleasure to me to be introduced toanybody you take an interest in. There can he no doubt about that;none at all; not the least in the world,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘At thesame time I must say, Nicholas, my dear, as I used to say to yourpoor dear papa, when he would bring gentlemen home to dinner,and there was nothing in the house, that if he had come the daybefore yesterday—no, I don’t mean the day before yesterday now;I should have said, perhaps, the year before last—we should havebeen better able to entertain him.’
　　With which remarks, Mrs Nickleby turned to her daughter, andinquired, in an audible whisper, whether the gentleman was goingto stop all night.
　　‘Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I don’t seethat it’s possible for him to sleep anywhere, and that’s the truth.’
　　Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show ofannoyance or irritation, breathed a few words into her mother’sear.
　　‘La, Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, shrinking back, ‘howyou do tickle one! Of course, I understand that, my love, withoutyour telling me; and I said the same to Nicholas, and I am verymuch pleased. You didn’t tell me, Nicholas, my dear,’ added MrsNickleby, turning round with an air of less reserve than she hadbefore 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 supporther.
　　‘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 itsstages, and drinking about a tea-spoonful of water from a fulltumbler, and spilling the remainder, Mrs Nickleby was better, andremarked, 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 thesame—precisely. The least excitement, the slightest surprise—shefainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, thatwhen she was a young lady, and before she was married, she wasturning a corner into Oxford Street one day, when she ran againsther own hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear;—the mere suddenness of the encounter made her faint awaydirectly. Wait, though,’ added Mrs Nickleby, pausing to consider.
　　‘Let me be sure I’m right. Was it her hairdresser who had escapedfrom a bear, or was it a bear who had escaped from herhairdresser’s? I declare I can’t remember just now, but thehairdresser was a very handsome man, I know, and quite agentleman in his manners; so that it has nothing to do with thepoint of the story.’
　　Mrs Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of herretrospective moods, improved in temper from that moment, andglided, by an easy change of the conversation occasionally, intovarious other anecdotes, no less remarkable for their strictapplication to the subject in hand.
　　 ‘Mr Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?’ said MrsNickleby, after dinner, and when she had been silent for sometime.
　　‘Certainly, mother,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I see you have notforgotten his melancholy history.’
　　‘O dear no,’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘Ah! melancholy, indeed. Youdon’t happen, Mr Smike, ever to have dined with the Grimbles ofGrimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding, do you?’ said thegood lady, addressing herself to him. ‘A very proud man, SirThomas 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 theunfortunate outcast of a Yorkshire school was likely to receivemany cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry in theneighbourhood?’
　　‘Really, my dear, I don’t know why it should be so veryextraordinary,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘I know that when I was atschool, I always went at least twice every half-year to theHawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer than theGrimbles, and connected with them in marriage; so you see it’s notso very unlikely, after all.’
　　Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, MrsNickleby was suddenly seized with a forgetfulness of Smike’s realname, and an irresistible tendency to call him Mr Slammons;which circumstance she attributed to the remarkable similarity ofthe two names in point of sound both beginning with an S, andmoreover being spelt with an M. But whatever doubt there mightbe on this point, there was none as to his being a most excellentlistener; which circumstance had considerable influence in placing them on the very best terms, and inducing Mrs Nickleby toexpress the highest opinion of his general deportment anddisposition.
　　Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable andagreeable footing, until the Monday morning, when Nicholaswithdrew himself from it for a short time, seriously to reflect uponthe state of his affairs, and to determine, if he could, upon somecourse of life, which would enable him to support those who wereso entirely dependent upon his exertions.
　　Mr Crummles occurred to him more than once; but althoughKate was acquainted with the whole history of his connection withthat gentleman, his mother was not; and he foresaw a thousandfretful objections, on her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon thestage. There were graver reasons, too, against his returning to thatmode of life. Independently of those arising out of its spare andprecarious earnings, and his own internal conviction that he couldnever hope to aspire to any great distinction, even as a provincialactor, how could he carry his sister from town to town, and placeto place, and debar her from any other associates than those withwhom he would be compelled, almost without distinction, tomingle? ‘It won’t do,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head; ‘I must trysomething else.’
　　It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it intoeffect. With no greater experience of the world than he hadacquired for himself in his short trials; with a sufficient share ofheadlong rashness and precipitation (qualities not altogetherunnatural 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 ownprecipitation. He did not laugh himself out of the intention,however, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he approachedthe 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 atemperament.
　　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 verysame placards in the window that he had seen before. There werethe same unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want ofvirtuous servants, and the same virtuous servants in want ofunimpeachable masters and mistresses, and the same magnificentestates for the investment of capital, and the same enormousquantities of capital to be invested in estates, and, in short, thesame opportunities of all sorts for people who wanted to maketheir fortunes. And a most extraordinary proof it was of thenational prosperity, that people had not been found to availthemselves of such advantages long ago.
　　As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentlemanhappened to stop too; and Nicholas, carrying his eye along thewindow-panes from left to right in search of some capital-textplacard which should be applicable to his own case, caught sightof this old gentleman’s figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyesfrom the window, to observe the same more closely.
　　He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad-skirted blue coat, madepretty large, to fit easily, and with no particular waist; his bulkylegs clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and his head protected by a low-crowned broad-brimmed white hat, such as awealthy grazier might wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and hisdimpled 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 andbe none the worse for. But what principally attracted the attentionof 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 hiscoat, and the other playing with his old-fashioned gold watch-chain: his head thrown a little on one side, and his hat a little moreon one side than his head, (but that was evidently accident; not hisordinary way of wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playingabout his mouth, and such a comical expression of mingledslyness, simplicity, kind-heartedness, and good-humour, lightingup his jolly old face, that Nicholas would have been content tohave stood there and looked at him until evening, and to haveforgotten, meanwhile, that there was such a thing as a souredmind or a crabbed countenance to be met with in the whole wideworld.
　　But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was notto be made, for although he seemed quite unconscious of havingbeen the subject of observation, he looked casually at Nicholas;and the latter, fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of thewindow instantly.
　　Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard toplacard, and Nicholas could not forbear raising his eyes to his faceagain. 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 aboutthe corners of his mouth and eyes, that it was not a mereamusement, but a positive pleasure and delight to look at him.
　　This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caughtNicholas in the fact, more than once. At such times, Nicholascoloured and looked embarrassed: for the truth is, that he hadbegun to wonder whether the stranger could, by any possibility, belooking for a clerk or secretary; and thinking this, he felt as if theold gentleman must know it.
　　Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple ofminutes in passing. As the stranger was moving away, Nicholascaught his eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the moment,stammered out an apology. ‘No offence. Oh no offence!’ said theold man.
　　This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was soexactly what it should have been from such a speaker, and therewas such a cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas wasemboldened to speak again.
　　‘A great many opportunities here, sir,’ he said, half smiling ashe motioned towards the window.
　　‘A great many people willing and anxious to be employed haveseriously 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 wasabout to speak, good-naturedly slackened his pace, as if he wereunwilling to cut him short. After a little of that hesitation whichmay be sometimes observed between two people in the street whohave exchanged a nod, and are both uncertain whether they shallturn back and speak, or not, Nicholas found himself at the old man’s side.
　　‘You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were yougoing to say?’
　　‘Merely that I almost hoped—I mean to say, thought—you hadsome 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 situationnow—eh? Did you think I did?’
　　Nicholas shook his head.
　　‘Ha! ha!’ laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands andwrists as if he were washing them. ‘A very natural thought, at allevents, after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought the same ofyou, at first; upon my word I did.’
　　‘If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have beenfar 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 reducedto such a necessity! No no, no no.’
　　Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned uponhis heel.
　　‘Stay,’ said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, wherethey could converse with less interruption. ‘What d’ye mean, eh?’
　　‘Merely that your kind face and manner—both so unlike any Ihave ever seen—tempted me into an avowal, which, to any otherstranger in this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt ofmaking,’ returned Nicholas.
　　‘Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It is a wilderness,’ said the oldman with much animation. ‘It was a wilderness to me once. I camehere 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?’ saidthe old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, andwalking him up the street. ‘You’re—Eh?’ laying his finger on thesleeve of his black coat. ‘Who’s it for, eh?’
　　‘My father,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘Ah!’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Bad thing for a youngman 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?’ saidthe 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: avery great thing! I never had any. I admire it the more in others. Avery fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your history. Let me hearit all. No impertinent curiosity—no, no, no.’
　　There was something so earnest and guileless in the way inwhich all this was said, and such a complete disregard of allconventional restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could notresist it. Among men who have any sound and sterling qualities,there is nothing so contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholastook the infection instantly, and ran over the main points of hislittle history without reserve: merely suppressing names, andtouching as lightly as possible upon his uncle’s treatment of Kate.
　　The old man listened with great attention, and when he hadconcluded, 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 OxfordStreet, and hailing an omnibus on its way to the city, pushedNicholas in before him, and followed himself.
　　As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restlessexcitement, and whenever Nicholas offered to speak, immediatelyinterposed with: ‘Don’t say another word, my dear sir, on anyaccount—not another word,’ the young man thought it better toattempt no further interruption. Into the city they journeyedaccordingly, without interchanging any conversation; and thefarther they went, the more Nicholas wondered what the end ofthe adventure could possibly be.
　　The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when theyreached the Bank, and once more taking Nicholas by the arm,hurried him along Threadneedle Street, and through some lanesand passages on the right, until they, at length, emerged in a quietshady little square. Into the oldest and cleanest-looking house ofbusiness in the square, he led the way. The only inscription on thedoor-post was ‘Cheeryble, Brothers;’ but from a hasty glance atthe directions of some packages which were lying about, Nicholassupposed that the brothers Cheeryble were German merchants.
　　Passing through a warehouse which presented every indicationof a thriving business, Mr Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposedhim to be, from the respect which had been shown him by thewarehousemen and porters whom they passed) led him into a littlepartitioned-off counting-house like a large glass case, in whichcounting-house there sat—as free from dust and blemish as if hehad been fixed into the glass case before the top was put on, andhad 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 noless 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, ‘butMr 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 aman 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 greatearnestness. ‘He is a kind soul. I am very much obliged toTrimmers. Trimmers is one of the best friends we have. He makesa thousand cases known to us that we should never discover ofourselves. I am very much obliged to Trimmers.’ Saying which, MrCheeryble rubbed his hands with infinite delight, and MrTrimmers 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. Itake it very friendly of you, very friendly indeed,’ said MrCheeryble, dragging him into a corner to get out of hearing. ‘Howmany children are there, and what has my brother Ned given,Trimmers?’
　　‘There are six children,’ replied the gentleman, ‘and yourbrother 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 withtrembling eagerness. ‘Put me down for another twenty—or—stopa minute, stop a minute. We mustn’t look ostentatious; put me down ten pound, and Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque fortwenty pound for Mr Trimmers, Tim. God bless you, Trimmers—and come and dine with us some day this week; you’ll always finda 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 anyfriendly remonstrances from the collector of the subscription onthe large amount of his donation, Mr Cheeryble led Nicholas,equally astonished and affected by what he had seen and heard inthis 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 youspare time for a word or two with me?’
　　‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from theinside, so like in its tones to that which had just spoken, thatNicholas started, and almost thought it was the same, ‘don’t askme such a question, but come in directly.’
　　They went in, without further parley. What was the amazementof Nicholas when his conductor advanced, and exchanged a warmgreeting with another old gentleman, the very type and model ofhimself—the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat,and neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters—nay, there was thevery same white hat hanging against the wall!
　　As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lightedup by beaming looks of affection, which would have been mostdelightful to behold in infants, and which, in men so old, wasinexpressibly touching: Nicholas could observe that the last oldgentleman 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. Nobodycould 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 mustmake proper inquiries into his statements, in justice to him as wellas to ourselves, and if they are confirmed—as I feel assured theywill 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 areneeded. He shall be assisted. What are his necessities, and whatdoes he require? Where is Tim Linkinwater? Let us have himhere.’
　　Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a veryemphatic and earnest delivery; both had lost nearly the sameteeth, which imparted the same peculiarity to their speech; andboth spoke as if, besides possessing the utmost serenity of mindthat 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, andTim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don’t thinkpensioning Tim’s mother and sister, and buying a little tomb forthe family when his poor brother died, was a sufficientrecompense 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, ‘andprevail upon him to go into the country, now and then, and sleepin the fresh air, besides, two or three times a week (which hecould, if he began business an hour later in the morning), old TimLinkinwater would grow young again in time; and he’s three goodyears our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh,brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite alittle boy, don’t you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor Tim!’
　　And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each witha tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.
　　‘But hear this first—hear this first, brother Ned,’ said the oldman, hastily, placing two chairs, one on each side of Nicholas: ‘I’lltell it you myself, brother Ned, because the young gentleman ismodest, and is a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn’t feel it right that heshould 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. ‘Veryright, my dear brother, very right.’
　　‘He will tell me I’m wrong, if I make a mistake,’ said Nicholas’sfriend. ‘But whether I do or not, you’ll be very much affected,brother Ned, remembering the time when we were two friendlesslads, and earned our first shilling in this great city.’
　　The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence; and in his ownhomely manner, brother Charles related the particulars he hadheard from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued was a longone, and when it was over, a secret conference of almost equalduration took place between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater inanother room. It is no disparagement to Nicholas to say, thatbefore he had been closeted with the two brothers ten minutes, he could only wave his hand at every fresh expression of kindnessand sympathy, and sob like a little child.
　　At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came backtogether, when Tim instantly walked up to Nicholas andwhispered in his ear in a very brief sentence (for Tim wasordinarily a man of few words), that he had taken down theaddress in the Strand, and would call upon him that evening, ateight. Having done which, Tim wiped his spectacles and put themon, preparatory to hearing what more the brothers Cheeryble hadgot to say.
　　‘Tim,’ said brother Charles, ‘you understand that we have anintention 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,’ saidTim, breaking out all at once, and looking very resolute. ‘I’m notgoing to sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I’m not going into thecountry 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 acountenance radiant with attachment to the old clerk. ‘Damn yourobstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what do you mean, sir?’
　　‘It’s forty-four year,’ said Tim, making a calculation in the airwith his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before he cast it up,‘forty-four year, next May, since I first kept the books ofCheeryble, Brothers. I’ve opened the safe every morning all thattime (Sundays excepted) as the clock struck nine, and gone over the house every night at half-past ten (except on Foreign Postnights, and then twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doorsfastened, and the fires out. I’ve never slept out of the back-atticone single night. There’s the same mignonette box in the middle ofthe window, and the same four flower-pots, two on each side, thatI brought with me when I first came. There an’t—I’ve said it againand again, and I’ll maintain it—there an’t such a square as this inthe world. I know there an’t,’ said Tim, with sudden energy, andlooking sternly about him. ‘Not one. For business or pleasure, insummer-time or winter—I don’t care which—there’s nothing likeit. There’s not such a spring in England as the pump under thearchway. There’s not such a view in England as the view out of mywindow; I’ve seen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought toknow 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’tinconvenient, and didn’t interfere with business, I should requestleave to die there.’
　　‘Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?’
　　roared the twins by one impulse, and blowing their old nosesviolently.
　　‘That’s what I’ve got to say, Mr Edwin and Mr Charles,’ saidTim, squaring his shoulders again. ‘This isn’t the first time you’vetalked about superannuating me; but, if you please, we’ll make itthe last, and drop the subject for evermore.’
　　With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shuthimself up in his glass case, with the air of a man who had had hissay, and was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.
　　The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half-dozentimes without speaking.
　　 ‘He must be done something with, brother Ned,’ said the other,warmly; ‘we must disregard his old scruples; they can’t betolerated, or borne. He must be made a partner, brother Ned; andif he won’t submit to it peaceably, we must have recourse toviolence.’
　　‘Quite right,’ replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a manthoroughly determined; ‘quite right, my dear brother. If he won’tlisten to reason, we must do it against his will, and show him thatwe are determined to exert our authority. We must quarrel withhim, brother Charles.’
　　‘We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with TimLinkinwater,’ said the other. ‘But in the meantime, my dearbrother, we are keeping our young friend; and the poor lady andher daughter will be anxious for his return. So let us say goodbyefor the present, and—there, there—take care of that box, my dearsir—and—no, no, not a word now; but be careful of the crossingsand—’
　　And with any disjointed and unconnected words which wouldprevent Nicholas from pouring forth his thanks, the brothershurried him out: shaking hands with him all the way, and affectingvery unsuccessfully—they were poor hands at deception!—to bewholly unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.
　　Nicholas’s heart was too full to allow of his turning into thestreet until he had recovered some composure. When he at lastglided out of the dark doorway corner in which he had beencompelled to halt, he caught a glimpse of the twins stealthilypeeping in at one corner of the glass case, evidently undecidedwhether they should follow up their late attack without delay, orfor the present postpone laying further siege to the inflexible Tim Linkinwater.
　　To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstancesjust detailed awakened at Miss La Creevy’s, and all the things thatwere done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and prophesied inconsequence, is beside the present course and purpose of theseadventures. It is sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr TimothyLinkinwater arrived, punctual to his appointment; that, oddity ashe was, and jealous, as he was bound to be, of the proper exerciseof his employers’ most comprehensive liberality, he reportedstrongly and warmly in favour of Nicholas; and that, next day, hewas appointed to the vacant stool in the counting-house ofCheeryble, Brothers, with a present salary of one hundred andtwenty pounds a year.
　　‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said Nicholas’s first friend, ‘thatif we were to let them that little cottage at Bow which is empty, atsomething under the usual rent, now? Eh, brother Ned?’
　　‘For nothing at all,’ said brother Ned. ‘We are rich, and shouldbe 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 offrugality, you know, and remove any painful sense ofoverwhelming obligations. We might say fifteen pound, or twentypound, and if it was punctually paid, make it up to them in someother way. And I might secretly advance a small loan towards alittle furniture, and you might secretly advance another small loan,brother Ned; and if we find them doing well—as we shall; there’sno fear, no fear—we can change the loans into gifts. Carefully, brother Ned, and by degrees, and without pressing upon them toomuch; what do you say now, brother?’
　　Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it shouldbe done, but had it done too; and, in one short week, Nicholas tookpossession of the stool, and Mrs Nickleby and Kate tookpossession of the house, and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.
　　There surely never was such a week of discoveries andsurprises as the first week of that cottage. Every night whenNicholas came home, something new had been found out. One dayit was a grapevine, and another day it was a boiler, and anotherday it was the key of the front-parlour closet at the bottom of thewater-butt, and so on through a hundred items. Then, this roomwas embellished with a muslin curtain, and that room wasrendered quite elegant by a window-blind, and suchimprovements were made, as no one would have supposedpossible. Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out in theomnibus to stop a day or two and help, and who was perpetuallylosing a very small brown-paper parcel of tin tacks and a verylarge hammer, and running about with her sleeves tucked up atthe wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and hurting herself verymuch—and Mrs Nickleby, who talked incessantly, and didsomething now and then, but not often—and Kate, who busiedherself 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—allthe peace and cheerfulness of home restored, with such new zestimparted to every frugal pleasure, and such delight to every hourof meeting, as misfortune and separation alone could give!
　　 In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while therich Nickleby was alone and miserable.
Chapter 36
Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters.
　　Showing how Mr Kenwigs underwent violentAgitation, and how Mrs Kenwigs was as well ascould be expected.
　　It might have been seven o’clock in the evening, and it wasgrowing dark in the narrow streets near Golden Square, whenMr Kenwigs sent out for a pair of the cheapest white kidgloves—those at fourteen-pence—and selecting the strongest,which happened to be the right-hand one, walked downstairs withan air of pomp and much excitement, and proceeded to muffle theknob of the street-door knocker therein. Having executed this taskwith great nicety, Mr Kenwigs pulled the door to, after him, andjust stepped across the road to try the effect from the opposite sideof the street. Satisfied that nothing could possibly look better in itsway, Mr Kenwigs then stepped back again, and calling throughthe keyhole to Morleena to open the door, vanished into the house,and was seen no longer.
　　Now, considered as an abstract circumstance, there was nomore obvious cause or reason why Mr Kenwigs should take thetrouble of muffling this particular knocker, than there would havebeen for his muffling the knocker of any nobleman or gentlemanresident ten miles off; because, for the greater convenience of thenumerous lodgers, the street-door always stood wide open, andthe 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, theywere close at hand, and all he had to do was to walk straight intothem; while the kitchen had a separate entrance down the areasteps. 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 ofmere utilitarianism, as, in the present instance, was clearly shown.
　　There are certain polite forms and ceremonies which must beobserved in civilised life, or mankind relapse into their originalbarbarism. No genteel lady was ever yet confined—indeed, nogenteel confinement can possibly take place—without theaccompanying symbol of a muffled knocker. Mrs Kenwigs was alady of some pretensions to gentility; Mrs Kenwigs was confined.
　　And, therefore, Mr Kenwigs tied up the silent knocker on thepremises in a white kid glove.
　　‘I’m not quite certain neither,’ said Mr Kenwigs, arranging hisshirt-collar, and walking slowly upstairs, ‘whether, as it’s a boy, Iwon’t have it in the papers.’
　　Pondering upon the advisability of this step, and the sensationit was likely to create in the neighbourhood, Mr Kenwigs betookhimself to the sitting-room, where various extremely diminutivearticles of clothing were airing on a horse before the fire, and MrLumbey, the doctor, was dandling the baby—that is, the oldbaby—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 MrKenwigs.
　　‘It’s the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,’ said the doctor. ‘Inever saw such a baby.’
　　 It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a completeanswer to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of thehuman species, that every baby born into the world is a finer onethan the last.
　　‘I ne-ver saw such a baby,’ said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.
　　‘Morleena was a fine baby,’ remarked Mr Kenwigs; as if thiswere rather an attack, by implication, upon the family.
　　‘They were all fine babies,’ said Mr Lumbey. And Mr Lumbeywent on nursing the baby with a thoughtful look. Whether he wasconsidering under what head he could best charge the nursing inthe bill, was best known to himself.
　　During this short conversation, Miss Morleena, as the eldest ofthe family, and natural representative of her mother during herindisposition, had been hustling and slapping the three youngerMiss Kenwigses, without intermission; which considerate andaffectionate 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 MrKenwigs, half aside; ‘I think she’ll marry above her station, MrLumbey.’
　　‘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 theother room; the door had been opened and shut very softly abouttwenty times a minute (for it was necessary to keep Mrs Kenwigs quiet); and the baby had been exhibited to a score or two ofdeputations from a select body of female friends, who hadassembled in the passage, and about the street-door, to discuss theevent in all its bearings. Indeed, the excitement extended itselfover the whole street, and groups of ladies might be seen standingat the doors, (some in the interesting condition in which MrsKenwigs had last appeared in public,) relating their experiences ofsimilar occurrences. Some few acquired great credit from havingprophesied, the day before yesterday, exactly when it would cometo pass; others, again, related, how that they guessed what it was,directly they saw Mr Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street ashard as ever he could go. Some said one thing, and some another;but all talked together, and all agreed upon two points: first, that itwas very meritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs Kenwigs todo as she had done: and secondly, that there never was such askilful 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, andtalking to Mr Kenwigs. He was a stout bluff-looking gentleman,with no shirt-collar to speak of, and a beard that had been growingsince yesterday morning; for Dr Lumbey was popular, and theneighbourhood was prolific; and there had been no less than threeother knockers muffled, one after the other within the last forty-eight hours.
　　‘Well, Mr Kenwigs,’ said Dr Lumbey, ‘this makes six. You’llhave 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 fromthe sick chamber to report progress, and take a small sip ofbrandy-and-water: and who seemed to consider it one of the bestjokes ever launched upon society.
　　‘They’re not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,’
　　said Mr Kenwigs, taking his second daughter on his knee; ‘theyhave expectations.’
　　‘Oh, indeed!’ said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.
　　‘And very good ones too, I believe, haven’t they?’ asked themarried lady.
　　‘Why, ma’am,’ said Mr Kenwigs, ‘it’s not exactly for me to saywhat they may be, or what they may not be. It’s not for me to boastof any family with which I have the honour to be connected; at thesame time, Mrs Kenwigs’s is—I should say,’ said Mr Kenwigs,abruptly, and raising his voice as he spoke, ‘that my childrenmight 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 sneezingvery hard, for he wasn’t used to it, ‘that might leave their hundredpound apiece to ten people, and yet not go begging when they haddone 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 nonames,’ said Mr Kenwigs, with a portentous look. ‘Many of myfriends have met a relation of Mrs Kenwigs’s in this very room, aswould do honour to any company; that’s all.’
　　 ‘I’ve met him,’ said the married lady, with a glance towards DrLumbey.
　　‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to seesuch a man as that, a kissing and taking notice of my children,’
　　pursued Mr Kenwigs. ‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelingsas a man, to know that man. It will be naterally very gratifying tomy feelings as a husband, to make that man acquainted with thisewent.’
　　Having delivered his sentiments in this form of words, MrKenwigs arranged his second daughter’s flaxen tail, and bade herbe a good girl and mind what her sister, Morleena, said.
　　‘That girl grows more like her mother every day,’ said MrLumbey, suddenly stricken with an enthusiastic admiration ofMorleena.
　　‘There!’ rejoined the married lady. ‘What I always say; what Ialways did say! She’s the very picter of her.’ Having thus directedthe general attention to the young lady in question, the marriedlady embraced the opportunity of taking another sip of thebrandy-and-water—and a pretty long sip too.
　　‘Yes! there is a likeness,’ said Mr Kenwigs, after somereflection. ‘But such a woman as Mrs Kenwigs was, afore she wasmarried! Good gracious, such a woman!’
　　Mr Lumbey shook his head with great solemnity, as though toimply that he supposed she must have been rather a dazzler.
　　‘Talk of fairies!’ cried Mr Kenwigs ‘I never see anybody so lightto be alive, never. Such manners too; so playful, and yet sosewerely proper! As for her figure! It isn’t generally known,’ saidMr Kenwigs, dropping his voice; ‘but her figure was such, at thattime, 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. ‘DoesSHE look like the mother of six?’
　　‘Quite ridiculous,’ cried the doctor.
　　‘She looks a deal more like her own daughter,’ said the marriedlady.
　　‘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 anothermarried lady, who had looked in to keep up Mrs Kenwigs’s spirits,and help to clear off anything in the eating and drinking way thatmight be going about, put in her head to announce that she hadjust been down to answer the bell, and that there was a gentlemanat the door who wanted to see Mr Kenwigs ‘most particular.’
　　Shadowy visions of his distinguished relation flitted throughthe brain of Mr Kenwigs, as this message was delivered; andunder their influence, he dispatched Morleena to show thegentleman up straightway.
　　‘Why, I do declare,’ said Mr Kenwigs, standing opposite thedoor so as to get the earliest glimpse of the visitor, as he cameupstairs, ‘it’s Mr Johnson! How do you find yourself, sir?’
　　Nicholas shook hands, kissed his old pupils all round, intrusteda large parcel of toys to the guardianship of Morleena, bowed tothe doctor and the married ladies, and inquired after Mrs Kenwigsin a tone of interest, which went to the very heart and soul of thenurse, who had come in to warm some mysterious compound, in alittle saucepan over the fire.
　　‘I ought to make a hundred apologies to you for calling at such aseason,’ 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 itmight be some days before I could possibly come again.’
　　‘No time like the present, sir,’ said Mr Kenwigs. ‘The sitiwationof Mrs Kenwigs, sir, is no obstacle to a little conversation betweenyou and me, I hope?’
　　‘You are very good,’ said Nicholas.
　　At this juncture, proclamation was made by another marriedlady, that the baby had begun to eat like anything; whereupon thetwo married ladies, already mentioned, rushed tumultuously intothe 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 amessage to you.’
　　‘Ay, ay?’ said Mr Kenwigs.
　　‘And I have been,’ added Nicholas, ‘already in town for somedays, without having had an opportunity of doing so.’
　　‘It’s no matter, sir,’ said Mr Kenwigs. ‘I dare say it’s none theworse for keeping cold. Message from the country!’ said MrKenwigs, ruminating; ‘that’s curious. I don’t know anybody in thecountry.’
　　‘Miss Petowker,’ suggested Nicholas.
　　‘Oh! from her, is it?’ said Mr Kenwigs. ‘Oh dear, yes. Ah! MrsKenwigs will be glad to hear from her. Henrietta Petowker, eh?
　　How odd things come about, now! That you should have met herin the country! Well!’
　　Hearing this mention of their old friend’s name, the four MissKenwigses gathered round Nicholas, open eyed and mouthed, tohear more. Mr Kenwigs looked a little curious too, but quitecomfortable 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 nobodydisposed to relieve him of his precious burden. ‘All friends here.’
　　Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed to have somedifficulty 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 wasan odd coincidence also.
　　‘The message is from him,’ said Nicholas. Mr Kenwigs appearedto 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, condescendinglyexplaining it to the children.
　　‘His kindest love,’ resumed Nicholas; ‘and to say that he had notime to write, but that he was married to Miss Petowker.’
　　Mr Kenwigs started from his seat with a petrified stare, caughthis second daughter by her flaxen tail, and covered his face withhis pocket-handkerchief. Morleena fell, all stiff and rigid, into thebaby’s chair, as she had seen her mother fall when she faintedaway, and the two remaining little Kenwigses shrieked in affright.
　　‘My children, my defrauded, swindled infants!’ cried MrKenwigs, pulling so hard, in his vehemence, at the flaxen tail of hissecond 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. ‘Whatdoes he mean by making that noise here?’
　　‘Silence, woman!’ said Mr Kenwigs, fiercely.
　　‘I won’t be silent,’ returned the nurse. ‘Be silent yourself, youwretch. Have you no regard for your baby?’
　　‘No!’ returned Mr Kenwigs.
　　‘More shame for you,’ retorted the nurse. ‘Ugh! you unnaturalmonster.’
　　‘Let him die,’ cried Mr Kenwigs, in the torrent of his wrath. ‘Lethim die! He has no expectations, no property to come into. Wewant 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 achair, and defied the nurse, who made the best of her way into theadjoining room, and returned with a stream of matrons: declaringthat Mr Kenwigs had spoken blasphemy against his family, andmust be raving mad.
　　Appearances were certainly not in Mr Kenwigs’s favour, for theexertion of speaking with so much vehemence, and yet in such atone as should prevent his lamentations reaching the ears of MrsKenwigs, had made him very black in the face; besides which, theexcitement of the occasion, and an unwonted indulgence invarious strong cordials to celebrate it, had swollen and dilated hisfeatures to a most unusual extent. But, Nicholas and the doctor—who had been passive at first, doubting very much whether MrKenwigs could be in earnest—interfering to explain the immediatecause of his condition, the indignation of the matrons was changedto pity, and they implored him, with much feeling, to go quietly to bed.
　　‘The attention,’ said Mr Kenwigs, looking around with aplaintive air, ‘the attention that I’ve shown to that man! Thehyseters he has eat, and the pints of ale he has drank, in thishouse—!’
　　‘It’s very trying, and very hard to bear, we know,’ said one ofthe 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 ofindia-rubber goloshes, that cost six-and-six—’
　　‘Ah! it won’t bear thinking of, indeed,’ cried the matronsgenerally; ‘but it’ll all come home to him, never fear.’
　　Mr Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies, as if he would preferits all coming home to him, as there was nothing to be got by it; buthe said nothing, and resting his head upon his hand, subsided intoa kind of doze.
　　Then, the matrons again expatiated on the expediency of takingthe good gentleman to bed; observing that he would be bettertomorrow, and that they knew what was the wear and tear of somemen’s minds when their wives were taken as Mrs Kenwigs hadbeen that day, and that it did him great credit, and there wasnothing to be ashamed of in it; far from it; they liked to see it, theydid, for it showed a good heart. And one lady observed, as a casebearing upon the present, that her husband was often quite light-headed from anxiety on similar occasions, and that once, when herlittle Johnny was born, it was nearly a week before he came tohimself 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 ofall his hearers.
　　At length, Morleena (who quite forgot she had fainted, whenshe found she was not noticed) announced that a chamber wasready for her afflicted parent; and Mr Kenwigs, having partiallysmothered his four daughters in the closeness of his embrace,accepted the doctor’s arm on one side, and the support of Nicholason the other, and was conducted upstairs to a bedroom whichbeen secured for the occasion.
　　Having seen him sound asleep, and heard him snore mostsatisfactorily, and having further presided over the distribution ofthe toys, to the perfect contentment of all the little Kenwigses,Nicholas took his leave. The matrons dropped off one by one, withthe exception of six or eight particular friends, who haddetermined to stop all night; the lights in the houses graduallydisappeared; the last bulletin was issued that Mrs Kenwigs was aswell as could be expected; and the whole family were left to theirrepose.
Chapter 37
Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of thebrothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
　　The brothers give a Banquet on a great AnnualOccasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it,receives a mysterious and important Disclosurefrom the Lips of Mrs Nickleby.
　　The square in which the counting-house of the brothersCheeryble was situated, although it might not whollyrealise the very sanguine expectations which a strangerwould be disposed to form on hearing the fervent encomiumsbestowed upon it by Tim Linkinwater, was, nevertheless, asufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy town like London,and one which occupied a high place in the affectionateremembrances of several grave persons domiciled in theneighbourhood, whose recollections, however, dated from a muchmore recent period, and whose attachment to the spot was far lessabsorbing, than were the recollections and attachment of theenthusiastic Tim.
　　And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to thearistocratic gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, thedowager barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the gravelwalks and garden seats of the Squares of Russell and Euston,suppose that the affections of Tim Linkinwater, or the inferiorlovers of this particular locality, had been awakened and kept alive by any refreshing associations with leaves, however dingy, orgrass, however bare and thin. The city square has no enclosure,save the lamp-post in the middle: and no grass, but the weedswhich spring up round its base. It is a quiet, little-frequented,retired spot, favourable to melancholy and contemplation, andappointments of long-waiting; and up and down its every side theAppointed saunters idly by the hour together wakening the echoeswith the monotonous sound of his footsteps on the smooth wornstones, and counting, first the windows, and then the very bricksof the tall silent houses that hem him round about. In winter-time,the snow will linger there, long after it has melted from the busystreets 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-imposingprecincts. It is so quiet, that you can almost hear the ticking ofyour own watch when you stop to cool in its refreshingatmosphere. There is a distant hum—of coaches, not of insects—but no other sound disturbs the stillness of the square. The ticketporter leans idly against the post at the corner: comfortably warm,but not hot, although the day is broiling. His white apron flapslanguidly in the air, his head gradually droops upon his breast, hetakes very long winks with both eyes at once; even he is unable towithstand the soporific influence of the place, and is graduallyfalling asleep. But now, he starts into full wakefulness, recoils astep or two, and gazes out before him with eager wildness in hiseye. Is it a job, or a boy at marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear anorgan? No; sight more unwonted still—there is a butterfly in thesquare—a real, live butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, andfluttering among the iron heads of the dusty area railings.
　　 But if there were not many matters immediately without thedoors of Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distractthe thoughts of the young clerk, there were not a few within, tointerest and amuse him. There was scarcely an object in the place,animate or inanimate, which did not partake in some degree of thescrupulous method and punctuality of Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
　　Punctual as the counting-house dial, which he maintained to bethe best time-keeper in London next after the clock of some old,hidden, unknown church hard by, (for Tim held the fabledgoodness of that at the Horse Guards to be a pleasant fiction,invented by jealous West-enders,) the old clerk performed theminutest actions of the day, and arranged the minutest articles inthe little room, in a precise and regular order, which could nothave been exceeded if it had actually been a real glass case, fittedwith the choicest curiosities. Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax,wafers, pounce-box, string-box, fire-box, Tim’s hat, Tim’sscrupulously-folded gloves, Tim’s other coat—looking preciselylike a back view of himself as it hung against the wall—all hadtheir accustomed inches of space. Except the clock, there was notsuch an accurate and unimpeachable instrument in existence asthe little thermometer which hung behind the door. There was nota bird of such methodical and business-like habits in all the world,as the blind blackbird, who dreamed and dozed away his days in alarge snug cage, and had lost his voice, from old age, years beforeTim first bought him. There was not such an eventful story in thewhole range of anecdote, as Tim could tell concerning theacquisition of that very bird; how, compassionating his starvedand suffering condition, he had purchased him, with the view ofhumanely terminating his wretched life; how he determined to wait three days and see whether the bird revived; how, before halfthe time was out, the bird did revive; and how he went on revivingand picking up his appetite and good looks until he graduallybecame what—‘what you see him now, sir,’—Tim would say,glancing proudly at the cage. And with that, Tim would utter amelodious chirrup, and cry ‘Dick;’ and Dick, who, for any sign oflife he had previously given, might have been a wooden or stuffedrepresentation of a blackbird indifferently executed, would cometo the side of the cage in three small jumps, and, thrusting his billbetween the bars, turn his sightless head towards his old master—and at that moment it would be very difficult to determine whichof the two was the happier, the bird or Tim Linkinwater.
　　Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflectionof the kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen andporters were such sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a treat to seethem. Among the shipping announcements and steam-packet list’swhich decorated the counting-house wall, were designs foralmshouses, statements of charities, and plans for new hospitals. Ablunderbuss and two swords hung above the chimney-piece, forthe terror of evil-doers, but the blunderbuss was rusty andshattered, 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 weaponspartook of the reigning influence, and became emblems of mercyand forbearance.
　　Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly, onthe morning when he first took possession of the vacant stool, andlooked about him, more freely and at ease, than he had beforeenjoyed an opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encouraged and stimulated him to exertion, for, during the next two weeks, all hisspare hours, late at night and early in the morning, wereincessantly devoted to acquiring the mysteries of book-keepingand some other forms of mercantile account. To these, he appliedhimself with such steadiness and perseverance that, although hebrought no greater amount of previous knowledge to the subjectthan certain dim recollections of two or three very long sumsentered into a ciphering-book at school, and relieved for parentalinspection by the effigy of a fat swan tastefully flourished by thewriting-master’s own hand, he found himself, at the end of afortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to MrLinkinwater, 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 amassive ledger and day-book, and, after turning them over andover, and affectionately dusting their backs and sides, open theleaves here and there, and cast his eyes, half mournfully, halfproudly, upon the fair and unblotted entries.
　　‘Four-and-forty year, next May!’ said Tim. ‘Many new ledgerssince 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. MrNickleby was not sufficiently impressed with the deep and awfulnature of his undertaking. Suppose there should be any mistake—any scratching out!
　　Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they willrush upon, sometimes. Without even taking the precaution ofsitting himself down upon his stool, but standing leisurely at the desk, and with a smile upon his face—actually a smile—there wasno mistake about it; Mr Linkinwater often mentioned itafterwards—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 twolegs nearest Nicholas, looked over his shoulder in breathlessanxiety. Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the countinghouse together; but Tim Linkinwater, without looking round,impatiently waved his hand as a caution that profound silencemust be observed, and followed the nib of the inexperienced penwith strained and eager eyes.
　　The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but TimLinkinwater smiled not, nor moved for some minutes. At length,he drew a long slow breath, and still maintaining his position onthe tilted stool, glanced at brother Charles, secretly pointed withthe feather of his pen towards Nicholas, and nodded his head in agrave and resolute manner, plainly signifying ‘He’ll do.’
　　Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing lookwith brother Ned; but, just then, Nicholas stopped to refer to someother page, and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain hissatisfaction any longer, descended from his stool, and caught himrapturously by the hand.
　　‘He has done it!’ said Tim, looking round at his employers andshaking his head triumphantly. ‘His capital B’s and D’s are exactlylike mine; he dots all his small i’s and crosses every t as he writesit. 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 citycan’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 blackbirdtumbled off his perch with the start it gave him, and actuallyuttered a feeble croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.
　　‘Well said, Tim—well said, Tim Linkinwater!’ cried brotherCharles, scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clapping hishands gently as he spoke. ‘I knew our young friend would takegreat 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 saidso, and you were quite right,’ replied Ned. ‘Quite right. TimLinkinwater 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 regardlessof this address to himself, and raising his spectacles from theledger to the brothers. ‘Here’s a pleasant thing. Do you suppose Ihaven’t often thought of what would become of these books when Iwas gone? Do you suppose I haven’t often thought that thingsmight 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. Thebusiness will go on, when I’m dead, as well as it did when I wasalive—just the same—and I shall have the satisfaction of knowingthat there never were such books—never were such books! No,nor never will be such books—as the books of CheerybleBrothers.’
　　Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr Linkinwater gavevent to a short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of Londonand Westminster, and, turning again to his desk, quietly carriedseventy-six from the last column he had added up, and went on with his work.
　　‘Tim Linkinwater, sir,’ said brother Charles; ‘give me yourhand, sir. This is your birthday. How dare you talk about anythingelse till you have been wished many happy returns of the day, TimLinkinwater? 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 lastbirthday.’
　　‘Brother Ned, my dear boy,’ returned the other old fellow, ‘Ibelieve that Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty yearsold, and is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty; for he’syounger 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 ourusual custom on this anniversary, as you very well know, TimLinkinwater. Mr Nickleby, my dear sir, you will make one. TimLinkinwater, give me your snuff-box as a remembrance to brotherCharles and myself of an attached and faithful rascal, and takethat, in exchange, as a feeble mark of our respect and esteem, anddon’t open it until you go to bed, and never say another word uponthe subject, or I’ll kill the blackbird. A dog! He should have had agolden cage half-a-dozen years ago, if it would have made him orhis master a bit the happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear fellow,I’m ready. At half-past five, remember, Mr Nickleby! TimLinkinwater, 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 onthe other side, the twins trotted off, arm-in-arm; having endowedTim Linkinwater with a costly gold snuff-box, enclosing a banknote 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 greatto-do there was, between Tim Linkinwater’s sister and the oldhousekeeper, respecting Tim Linkinwater’s sister’s cap, which hadbeen dispatched, per boy, from the house of the family where TimLinkinwater’s sister boarded, and had not yet come to hand:
　　notwithstanding that it had been packed up in a bandbox, and thebandbox in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief tied on to theboy’s arm; and notwithstanding, too, that the place of itsconsignment had been duly set forth, at full length, on the back ofan old letter, and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers horriblepenalties, 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 theway. Tim Linkinwater’s sister lamented; the housekeepercondoled; and both kept thrusting their heads out of the second-floor window to see if the boy was ‘coming’—which would havebeen highly satisfactory, and, upon the whole, tantamount to hisbeing come, as the distance to the corner was not quite fiveyards—when, all of a sudden, and when he was least expected, themessenger, carrying the bandbox with elaborate caution,appeared in an exactly opposite direction, puffing and panting forbreath, and flushed with recent exercise; as well he might be; forhe had taken the air, in the first instance, behind a hackney coachthat went to Camberwell, and had followed two Punchesafterwards and had seen the Stilts home to their own door. The cap was all safe, however—that was one comfort—and it was nouse scolding him—that was another; so the boy went upon his wayrejoicing, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister presented herself to thecompany below-stairs, just five minutes after the half-hour hadstruck by Tim Linkinwater’s own infallible clock.
　　The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, TimLinkinwater, a ruddy-faced white-headed friend of Tim’s (who wasa superannuated bank clerk), and Nicholas, who was presented toTim Linkinwater’s sister with much gravity and solemnity. Theparty being now completed, brother Ned rang for dinner, and,dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led TimLinkinwater’s sister into the next room, where it was set forth withgreat preparation. Then, brother Ned took the head of the table,and brother Charles the foot; and Tim Linkinwater’s sister sat onthe left hand of brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater himself on hisright: and an ancient butler of apoplectic appearance, and withvery short legs, took up his position at the back of brother Ned’sarmchair, and, waving his right arm preparatory to taking off thecovers 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 thesoup tureen, and shot, all at once, into a state of violent activity.
　　There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its everflagging, for the good-humour of the glorious old twins dreweverybody out, and Tim Linkinwater’s sister went off into a longand circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater’s infancy,immediately after the very first glass of champagne—taking careto premise that she was very much Tim’s junior, and had only become acquainted with the facts from their being preserved andhanded down in the family. This history concluded, brother Nedrelated how that, exactly thirty-five years ago, Tim Linkinwaterwas suspected to have received a love-letter, and how that vagueinformation had been brought to the counting-house of his havingbeen seen walking down Cheapside with an uncommonlyhandsome spinster; at which there was a roar of laughter, and TimLinkinwater being charged with blushing, and called upon toexplain, denied that the accusation was true; and further, thatthere would have been any harm in it if it had been; which lastposition occasioned the superannuated bank clerk to laughtremendously, and to declare that it was the very best thing he hadever heard in his life, and that Tim Linkinwater might say a greatmany things before he said anything which would beat that.
　　There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both thematter and manner of which made a very strong impression uponNicholas. The cloth having been removed and the decanters sentround for the first time, a profound silence succeeded, and in thecheerful faces of the brothers there appeared an expression, not ofabsolute melancholy, but of quiet thoughtfulness very unusual at afestive table. As Nicholas, struck by this sudden alteration, waswondering what it could portend, the brothers rose together, andthe one at the top of the table leaning forward towards the other,and speaking in a low voice as if he were addressing himindividually, said:
　　‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another associationconnected with this day which must never be forgotten, and nevercan be forgotten, by you and me. This day, which brought into theworld a most faithful and excellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the kindest and very best of parents, the very best ofparents to us both. I wish that she could have seen us in ourprosperity, and shared it, and had the happiness of knowing howdearly 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 ourMother.’
　　‘Good Lord!’ thought Nicholas, ‘and there are scores of peopleof their own station, knowing all this, and twenty thousand timesmore, who wouldn’t ask these men to dinner because they eat withtheir knives and never went to school!’
　　But there was no time to moralise, for the joviality againbecame very brisk, and the decanter of port being nearly out,brother Ned pulled the bell, which was instantly answered by theapoplectic butler.
　　‘David,’ said brother Ned.
　　‘Sir,’ replied the butler.
　　‘A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the healthof Mr Linkinwater.’
　　Instantly, by a feat of dexterity, which was the admiration of allthe company, and had been, annually, for some years past, theapoplectic butler, bringing his left hand from behind the small ofhis back, produced the bottle with the corkscrew already inserted;uncorked it at a jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork beforehis master with the dignity of conscious cleverness.
　　‘Ha!’ said brother Ned, first examining the cork and afterwardsfilling his glass, while the old butler looked complacently andamiably on, as if it were all his own property, but the companywere 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 Linkinwaterknows very well. That was laid down when Mr Linkinwater firstcome: 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 ofhis 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 asmall tray of clean glasses, and opening the door admitted the jollyporters and warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below. Theywere four in all, and as they came in, bowing, and grinning, andblushing, the housekeeper, and cook, and housemaid, brought upthe rear.
　　‘Seven,’ said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number ofglasses with the double-diamond, ‘and David, eight. There! Now,you’re all of you to drink the health of your best friend Mr TimothyLinkinwater, and wish him health and long life and many happyreturns of this day, both for his own sake and that of your oldmasters, who consider him an inestimable treasure. TimLinkinwater, sir, your health. Devil take you, Tim Linkinwater, sir,God bless you.’
　　With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave TimLinkinwater a slap on the back, which made him look, for themoment, 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 TimLinkinwater, when the sturdiest and jolliest subordinate elbowedhimself a little in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a very hotand flushed countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hair in themiddle of his forehead as a respectful salute to the company, anddelivered himself as follows—rubbing the palms of his hands veryhard on a blue cotton handkerchief as he did so:
　　‘We’re allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen’lemen, and ifyou 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 wellknown—leastways in a contrairy sense, which the meaning is thesame. (A pause—the butler unconvinced.) What we mean to say is,that there never was (looking at the butler)—such—(looking at thecook) noble—excellent—(looking everywhere and seeing nobody)free, generous-spirited masters as them as has treated us sohandsome this day. And here’s thanking of ’em for all theirgoodness 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 beenmuch more elegant and much less to the purpose—the whole bodyof subordinates under command of the apoplectic butler gavethree soft cheers; which, to that gentleman’s great indignation,were not very regular, inasmuch as the women persisted in givingan immense number of little shrill hurrahs among themselves, inutter disregard of the time. This done, they withdrew; shortlyafterwards, Tim Linkinwater’s sister withdrew; in reasonable timeafter that, the sitting was broken up for tea and coffee, and around 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 otherexcitements, had such an effect upon Tim Linkinwater, that hedrew 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 beendescribed—more so, indeed—but that she was in too much of ahurry to change her condition, and consequently, while Tim wascourting her and thinking of changing his, got married tosomebody else. ‘After all, I dare say it was my fault,’ said Tim. ‘I’llshow you a print I have got upstairs, one of these days. It cost mefive-and-twenty shillings. I bought it soon after we were cool toeach other. Don’t mention it, but it’s the most extraordinaryaccidental likeness you ever saw—her very portrait, sir!’
　　By this time it was past eleven o’clock; and Tim Linkinwater’ssister declaring that she ought to have been at home a full hourago, a coach was procured, into which she was handed with greatceremony by brother Ned, while brother Charles imparted thefullest directions to the coachman, and besides paying the man ashilling over and above his fare, in order that he might take theutmost care of the lady, all but choked him with a glass of spirits ofuncommon strength, and then nearly knocked all the breath out ofhis body in his energetic endeavours to knock it in again.
　　At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater’s sisterbeing now fairly on her way home, Nicholas and TimLinkinwater’s friend took their leaves together, and left old Timand the worthy brothers to their repose.
　　As Nicholas had some distance to walk, it was considerably pastmidnight by the time he reached home, where he found his mother and Smike sitting up to receive him. It was long after theirusual hour of retiring, and they had expected him, at the verylatest, two hours ago; but the time had not hung heavily on theirhands, for Mrs Nickleby had entertained Smike with agenealogical account of her family by the mother’s side,comprising biographical sketches of the principal members, andSmike had sat wondering what it was all about, and whether itwas learnt from a book, or said out of Mrs Nickleby’s own head; sothat they got on together very pleasantly.
　　Nicholas could not go to bed without expatiating on theexcellences and munificence of the brothers Cheeryble, andrelating the great success which had attended his efforts that day.
　　But before he had said a dozen words, Mrs Nickleby, with manysly winks and nods, observed, that she was sure Mr Smike must bequite tired out, and that she positively must insist on his not sittingup 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. ‘Iknow you’ll excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don’t like to dothis before a third person; indeed, before a young man it wouldnot be quite proper, though really, after all, I don’t know whatharm there is in it, except that to be sure it’s not a very becomingthing, though some people say it is very much so, and really I don’tknow why it should not be, if it’s well got up, and the borders aresmall-plaited; of course, a good deal depends upon that.’
　　With which preface, Mrs Nickleby took her nightcap frombetween the leaves of a very large prayer-book where it had beenfolded up small, and proceeded to tie it on: talking away in herusual discursive manner, all the time.
　　 ‘People may say what they like,’ observed Mrs Nickleby, ‘butthere’s a great deal of comfort in a nightcap, as I’m sure you wouldconfess, Nicholas my dear, if you would only have strings to yours,and wear it like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very topof your head like a blue-coat boy. You needn’t think it an unmanlyor quizzical thing to be particular about your nightcap, for I haveoften heard your poor dear papa, and the Reverend Mr What’shis-name, who used to read prayers in that old church with thecurious little steeple that the weathercock was blown off the nightweek before you were born,—I have often heard them say, that theyoung men at college are uncommonly particular about theirnightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated fortheir strength and goodness; so much so, indeed, that the youngmen never dream of going to bed without ’em, and I believe it’sadmitted on all hands that they know what’s good, and don’tcoddle themselves.’
　　Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject ofthis lengthened harangue, reverted to the pleasant tone of thelittle birthday party. And as Mrs Nickleby instantly became verycurious respecting it, and made a great number of inquiriestouching what they had had for dinner, and how it was put ontable, and whether it was overdone or underdone, and who wasthere, and what ‘the Mr Cherrybles’ said, and what Nicholas said,and what the Mr Cherrybles said when he said that; Nicholasdescribed the festivities at full length, and also the occurrences ofthe morning.
　　‘Late as it is,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am almost selfish enough to wishthat Kate had been up to hear all this. I was all impatience, as Icame along, to tell her.’
　　 ‘Why, Kate,’ said Mrs Nickleby, putting her feet upon thefender, and drawing her chair close to it, as if settling herself for along talk. ‘Kate has been in bed—oh! a couple of hours—and I’mvery glad, Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to situp, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of saying a fewwords to you. I am naturally anxious about it, and of course it’s avery delightful and consoling thing to have a grown-up son thatone can put confidence in, and advise with; indeed I don’t knowany use there would be in having sons at all, unless people couldput confidence in them.’
　　Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his motherbegan 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 ourneighbourhood when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name wasRogers; indeed I am sure it was if it wasn’t Murphy, which is theonly doubt I have—’
　　‘Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?’ saidNicholas quietly.
　　‘About her!’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘Good gracious, Nicholas, mydear, how can you be so ridiculous! But that was always the waywith your poor dear papa,—just his way—always wandering,never able to fix his thoughts on any one subject for two minutestogether. I think I see him now!’ said Mrs Nickleby, wiping hereyes, ‘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 havesupposed I was confusing and distracting him instead of makingthings plainer; upon my word they would.’
　　 ‘I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunateslowness of apprehension,’ said Nicholas, kindly; ‘but I’ll do mybest 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 MrNickleby had not arrived at the knowledge. Then he died. Neitherhad Mrs Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation ofthe circumstance.
　　‘However,’ said Mrs Nickleby, drying her tears, ‘this hasnothing to do—certainly nothing whatever to do—with thegentleman in the next house.’
　　‘I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has aslittle to do with us,’ returned Nicholas.
　　‘There can be no doubt,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘that he IS agentleman, and has the manners of a gentleman, and theappearance of a gentleman, although he does wear smalls andgrey worsted stockings. That may be eccentricity, or he may beproud of his legs. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be. The PrinceRegent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel Lambert, whowas also a fat man; HE was proud of his legs. So was Miss Biffin:
　　she was—no,’ added Mrs Nickleby, correcting, herself, ‘I think shehad only toes, but the principle is the same.’
　　Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of thisnew theme. Which seemed just what Mrs Nickleby had expectedhim to be.
　　‘You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,’ she said, ‘I amsure I was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost frozemy 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 tothink he stared rather, but I didn’t take any particular notice ofthat, as we were newcomers, and he might be curious to see whatwe were like. But when he began to throw his cucumbers over ourwall—’
　　‘To throw his cucumbers over our wall!’ repeated Nicholas, ingreat astonishment.
　　‘Yes, Nicholas, my dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby in a very serioustone; ‘his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrowslikewise.’
　　‘Confound his impudence!’ said Nicholas, firing immediately.
　　‘What does he mean by that?’
　　‘I don’t think he means it impertinently at all,’ replied MrsNickleby.
　　‘What!’ said Nicholas, ‘cucumbers and vegetable marrows flyingat the heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, andnot meant impertinently! Why, mother—’
　　Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribableexpression of placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion,lingering between the borders of Mrs Nickleby’s nightcap, whicharrested his attention suddenly.
　　‘He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,’
　　said Mrs Nickleby; ‘blamable indeed—at least I suppose otherpeople would consider him so; of course I can’t be expected toexpress any opinion on that point, especially after alwaysdefending your poor dear papa when other people blamed him formaking proposals to me; and to be sure there can be no doubt thathe 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 certainextent of course—a flattering sort of thing; and although I shouldnever dream of marrying again with a dear girl like Kate stillunsettled in life—’
　　‘Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for aninstant?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,’ returned his mother in apeevish tone, ‘isn’t that precisely what I am saying, if you wouldonly let me speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, andI am surprised and astonished that you should suppose mecapable of such a thing. All I say is, what step is the best to take, soas to reject these advances civilly and delicately, and withouthurting his feelings too much, and driving him to despair, oranything of that kind? My goodness me!’ exclaimed Mrs Nickleby,with a half-simper, ‘suppose he was to go doing anything rash tohimself. Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas?’
　　Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely helpsmiling, as he rejoined, ‘Now, do you think, mother, that such aresult would be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?’
　　‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,” returned MrsNickleby; ‘really, I don’t know. I am sure there was a case in theday before yesterday’s paper, extracted from one of the Frenchnewspapers, about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of ayoung girl in an adjoining village, because she wouldn’t shutherself up in an air-tight three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herselfto death with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with asharp-pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with afew friends, and killed himself first, and then all the friends, andthen 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 arejourneyman shoemakers who do these things in France, accordingto the papers. I don’t know how it is—something in the leather, Isuppose.’
　　‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker—what has he done,mother, what has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almostbeyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient asMrs Nickleby herself. ‘You know, there is no language ofvegetables, which converts a cucumber into a formal declarationof attachment.’
　　‘My dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, tossing her head and looking atthe 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 yousuppose 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 kissesone hand, and lays the other upon his heart—of course it’s veryfoolish 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—andvery tenderly, extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatestcredit; there can be no doubt about that. Then, there are thepresents which come pouring over the wall every day, and veryfine they certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers atdinner 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, andproposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a musical glass—very like a musical glass indeed—but ofcourse 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, forit would make her very unhappy. And with regard to what youshould do, my dear mother, do what your good sense and feeling,and respect for my father’s memory, would prompt. There are athousand ways in which you can show your dislike of thesepreposterous and doting attentions. If you act as decidedly as youought and they are still continued, and to your annoyance, I canspeedily put a stop to them. But I should not interfere in a matterso ridiculous, and attach importance to it, until you havevindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially one ofyour age and condition, in circumstances like these, which areunworthy of a serious thought. I would not shame you by seemingto 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 childrenwould have prevented her seriously contemplating a secondmarriage, even if she could have so far conquered herrecollections of her late husband as to have any strong inclinationsthat way. But, although there was no evil and little real selfishnessin Mrs Nickleby’s heart, she had a weak head and a vain one; andthere was something so flattering in being sought (and vainlysought) in marriage at this time of day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the unknown gentleman quite so summarily orlightly 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 whyhe should be an absurd old idiot, I confess I don’t see. He is not tobe supposed to know it’s hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, Ithink!’
　　Having made these reflections, Mrs Nickleby looked in her littledressing-glass, and walking backward a few steps from it, tried toremember who it was who used to say that when Nicholas wasone-and-twenty he would have more the appearance of herbrother than her son. Not being able to call the authority to mind,she extinguished her candle, and drew up the window-blind toadmit the light of morning, which had, by this time, begun todawn.
　　‘It’s a bad light to distinguish objects in,’ murmured MrsNickleby, peering into the garden, ‘and my eyes are not verygood—I was short-sighted from a child—but, upon my word, Ithink there’s another large vegetable marrow sticking, at thismoment, on the broken glass bottles at the top of the wall!’
Chapter 38
Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visitof Condolence, which may prove importanthereafter. Smike unexpectedly encounters a veryold Friend, who invites him to his House, and willtake no Denial.
　　Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorousneighbour, or their effects upon the susceptible bosom ofher mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoya settled feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which, even inoccasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger.
　　Living under the same roof with the beloved brother from whomshe had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with a mind atease, and free from any persecutions which could call a blush intoher cheek, or a pang into her heart, she seemed to have passedinto a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored,her step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which hadforsaken her cheek visited it once again, and Kate Nickleby lookedmore beautiful than ever.
　　Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy’s ruminations andobservations led her, when the cottage had been, as sheemphatically said, ‘thoroughly got to rights, from the chimney-potsto the street-door scraper,’ and the busy little woman had at lengtha 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 pleasanterthings 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 Iobserve a great change in one of this family—a very extraordinarychange?’
　　‘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 sameaffectionate good-natured clever creature, with a spice of the—Iwon’t say who—in him when there’s any occasion, that he waswhen 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, evenin 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 inyours. No; not in health.’
　　‘How then?’
　　‘I scarcely know,’ said the miniature painter. ‘But I havewatched him, and he has brought the tears into my eyes manytimes. It is not a very difficult matter to do that, certainly, for I ameasily melted; still I think these came with good cause and reason.
　　I am sure that since he has been here, he has grown, from somestrong cause, more conscious of his weak intellect. He feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know that he wanderssometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I havewatched him when you have not been by, my dear, sit brooding byhimself, 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 suchdejection, that I cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not threeweeks ago, he was a light-hearted busy creature, overjoyed to be ina bustle, and as happy as the day was long. Now, he is anotherbeing—the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving creature—butthe same in nothing else.’
　　‘Surely this will all pass off,’ said Kate. ‘Poor fellow!’
　　‘I hope,’ returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusualin 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’twonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for if he isto 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 atsomething. So the sooner he goes, the better for him, and thesooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I shall have mymaid gallivanting with somebody who may rob the house—thoughwhat 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 ofthem to any great advantage, for I can’t, I know, and that’s thehonest truth.’
　　So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flatbonnet, and herself in a very big shawl; and fixing herself tightlyinto 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 longbefore that good lady had concluded some reminiscences bearingupon, and appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus arrived. Thisput Miss La Creevy in a great bustle, in consequence whereof, asshe secretly rewarded the servant girl with eighteen-pence behindthe street-door, she pulled out of her reticule ten-pennyworth ofhalfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the passage,and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. Thisceremony had, of course, to be succeeded by a second kissing ofKate and Mrs Nickleby, and a gathering together of the littlebasket 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 afeint of going away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, anddarted in, apologising with great volubility to all the passengers,and declaring that she wouldn’t purposely have kept them waitingon any account whatever. While she was looking about for aconvenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried that itwas 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 conductoraforementioned, who lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind,smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to stop, or go on, orgallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient andadvisable; this narrative may embrace the opportunity ofascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and to whatextent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuriesconsequent on being flung violently from his cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.
　　With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfiguredby half-healed scars, and pallid from the exhaustion of recent painand fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched upon his back, on thecouch to which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeksyet to come. Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck sat drinking hard in the nextroom, now and then varying the monotonous murmurs of theirconversation with a half-smothered laugh, while the young lord—the only member of the party who was not thoroughlyirredeemable, and who really had a kind heart—sat beside hisMentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the light ofa lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as weremost likely to yield him interest or amusement.
　　‘Curse those hounds!’ said the invalid, turning his headimpatiently towards the adjoining room; ‘will nothing stop theirinfernal throats?’
　　Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stoppedimmediately: winking to each other as they did so, and filling theirglasses to the brim, as some recompense for the deprivation ofspeech.
　　‘Damn!’ muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhingimpatiently in his bed. ‘Isn’t this mattress hard enough, and theroom dull enough, and pain bad enough, but they must tortureme? 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 fromany change of position save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched every motion of his friend in the progress of thegame; and with what eagerness and interest he played, and yethow warily and coolly. His address and skill were more thantwenty times a match for his adversary, who could make littlehead against them, even when fortune favoured him with goodcards, which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won everygame; and when his companion threw down the cards, andrefused to play any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm and caughtup the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh,though considerably lowered in tone, that had resounded in RalphNickleby’s dining-room, months before.
　　While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announcethat Mr Ralph Nickleby was below, and wished to know how hewas, tonight.
　　‘Better,’ said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.
　　‘Mr Nickleby wishes to know, sir—’
　　‘I tell you, better,’ replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand uponthe table.
　　The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that MrNickleby had requested permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if itwas not inconvenient.
　　‘It is inconvenient. I can’t see him. I can’t see anybody,’ said hismaster, more violently than before. ‘You know that, youblockhead.’
　　‘I am very sorry, sir,’ returned the man. ‘But Mr Nicklebypressed 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, MrNickleby said, sir.’
　　‘Tell him to come up. Here,’ cried Sir Mulberry, calling the manback, as he passed his hand over his disfigured face, ‘move thatlamp, 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 comprehendedthe motive with which they were dictated, and left the room. LordFrederick Verisopht, remarking that he would look in presently,strolled into the adjoining apartment, and closed the folding doorbehind him.
　　Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and RalphNickleby, hat in hand, crept softly into the room, with his bodybent forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed upon theface of his worthy client.
　　‘Well, Nickleby,’ said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chairby the couch side, and waving his hand in assumed carelessness, ‘Ihave 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 ISbad.’
　　Ralph’s manner was one of profound humility and respect; andthe low tone of voice was that, which the gentlest consideration fora sick man would have taught a visitor to assume. But theexpression of his face, Sir Mulberry’s being averted, was inextraordinary 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 andcontracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic smile.
　　‘Sit down,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as thoughby a violent effort. ‘Am I a sight, that you stand gazing there?’
　　As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and makingas though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment,but was determined not to do so, sat down with well-actedconfusion.
　　‘I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,’ saidRalph, ‘twice a day, indeed, at first—and tonight, presuming uponold acquaintance, and past transactions by which we havemutually benefited in some degree, I could not resist solicitingadmission to your chamber. Have you—have you suffered much?’
　　said Ralph, bending forward, and allowing the same harsh smile togather upon his face, as the other closed his eyes.
　　‘More than enough to please me, and less than enough to pleasesome broken-down hacks that you and I know of, and who laytheir ruin between us, I dare say,’ returned Sir Mulberry, tossinghis arm restlessly upon the coverlet.
　　Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intenseirritation with which this had been said; for there was anaggravating, cold distinctness in his speech and manner which sograted on the sick man that he could scarcely endure it.
　　‘And what is it in these “past transactions,” that brought youhere tonight?’ asked Sir Mulberry.
　　‘Nothing,’ replied Ralph. ‘There are some bills of my lord’swhich need renewal; but let them be till you are well. I—I—came,’
　　said Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher emphasis, ‘Icame to say how grieved I am that any relative of mine, although disowned by me, should have inflicted such punishment on youas—’
　　‘Punishment!’ interposed Sir Mulberry.
　　‘I know it has been a severe one,’ said Ralph, wilfully mistakingthe meaning of the interruption, ‘and that has made me the moreanxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond—that Iacknowledge him as no kin of mine—and that I leave him to takehis deserts from you, and every man besides. You may wring hisneck 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 andgaming-room has rung with it. There has been a good song madeabout it, as I am told,’ said Ralph, looking eagerly at hisquestioner. ‘I have not heard it myself, not being in the way ofsuch things, but I have been told it’s even printed—for privatecirculation—but that’s all over town, of course.’
　　‘It’s a lie!’ said Sir Mulberry; ‘I tell you it’s all a lie. The maretook fright.’
　　‘They say he frightened her,’ observed Ralph, in the sameunmoved and quiet manner. ‘Some say he frightened you, butthat’s a lie, I know. I have said that boldly—oh, a score of times! Iam a peaceable man, but I can’t hear folks tell that of you. No, no.’
　　When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bentforward with his hand to his ear, and a face as calm as if its everyline of sternness had been cast in iron.
　　‘When I am off this cursed bed,’ said the invalid, actuallystriking at his broken leg in the ecstasy of his passion, ‘I’ll havesuch 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 amark on him that he shall carry to his grave. I’ll slit his nose andears, flog him, maim him for life. I’ll do more than that; I’ll dragthat pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate sister,through—’
　　It might have been that even Ralph’s cold blood tingled in hischeeks at that moment. It might have been that Sir Mulberryremembered, that, knave and usurer as he was, he must, in someearly time of infancy, have twined his arm about her father’s neck.
　　He stopped, and menacing with his hand, confirmed the unutteredthreat 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 theman about town, the rake, the roué, the rook of twenty seasonsshould be brought to this pass by a mere boy!’
　　Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph’s eyeswere bent upon the ground, and his face wore no other expressionthan one of thoughtfulness.
　　‘A raw, slight stripling,’ continued Ralph, ‘against a man whosevery weight might crush him; to say nothing of his skill in—I amright, I think,’ said Ralph, raising his eyes, ‘you were a patron ofthe ring once, were you not?’
　　The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose toconsider as one of acquiescence.
　　‘Ha!’ he said, ‘I thought so. That was before I knew you, but Iwas pretty sure I couldn’t be mistaken. He is light and active, Isuppose. 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 ishere, good sir, waiting your pleasure, here in London, walking thestreets at noonday; carrying it off jauntily; looking for you, Iswear,’ said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred gettingthe upper hand of him, for the first time, as this gay picture ofNicholas presented itself; ‘if we were only citizens of a countrywhere it could be safely done, I’d give good money to have himstabbed to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs totear.’
　　As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented thislittle piece of sound family feeling, and took up his hat preparatoryto departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht looked in.
　　‘Why what in the deyvle’s name, Hawk, have you and Nicklebybeen talking about?’ said the young man. ‘I neyver heard such aninsufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow, wow, wow. What has itall been about?’
　　‘Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,’ said Ralph, lookingtowards 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 alwaysagree. Sir Mulberry has been calling to mind the cause of—’
　　There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph toproceed; for Sir Mulberry took up the theme, and vented histhreats and oaths against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as before.
　　Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see thatas 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 neverto have the subject renewed in his presence.
　　‘Mind that, Hawk!’ he added, with unusual energy. ‘I never willbe a party to, or permit, if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon thisyoung fellow.’
　　‘Cowardly!’ interrupted his friend.
　　‘Ye-es,’ said the other, turning full upon him. ‘If you had toldhim who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out,afterwards, that his station or character prevented your fightinghim, it would have been bad enough then; upon my soul it wouldhave been bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did wrongtoo, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to youafterwards, 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, theyoung lord turned upon his heel; but before he had reached theadjoining room he turned back again, and said, with even greatervehemence than he had displayed before,‘I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sisteris 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 myheart and soul, that any one of us came out of this matter half aswell 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 freshfrom some country parson?’
　　‘Green fools take these fits sometimes,’ replied Sir MulberryHawk, biting his lip, and pointing to the door. ‘Leave him to me.’
　　Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; forthey had suddenly grown confidential again in this alarmingsurprise; and took his way home, thoughtfully and slowly.
　　While these things were being said and done, and long beforethey were concluded, the omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevyand her escort, and they had arrived at her own door. Now, thegood-nature of the little miniature painter would by no meansallow of Smike’s walking back again, until he had been previouslyrefreshed with just a sip of something comfortable and a mixedbiscuit or so; and Smike, entertaining no objection either to the sipof something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit, but, consideringon the contrary that they would be a very pleasant preparation fora walk to Bow, it fell out that he delayed much longer than heoriginally intended, and that it was some half-hour after duskwhen he set forth on his journey home.
　　There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quitestraight before him, and he had walked into town with Nicholas,and back alone, almost every day. So, Miss La Creevy and heshook hands with mutual confidence, and, being charged withmore kind remembrances to Mrs and Miss Nickleby, Smikestarted off.
　　At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road tosatisfy his curiosity by having a look at Newgate. After staring upat the sombre walls, from the opposite side of the way, with great care and dread for some minutes, he turned back again into theold track, and walked briskly through the city; stopping now andthen to gaze in at the window of some particularly attractive shop,then running for a little way, then stopping again, and so on, asany other country lad might do.
　　He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller’swindow, wishing he could take some of the beautiful trinketshome as a present, and imagining what delight they would affordif he could, when the clocks struck three-quarters past eight;roused by the sound, he hurried on at a very quick pace, and wascrossing the corner of a by-street when he felt himself violentlybrought to, with a jerk so sudden that he was obliged to cling to alamp-post to save himself from falling. At the same moment, asmall 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 eyesdownward towards the form from which it had proceeded, and,shuddering from head to foot, looked round. Mr Squeers hadhooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his umbrella, andwas hanging on at the other end with all his might and main. Thecry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who, regardlessof all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of abull-dog!
　　One glance showed him this; and in that one glance theterrified creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter asound.
　　‘Here’s a go!’ cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-overhand down the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had gottight 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 thecountenance of Smike. ‘Damn the expense. Let’s have him in acoach.’
　　‘What’s he been a doing of?’ asked a labourer with a hod ofbricks, against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers hadbacked, on the first jerk of the umbrella.
　　‘Everything!’ replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his oldpupil in a sort of rapturous trance. ‘Everything—running away,sir—joining in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master—there’snothing that’s bad that he hasn’t done. Oh, what a delicious go isthis here, good Lord!’
　　The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mentalfaculties as the poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him.
　　The coach came up; Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed inhis prize, and following close at his heels, pulled up the glasses.
　　The coachman mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving thetwo bricklayers, and an old apple-woman, and a town-made littleboy returning from an evening school, who had been the onlywitnesses of the scene, to meditate upon it at their leisure.
　　Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to theunfortunate Smike, and, planting his hands firmly on his knees,looked at him for some five minutes, when, seeming to recoverfrom his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and slapped his oldpupil’s face several times—taking the right and left sidesalternately.
　　‘It isn’t a dream!’ said Squeers. ‘That’s real flesh and blood! Iknow the feel of it!’ and being quite assured of his good fortune by these experiments, Mr Squeers administered a few boxes on theear, 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, whenshe 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 outof a street, and come upon him at the very nick; and that I shouldhave him tight, at only one cast of the umbrella, as if I had hookedhim with a grappling-iron! Ha, ha!’
　　‘Didn’t I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?’ said littleWackford.
　　‘You did; like a good ’un, my boy,’ said Mr Squeers, patting hisson’s head, ‘and you shall have the best button-over jacket andwaistcoat that the next new boy brings down, as a reward of merit.
　　Mind that. You always keep on in the same path, and do themthings that you see your father do, and when you die you’ll goright slap to Heaven and no questions asked.’
　　Improving the occasion in these words, Mr Squeers patted hisson’s head again, and then patted Smike’s—but harder; andinquired 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 MrSqueers. ‘You’ll go home very soon, you will. You’ll find yourself atthe peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire, in somethingunder a week’s time, my young friend; and the next time you getaway from there, I give you leave to keep away. Where’s theclothes you run off in, you ungrateful robber?’ said Mr Squeers, ina severe voice.
　　 Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas hadprovided for him; and wrung his hands.
　　‘Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the OldBailey, for making away with them articles of property?’ saidSqueers. ‘Do you know that it’s a hanging matter—and I an’t quitecertain whether it an’t an anatomy one besides—to walk off withup’ards of the valley of five pound from a dwelling-house? Eh? Doyou know that? What do you suppose was the worth of themclothes you had? Do you know that that Wellington boot you wore,cost eight-and-twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the shoeseven-and-six? But you came to the right shop for mercy whenyou came to me, and thank your stars that it IS me as has got toserve you with the article.’
　　Anybody not in Mr Squeers’s confidence would have supposedthat he was quite out of the article in question, instead of having alarge stock on hand ready for all comers; nor would the opinion ofsceptical persons have undergone much alteration when hefollowed up the remark by poking Smike in the chest with theferrule of his umbrella, and dealing a smart shower of blows, withthe ribs of the same instrument, upon his head and shoulders.
　　‘I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,’ said MrSqueers, when he stopped to rest. ‘There’s inconveniency in it, butthe novelty gives it a sort of relish, too!’
　　Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, andnow shrunk into a corner of the coach, with his head resting on hishands, and his elbows on his knees; he was stunned and stupefied,and had no more idea that any act of his, would enable him toescape from the all-powerful Squeers, now that he had no friend tospeak 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 andleft behind; and still they went jolting on. At last Mr Squeersbegan to thrust his head out of the widow every half-minute, andto bawl a variety of directions to the coachman; and after passing,with some difficulty, through several mean streets which theappearance of the houses and the bad state of the road denoted tohave been recently built, Mr Squeers suddenly tugged at thecheck string with all his might, and cried, ‘Stop!’
　　‘What are you pulling a man’s arm off for?’ said the coachmanlooking angrily down.
　　‘That’s the house,’ replied Squeers. ‘The second of them fourlittle houses, one story high, with the green shutters. There’s brassplate on the door, with the name of Snawley.’
　　‘Couldn’t you say that without wrenching a man’s limbs off hisbody?’ inquired the coachman.
　　‘No!’ bawled Mr Squeers. ‘Say another word, and I’ll summonsyou for having a broken winder. Stop!’
　　Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr Snawley’sdoor. Mr Snawley may be remembered as the sleek and sanctifiedgentleman who confided two sons (in law) to the parental care ofMr Squeers, as narrated in the fourth chapter of this history. MrSnawley’s house was on the extreme borders of some newsettlements adjoining Somers Town, and Mr Squeers had takenlodgings therein for a short time, as his stay was longer than usual,and the Saracen, having experience of Master Wackford’sappetite, had declined to receive him on any other terms than as afull-grown customer.
　　‘Here we are!’ said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour, where Mr Snawley and his wife were taking a lobstersupper. ‘Here’s the vagrant—the felon—the rebel—the monster ofunthankfulness.’
　　‘What! The boy that run away!’ cried Snawley, resting his knifeand fork upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their fullwidth.
　　‘The very boy’, said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike’snose, and drawing it away again, and repeating the process severaltimes, with a vicious aspect. ‘If there wasn’t a lady present, I’dfetch him such a—: never mind, I’ll owe it him.’
　　And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, andwhen and where, he had picked up the runaway.
　　‘It’s clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,’ said MrSnawley, casting down his eyes with an air of humility, andelevating his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards theceiling.
　　‘Providence is against him, no doubt,’ replied Mr Squeers,scratching his nose. ‘Of course; that was to be expected. Anybodymight have known that.’
　　‘Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,’ saidMr Snawley.
　　‘Never was such a thing known,’ rejoined Squeers, taking alittle roll of notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were allsafe.
　　‘I have been, Mr Snawley,’ said Mr Squeers, when he hadsatisfied himself upon this point, ‘I have been that chap’sbenefactor, feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap’sclassical, commercial, mathematical, philosophical, andtrigonomical 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 cottonedto anybody, except them two engaging and delightful boys ofyours, as she cottoned to this chap. What’s my return? What’scome of my milk of human kindness? It turns into curds and wheywhen 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 hebeen living with—?’
　　‘Ah, sir!’ interposed Squeers, confronting him again. ‘Have youbeen a living with that there devilish Nickleby, sir?’
　　But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word ofreply to this question; for he had internally resolved that he wouldrather perish in the wretched prison to which he was again aboutto be consigned, than utter one syllable which could involve hisfirst and true friend. He had already called to mind the strictinjunctions of secrecy as to his past life, which Nicholas had laidupon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused andperplexed idea that his benefactor might have committed someterrible crime in bringing him away, which would render himliable to heavy punishment if detected, had contributed, in somedegree, to reduce him to his present state of apathy and terror.
　　Such were the thoughts—if to visions so imperfect andundefined as those which wandered through his enfeebled brain,the term can be applied—which were present to the mind ofSmike, and rendered him deaf alike to intimidation andpersuasion. Finding every effort useless, Mr Squeers conductedhim 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 heshould 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’sheart sunk within him when he thought—when did he, for amoment, cease to think?—of his late home, and the dear friendsand familiar faces with which it was associated, cannot be told. Toprepare the mind for such a heavy sleep, its growth must bestopped by rigour and cruelty in childhood; there must be years ofmisery and suffering, lightened by no ray of hope; the chords ofthe heart, which beat a quick response to the voice of gentlenessand 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 tobed the same listless, hopeless, blighted creature, that Nicholashad 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 summermorning, when a north-country mail-coach traversed, withcheerful noise, the yet silent streets of Islington, and, giving brisknote 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-lookingcountryman on the box, who, with his eyes fixed upon the dome ofSt Paul’s Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as tobe quite insensible to all the bustle of getting out the bags andparcels, until one of the coach windows being let sharply down, helooked round, and encountered a pretty female face which wasjust then thrust out.
　　‘See there, lass!’ bawled the countryman, pointing towards theobject of his admiration. ‘There be Paul’s Church. ‘Ecod, he be asoizable ’un, he be.’
　　‘Goodness, John! I shouldn’t have thought it could have beenhalf 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 inhis 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 fortwolve 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 theLord 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 ashe 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 aminute or two now and then,’ replied John Browdie’s choice, ‘andI was very sorry when she woke, for she has been so cross!’
　　The subject of these remarks was a slumbering figure, somuffled in shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter ofimpossibility to guess at its sex but for a brown beaver bonnet andgreen veil which ornamented the head, and which, having beencrushed and flattened, for two hundred and fifty miles, in thatparticular angle of the vehicle from which the lady’s snores nowproceeded, presented an appearance sufficiently ludicrous to havemoved less risible muscles than those of John Browdie’s ruddyface.
　　‘Hollo!’ cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil.
　　‘Coom, wakken oop, will ’ee?’
　　After several burrowings into the old corner, and manyexclamations of impatience and fatigue, the figure struggled into asitting posture; and there, under a mass of crumpled beaver, andsurrounded by a semicircle of blue curl-papers, were the delicatefeatures of Miss Fanny Squeers.
　　‘Oh, ’Tilda!’ cried Miss Squeers, ‘how you have been kicking ofme 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, ‘becauseyou have, and it’s no use to go attempting to say you haven’t. Youmightn’t have known it in your sleep, ’Tilda, but I haven’t closedmy 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 uttersuspension of nature’s laws could have reduced to any shape orform; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonlyneat, brushed off the sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit whichhad accumulated in her lap, and availing herself of John Browdie’sproffered arm, descended from the coach.
　　‘Noo,’ said John, when a hackney coach had been called, andthe 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’sSon’s Head. Dost thou know thot?’
　　‘Oh, ah! I know that,’ replied the coachman gruffly, as hebanged the door.
　　‘‘Tilda, dear, really,’ remonstrated Miss Squeers, ‘we shall betaken for I don’t know what.’
　　‘Let them tak’ us as they foind us,’ said John Browdie; ‘wedean’t come to Lunnun to do nought but ‘joy oursel, do we?’
　　‘I hope not, Mr Browdie,’ replied Miss Squeers, lookingsingularly 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’ itoff. Here be a weddin’ party—broide and broide’s-maid, and thegroom—if a mun dean’t ’joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Dratit all, thot’s what I want to know.’
　　So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, andlose no time, Mr Browdie gave his wife a hearty kiss, andsucceeded in wresting another from Miss Squeers, after amaidenly resistance of scratching and struggling on the part ofthat young lady, which was not quite over when they reached theSaracen’s Head.
　　Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment ofsleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they metagain about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction ofMr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commandingan 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 thevirgin splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslinbonnet, and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the insidethereof—her luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight thatit was impossible they could come out by any accident, and herbonnet-cap trimmed with little damask roses, which might besupposed to be so many promising scions of the big rose—to haveseen all this, and to have seen the broad damask belt, matchingboth the family rose and the little roses, which encircled herslender waist, and by a happy ingenuity took off from theshortness of the spencer behind,—to have beheld all this, and tohave taken further into account the coral bracelets (rather short ofbeads, 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 ofher own disengaged affections—to have contemplated all thesemute but expressive appeals to the purest feelings of our nature,might have thawed the frost of age, and added new andinextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.
　　The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had humanpassions and feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers ashe 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—MrWackford Squeers—he’s stopping here. Is he at home?’
　　‘I didn’t know there was any gen’l’man of that name in thehouse, miss’ replied the waiter. ‘There may be, in the coffee-room.’
　　May Be. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, whohad been depending, all the way to London, upon showing herfriends how much at home she would be, and how much respectfulnotice her name and connections would excite, told that her fathermight be there! ‘As if he was a feller!’ observed Miss Squeers, withemphatic indignation.
　　‘Ye’d betther inquire, mun,’ said John Browdie. ‘An’ hond upanother pigeon-pie, will ’ee? Dang the chap,’ muttered John,looking into the empty dish as the waiter retired; ‘does he ca’ this apie—three yoong pigeons and a troifling matther o’ steak, and acrust so loight that you doant know when it’s in your mooth andwhen it’s gane? I wonder hoo many pies goes to a breakfast!’
　　 After a short interval, which John Browdie employed upon theham and a cold round of beef, the waiter returned with anotherpie, and the information that Mr Squeers was not stopping in thehouse, but that he came there every day and that directly hearrived, he should be shown upstairs. With this, he retired; and hehad not retired two minutes, when he returned with Mr Squeersand his hopeful son.
　　‘Why, who’d have thought of this?’ said Mr Squeers, when hehad saluted the party and received some private familyintelligence from his daughter.
　　‘Who, indeed, pa!’ replied that young lady, spitefully. ‘But yousee ’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 likenothing at all! How much better wouldn’t it be now, to save it upfor the eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come onyou,’ said Mr Squeers in a moralising way, ‘before you’re aware ofit; mine did upon me.’
　　‘Will ’ee pick a bit?’ said John.
　　‘I won’t myself,’ returned Squeers; ‘but if you’ll just let littleWackford tuck into something fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give ithim in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there’s lot ofprofit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waitercoming, 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 headvehemently. ‘I can wait.’
　　‘So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,’ observed MrsBrowdie.
　　‘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 ratheracrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of aconstitutionally vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by traveland recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old recollectionsand the failure of her own designs upon Mr Browdie; and theacrimonious retort might have led to a great many other retorts,which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject ofconversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentallychanged by Mr Squeers himself‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you supposewe 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 herhands.
　　‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard andfast.’
　　‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Gotthat 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! Theschoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I’mdarned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot.—Gotten him atthy loodgin’?’
　　‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under thecongratulatory blow on the chest which the stout Yorkshiremandealt 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 tohear tell on.’
　　‘I thought it would surprise you a bit,’ said Squeers, rubbing hishands. ‘It was pretty neatly done, and pretty quick too.’
　　‘Hoo wor it?’ inquired John, sitting down close to him. ‘Tell usall aboot it, mun; coom, quick!’
　　Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie’simpatience, Mr Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smikehad fallen into his hands, as quickly as he could, and, except whenhe 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,’ observedSqueers, when he had finished, looking very cunning, ‘I’ve takenthree outsides for tomorrow morning—for Wackford and him andme—and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys tothe agent, don’t you see? So it’s very lucky you come today, oryou’d have missed us; and as it is, unless you could come and teawith me tonight, we shan’t see anything more of you before we goaway.’
　　 ‘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 notexpected quite such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or hewould 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 tilltomorrow, so that they might be at Mr Snawley’s at six o’clockwithout fail; and after some further conversation, Mr Squeers andhis son departed.
　　During the remainder of the day, Mr Browdie was in a very oddand excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion oflaughter, and then taking up his hat and running into the coach-yard to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantlywalking in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scrapsof uncouth country dances, and, in short, conducting himself insuch a very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined hewas going mad, and, begging her dear ’Tilda not to distressherself, communicated her suspicions in so many words. MrsBrowdie, however, without discovering any great alarm, observedthat she had seen him so once before, and that although he wasalmost 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 theywere all sitting in Mr Snawley’s parlour that night, and just as itwas beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, andseized with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the wholecompany were thrown into the utmost consternation. His goodlady, indeed, was the only person present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he were allowed to lie down onMr Squeers’s bed for an hour or so, and left entirely to himself, hewould be sure to recover again almost as quickly as he had beentaken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the effect of so reasonable aproposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John wassupported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrousweight, and regularly tumbling down two steps every time theyhoisted him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in chargeof 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, JohnBrowdie was sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen,cramming the corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent hisroaring out loud with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded insuppressing this emotion, than he slipped off his shoes, andcreeping to the adjoining room where the prisoner was confined,turned the key, which was on the outside, and darting in, coveredSmike’s mouth with his huge hand before he could utter a sound.
　　‘Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?’ whispered theYorkshireman to the bewildered lad. ‘Browdie. Chap as met theeefther schoolmeasther was banged?’
　　‘Yes, yes,’ cried Smike. ‘Oh! help me.’
　　‘Help thee!’ replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instanthe had said this much. ‘Thee didn’t need help, if thee warn’t assilly 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, orlay 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 theebe’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 stoppedhim.
　　‘Stan’ still,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘and doant’ee speak amorsel 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 thelock 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 hismeaning.
　　‘I say, coot awa’,’ repeated John, hastily. ‘Dost thee know wherethee livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, orschoolmeasther’s?’
　　‘Mine,’ replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to theadjoining room, and pointed out a pair of shoes and a coat whichwere lying on a chair.
　　‘On wi’ ’em,’ said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrongsleeve, and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive’s neck.
　　‘Noo, foller me, and when thee get’st ootside door, turn to theright, 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, hewean’t. Look’ee! I wont to do this neighbourly loike, and let themthink thee’s gotten awa’ o’ theeself, but if he cooms oot o’ thotparlour awhiles theer’t clearing off, he mun’ have mercy on hisoun boans, for I wean’t. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I’ll put ’unon 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 wasintended as encouragement, prepared to follow with totteringsteps, when John whispered in his ear.
　　‘Thee’lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m sploiced to ‘TillyPrice, and to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that Ibean’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 thethin bread an’ butther!’
　　It was rather a ticklish recollection for John just then, for hewas within an ace of breaking out into a loud guffaw. Restraininghimself, however, just in time, by a great effort, he glideddownstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself closeto the parlour door, to confront the first person that might comeout, signed to him to make off.
　　Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Openingthe house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled gratitude andterror at his deliverer, he took the direction which had beenindicated 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, creptback again unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into MrSqueers’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 thebedclothes shook, and to see the Yorkshireman’s great red faceand round head appear above the sheets, every now and then, likesome jovial monster coming to the surface to breathe, and oncemore dive down convulsed with the laughter which came burstingforth afresh—that somebody would have been scarcely lessamused than John Browdie himself.
Chapter 40
In which Nicholas falls in Love. He employs aMediator, whose Proceedings are crowned withunexpected Success, excepting in one solitaryParticular.
　　O nce more out of the clutches of his old persecutor, itneeded no fresh stimulation to call forth the utmostenergy and exertion that Smike was capable ofsummoning to his aid. Without pausing for a moment to reflectupon the course he was taking, or the probability of its leadinghim homewards or the reverse, he fled away with surprisingswiftness and constancy of purpose, borne upon such wings asonly Fear can wear, and impelled by imaginary shouts in the wellremembered voice of Squeers, who, with a host of pursuers,seemed to the poor fellow’s disordered senses to press hard uponhis track; now left at a greater distance in the rear, and nowgaining faster and faster upon him, as the alternations of hope andterror agitated him by turns. Long after he had become assuredthat these sounds were but the creation of his excited brain, hestill held on, at a pace which even weakness and exhaustion couldscarcely retard. It was not until the darkness and quiet of acountry road, recalled him to a sense of external objects, and thestarry sky, above, warned him of the rapid flight of time, that,covered with dust and panting for breath, he stopped to listen andlook 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. Solitaryfields, divided by hedges and ditches, through many of which hehad crashed and scrambled in his flight, skirted the road, both bythe 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, andif he could hope to regain his own dwelling, it must surely be atsuch a time as that, and under cover of the darkness. This, bydegrees, became pretty plain, even to the mind of Smike. He had,at first, entertained some vague and childish idea of travelling intothe country for ten or a dozen miles, and then returninghomewards by a wide circuit, which should keep him clear ofLondon—so great was his apprehension of traversing the streetsalone, lest he should again encounter his dreaded enemy—but,yielding to the conviction which these thoughts inspired, heturned back, and taking the open road, though not without manyfears and misgivings, made for London again, with scarcely lessspeed of foot than that with which he had left the temporary abodeof Mr Squeers.
　　By the time he re-entered it, at the western extremity, thegreater part of the shops were closed. Of the throngs of peoplewho had been tempted abroad after the heat of the day, but fewremained in the streets, and they were lounging home. But ofthese he asked his way from time to time, and by dint of repeatedinquiries, he at length reached the dwelling of Newman Noggs.
　　All that evening, Newman had been hunting and searching inbyways and corners for the very person who now knocked at hisdoor, while Nicholas had been pursuing the same inquiry in otherdirections. He was sitting, with a melancholy air, at his poorsupper, 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 andthe door was shut behind them, when he mixed a great mug-full ofgin-and-water, and holding it to Smike’s mouth, as one might holda bowl of medicine to the lips of a refractory child, commandedhim to drain it to the last drop.
　　Newman looked uncommonly blank when he found that Smikedid little more than put his lips to the precious mixture; he was inthe act of raising the mug to his own mouth with a deep sigh ofcompassion 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 hishand.
　　It was odd enough to see the change that came over Newman asSmike proceeded. At first he stood, rubbing his lips with the backof his hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards composinghimself for a draught; then, at the mention of Squeers, he took themug under his arm, and opening his eyes very wide, looked on, inthe utmost astonishment. When Smike came to the assault uponhimself in the hackney coach, he hastily deposited the mug uponthe table, and limped up and down the room in a state of thegreatest excitement, stopping himself with a jerk, every now andthen, as if to listen more attentively. When John Browdie came tobe spoken of, he dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into achair, and rubbing, his hands upon his knees—quicker andquicker as the story reached its climax—burst, at last, into a laughcomposed of one loud sonorous ‘Ha! ha!’ having given vent to which, his countenance immediately fell again as he inquired, withthe utmost anxiety, whether it was probable that John Browdieand Squeers had come to blows.
　　‘No! I think not,’ replied Smike. ‘I don’t think he could havemissed me till I had got quite away.’
　　Newman scratched his head with a shout of greatdisappointment, and once more lifting up the mug, applied himselfto the contents; smiling meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim andghastly smile at Smike.
　　‘You shall stay here,’ said Newman; ‘you’re tired—fagged. I’lltell 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 orpeace; no more has the old lady, nor Miss Nickleby.’
　　‘No, no. Has she thought about me?’ said Smike. ‘Has shethough? 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 isbeautiful.’
　　‘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 athis companion, he saw that he had covered his face with hishands, and that tears were stealing out between his fingers.
　　A moment before, the boy’s eyes were sparkling with unwontedfire, and every feature had been lighted up with an excitementwhich made him appear, for the moment, quite a different being.
　　 ‘Well, well,’ muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. ‘Ithas touched me, more than once, to think such a nature shouldhave been exposed to such trials; this poor fellow—yes, yes,—hefeels that too—it softens him—makes him think of his formermisery. Hah! That’s it? Yes, that’s—hum!’
　　It was by no means clear, from the tone of these brokenreflections, that Newman Noggs considered them as explaining, atall satisfactorily, the emotion which had suggested them. He sat, ina musing attitude, for some time, regarding Smike occasionallywith an anxious and doubtful glance, which sufficiently showedthat he was not very remotely connected with his thoughts.
　　At length he repeated his proposition that Smike should remainwhere he was for that night, and that he (Noggs) shouldstraightway repair to the cottage to relieve the suspense of thefamily. But, as Smike would not hear of this—pleading his anxietyto 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 withinan 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 therecovery of his lost charge, started from his bed, and joyfullyadmitted them. There was so much noisy conversation, andcongratulation, and indignation, that the remainder of the familywere soon awakened, and Smike received a warm and cordialwelcome, not only from Kate, but from Mrs Nickleby also, whoassured him of her future favour and regard, and was so obligingas 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 someprison, but what one she couldn’t remember, effected by an officerwhose name she had forgotten, confined for some crime which shedidn’t clearly recollect.
　　At first Nicholas was disposed to give his uncle credit for someportion of this bold attempt (which had so nearly provedsuccessful) to carry off Smike; but on more mature consideration,he was inclined to think that the full merit of it rested with MrSqueers. Determined to ascertain, if he could, through JohnBrowdie, how the case really stood, he betook himself to his dailyoccupation: meditating, as he went, on a great variety of schemesfor the punishment of the Yorkshire schoolmaster, all of whichhad their foundation in the strictest principles of retributivejustice, and had but the one drawback of being whollyimpracticable.
　　‘A fine morning, Mr Linkinwater!’ said Nicholas, entering theoffice.
　　‘Ah!’ replied Tim, ‘talk of the country, indeed! What do youthink 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 mybedroom 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 youget in the country but new-laid eggs and flowers? I can buy new-laid eggs in Leadenhall Market, any morning before breakfast; andas to flowers, it’s worth a run upstairs to smell my mignonette, orto 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 wereencouraged by the tone of this reply to be more communicative onthe subject; and sticking behind his ear, a pen that he had beenmaking, and shutting up his knife with a smart click, said,‘They belong to a sickly bedridden hump-backed boy, and seemto be the only pleasure, Mr Nickleby, of his sad existence. Howmany years is it,’ said Tim, pondering, ‘since I first noticed him,quite a little child, dragging himself about on a pair of tinycrutches? Well! Well! Not many; but though they would appearnothing, 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, ‘tosee a little deformed child sitting apart from other children, whoare active and merry, watching the games he is denied the powerto share in. He made my heart ache very often.’
　　‘It is a good heart,’ said Nicholas, ‘that disentangles itself fromthe close avocations of every day, to heed such things. You weresaying—’
　　‘That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,’ said Tim; ‘that’sall. When it is fine weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he drawsa 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 wecame to speak. Formerly, when I called to him of a morning, andasked him how he was, he would smile, and say, “Better!” but nowhe shakes his head, and only bends more closely over his oldplants. It must be dull to watch the dark housetops and the flyingclouds, for so many months; but he is very patient.’
　　‘Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?’ askedNicholas.
　　‘His father lives there, I believe,’ replied Tim, ‘and other peopletoo; but no one seems to care much for the poor sickly cripple. Ihave asked him, very often, if I can do nothing for him; his answeris 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 bednow, so they have moved it close beside the window, and there helies, all day: now looking at the sky, and now at his flowers, whichhe still makes shift to trim and water, with his own thin hands. Atnight, when he sees my candle, he draws back his curtain, andleaves it so, till I am in bed. It seems such company to him to knowthat 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 thenight to look at the dull melancholy light in his little room, andwonder whether he is awake or sleeping.
　　‘The night will not be long coming,’ said Tim, ‘when he willsleep, and never wake again on earth. We have never so much asshaken hands in all our lives; and yet I shall miss him like an oldfriend. Are there any country flowers that could interest me likethese, do you think? Or do you suppose that the withering of ahundred kinds of the choicest flowers that blow, called by thehardest Latin names that were ever invented, would give me one fraction of the pain that I shall feel when these old jugs and bottlesare swept away as lumber? Country!’ cried Tim, with acontemptuous emphasis; ‘don’t you know that I couldn’t have sucha court under my bedroom window, anywhere, but in London?’
　　With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and pretending to beabsorbed in his accounts, took an opportunity of hastily wiping hiseyes when he supposed Nicholas was looking another way.
　　Whether it was that Tim’s accounts were more than usuallyintricate that morning, or whether it was that his habitual serenityhad been a little disturbed by these recollections, it so happenedthat when Nicholas returned from executing some commission,and inquired whether Mr Charles Cheeryble was alone in hisroom, Tim promptly, and without the smallest hesitation, repliedin the affirmative, although somebody had passed into the roomnot ten minutes before, and Tim took especial and particular pridein preventing any intrusion on either of the brothers when theywere engaged with any visitor whatever.
　　‘I’ll take this letter to him at once,’ said Nicholas, ‘if that’s thecase.’ And with that, he walked to the room and knocked at thedoor.
　　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 quicklyhe turned to walk out again, when he saw, to his greatastonishment and discomfiture, a young lady upon her knees atMr Cheeryble’s feet, and Mr Cheeryble beseeching her to rise, andentreating a third person, who had the appearance of the younglady’s female attendant, to add her persuasions to his to induce her to do so.
　　Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology, and wasprecipitately retiring, when the young lady, turning her head alittle, presented to his view the features of the lovely girl whom hehad seen at the register-office on his first visit long before.
　　Glancing from her to the attendant, he recognised the sameclumsy servant who had accompanied her then; and between hisadmiration of the young lady’s beauty, and the confusion andsurprise of this unexpected recognition, he stood stock-still, insuch a bewildered state of surprise and embarrassment that, forthe moment, he was quite bereft of the power either to speak ormove.
　　‘My dear ma’am—my dear young lady,’ cried brother Charles inviolent agitation, ‘pray don’t—not another word, I beseech andentreat you! I implore you—I beg of you—to rise. We—we—arenot alone.’
　　As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chairand swooned away.
　　‘She has fainted, sir,’ said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.
　　‘Poor dear, poor dear!’ cried brother Charles ‘Where is mybrother Ned? Ned, my dear brother, come here pray.’
　　‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied his brother, hurryinginto the room, ‘what is the—ah! what—’
　　‘Hush! hush!—not a word for your life, brother Ned,’ returnedthe other. ‘Ring for the housekeeper, my dear brother—call TimLinkinwater! Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir—Mr Nickleby, my dearsir, leave the room, I beg and beseech of you.’
　　‘I think she is better now,’ said Nicholas, who had beenwatching 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 theroom, and to send Tim Linkinwater without an instant’s delay.
　　Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on his way to thecounting-house, met both the old housekeeper and TimLinkinwater, jostling each other in the passage, and hurrying tothe scene of action with extraordinary speed. Without waiting tohear his message, Tim Linkinwater darted into the room, andpresently afterwards Nicholas heard the door shut and locked onthe inside.
　　He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, forTim Linkinwater was absent during the greater part of an hour,during the whole of which time Nicholas thought of nothing butthe young lady, and her exceeding beauty, and what couldpossibly have brought her there, and why they made such amystery of it. The more he thought of all this, the more itperplexed him, and the more anxious he became to know who andwhat 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 peculiarlyvivid remembrance), discarded all other subjects of reflection anddwelt upon that alone.
　　At length Tim Linkinwater came back—provokingly cool, andwith papers in his hand, and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing hadhappened.
　　‘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 outof 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 questionfirst? I asked you—’
　　‘About the young lady,’ said Tim Linkinwater, putting on hisspectacles. ‘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 earnestlyat the other.
　　‘Ay,’ replied the immovable Tim, ‘I hope she hasn’t.’
　　Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it wasevident that Tim Linkinwater had his own reasons for evading thesubject, and that he was determined to afford no furtherinformation respecting the fair unknown, who had awakened somuch curiosity in the breast of his young friend. Nothing dauntedby this repulse, Nicholas returned to the charge next day,emboldened by the circumstance of Mr Linkinwater being in avery talkative and communicative mood; but, directly he resumedthe theme, Tim relapsed into a state of most provoking taciturnity,and from answering in monosyllables, came to returning noanswers at all, save such as were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which only served to whet that appetite forintelligence in Nicholas, which had already attained a mostunreasonable height.
　　Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself withwatching for the young lady’s next visit, but here again he wasdisappointed. Day after day passed, and she did not return. Helooked eagerly at the superscription of all the notes and letters,but there was not one among them which he could fancy to be inher handwriting. On two or three occasions he was employed onbusiness which took him to a distance, and had formerly beentransacted by Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not helpsuspecting that, for some reason or other, he was sent out of theway on purpose, and that the young lady was there in his absence.
　　Nothing transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion, and Timcould not be entrapped into any confession or admission tendingto support it in the smallest degree.
　　Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensableto the growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerfulauxiliaries. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ is well enough as a proverbapplicable to cases of friendship, though absence is not alwaysnecessary to hollowness of heart, even between friends, and truthand honesty, like precious stones, are perhaps most easily imitatedat a distance, when the counterfeits often pass for real. Love,however, is very materially assisted by a warm and activeimagination: which has a long memory, and will thrive, for aconsiderable time, on very slight and sparing food. Thus it is, thatit often attains its most luxuriant growth in separation and undercircumstances of the utmost difficulty; and thus it was, thatNicholas, thinking of nothing but the unknown young lady, from day to day and from hour to hour, began, at last, to think that hewas very desperately in love with her, and that never was such anill-used and persecuted lover as he.
　　Still, though he loved and languished after the most orthodoxmodels, and was only deterred from making a confidante of Kateby the slight considerations of having never, in all his life, spokento the object of his passion, and having never set eyes upon her,except on two occasions, on both of which she had come and gonelike a flash of lightning—or, as Nicholas himself said, in thenumerous conversations he held with himself, like a vision ofyouth and beauty much too bright to last—his ardour anddevotion remained without its reward. The young lady appearedno more; so there was a great deal of love wasted (enough indeedto have set up half-a-dozen young gentlemen, as times go, with theutmost decency), and nobody was a bit the wiser for it; not evenNicholas himself, who, on the contrary, became more dull,sentimental, and lackadaisical, every day.
　　While matters were in this state, the failure of a correspondentof the brothers Cheeryble, in Germany, imposed upon TimLinkinwater and Nicholas the necessity of going through somevery long and complicated accounts, extending over aconsiderable space of time. To get through them with the greaterdispatch, Tim Linkinwater proposed that they should remain atthe counting-house, for a week or so, until ten o’clock at night; tothis, as nothing damped the zeal of Nicholas in the service of hiskind patrons—not even romance, which has seldom businesshabits—he cheerfully assented. On the very first night of theselater 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 onthe next, and on the next again.
　　These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of Nicholas to thevery highest pitch. Tantalised and excited, beyond all bearing, andunable to fathom the mystery without neglecting his duty, heconfided the whole secret to Newman Noggs, imploring him to beon the watch next night; to follow the girl home; to set on foot suchinquiries relative to the name, condition, and history of hermistress, as he could, without exciting suspicion; and to report theresult to him with the least possible delay.
　　Beyond all measure proud of this commission, Newman Noggstook up his post, in the square, on the following evening, a fullhour before the needful time, and planting himself behind thepump and pulling his hat over his eyes, began his watch with anelaborate appearance of mystery, admirably calculated to excitethe suspicion of all beholders. Indeed, divers servant girls whocame to draw water, and sundry little boys who stopped to drinkat the ladle, were almost scared out of their senses, by theapparition of Newman Noggs looking stealthily round the pump,with nothing of him visible but his face, and that wearing theexpression of a meditative Ogre.
　　Punctual to her time, the messenger came again, and, after aninterview of rather longer duration than usual, departed. Newmanhad made two appointments with Nicholas: one for the nextevening, conditional on his success: and one the next nightfollowing, which was to be kept under all circumstances. The firstnight he was not at the place of meeting (a certain tavern abouthalf-way between the city and Golden Square), but on the secondnight he was there before Nicholas, and received him with open arms.
　　‘It’s all right,’ whispered Newman. ‘Sit down. Sit down, there’sa dear young man, and let me tell you all about it.’
　　Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquiredwhat was the news.
　　‘There’s a great deal of news,’ said Newman, in a flutter ofexultation. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be anxious. I don’t know where tobegin. 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 dearfellow!’
　　‘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 greatpositiveness. ‘Miss Cecilia Bobster.’
　　‘Cecilia, eh?’ returned Nicholas, muttering the two namestogether over and over again in every variety of tone, to try theeffect. ‘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 theshoulder. ‘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 seeher tomorrow night. She consents to hear you speak for yourself. Ipersuaded her. She is all affability, goodness, sweetness, andbeauty.’
　　‘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 ofher history? Has she a father—mother—any brothers—sisters?
　　What did she say? How came you to see her? Was she not verymuch surprised? Did you say how passionately I have longed tospeak to her? Did you tell her where I had seen her? Did you tellher how, and when, and where, and how long, and how often, Ihave thought of that sweet face which came upon me in mybitterest distress like a glimpse of some better world—did you,Newman—did you?’
　　Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this flood of questionsrushed upon him, and moved spasmodically in his chair at everyfresh inquiry, staring at Nicholas meanwhile with a most ludicrousexpression 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’ttell her who you were, either, or where you’d seen her. I said youloved her to distraction.’
　　‘That’s true, Newman,’ replied Nicholas, with his characteristicvehemence. ‘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 onlychild, that her mother was dead, that she resided with her father,and that she had been induced to allow her lover a secretinterview, at the intercession of her servant, who had greatinfluence with her. He further related how it required muchmoving and great eloquence to bring the young lady to this pass;how it was expressly understood that she merely affordedNicholas an opportunity of declaring his passion; and how she byno means pledged herself to be favourably impressed with hisattentions. The mystery of her visits to the brothers Cheerybleremained wholly unexplained, for Newman had not alluded tothem, either in his preliminary conversations with the servant orhis subsequent interview with the mistress, merely remarking thathe had been instructed to watch the girl home and plead his youngfriend’s cause, and not saying how far he had followed her, or fromwhat point. But Newman hinted that from what had fallen fromthe confidante, he had been led to suspect that the young lady leda very miserable and unhappy life, under the strict control of heronly parent, who was of a violent and brutal temper; acircumstance which he thought might in some degree account,both for her having sought the protection and friendship of thebrothers, and her suffering herself to be prevailed upon to grantthe promised interview. The last he held to be a very logicaldeduction from the premises, inasmuch as it was but natural tosuppose 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 verylong and arduous process that all this could be got out of NewmanNoggs—that Newman, in explanation of his shabby appearance,had represented himself as being, for certain wise andindispensable purposes connected with that intrigue, in disguise;and, being questioned how he had come to exceed his commissionso far as to procure an interview, he responded, that the ladyappearing willing to grant it, he considered himself bound, both induty and gallantry, to avail himself of such a golden means ofenabling Nicholas to prosecute his addresses. After these and allpossible questions had been asked and answered twenty timesover, they parted, undertaking to meet on the following night athalf-past ten, for the purpose of fulfilling the appointment; whichwas for eleven o’clock.
　　‘Things come about very strangely!’ thought Nicholas, as hewalked home. ‘I never contemplated anything of this kind; neverdreamt of the possibility of it. To know something of the life of onein whom I felt such interest; to see her in the street, to pass thehouse in which she lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks, tohope that a day might come when I might be in a condition to tellher 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 goodfortune!’
　　Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was more in thedissatisfaction than mere revulsion of feeling. He was angry withthe young lady for being so easily won, ‘because,’ reasonedNicholas, ‘it is not as if she knew it was I, but it might have beenanybody,’—which was certainly not pleasant. The next moment, he was angry with himself for entertaining such thoughts, arguingthat nothing but goodness could dwell in such a temple, and thatthe behaviour of the brothers sufficiently showed the estimation inwhich they held her. ‘The fact is, she’s a mystery altogether,’ saidNicholas. This was not more satisfactory than his previous courseof reflection, and only drove him out upon a new sea ofspeculation and conjecture, where he tossed and tumbled, in greatdiscomfort of mind, until the clock struck ten, and the hour ofmeeting drew nigh.
　　Nicholas had dressed himself with great care, and evenNewman Noggs had trimmed himself up a little; his coatpresenting the phenomenon of two consecutive buttons, and thesupplementary 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 outbehind after the fashion of a pigtail, though he could scarcely layclaim to the ingenuity of inventing this latter decoration, inasmuchas he was utterly unconscious of it: being in a nervous and excitedcondition which rendered him quite insensible to everything butthe great object of the expedition.
　　They traversed the streets in profound silence; and afterwalking at a round pace for some distance, arrived in one, of agloomy appearance and very little frequented, near the EdgewareRoad.
　　‘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 himto understand that he was to wait there, without moving hand orfoot, until it was satisfactorily ascertained that the coast was clear.
　　This done, Noggs limped away with great alacrity; looking over hisshoulder every instant, to make quite certain that Nicholas wasobeying his directions; and, ascending the steps of a house somehalf-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 athome. Couldn’t be better. Ha! ha!’
　　With this fortifying assurance, he stole past a street-door, onwhich 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 sneakinto the kitchen, as if we came after the forks?’
　　‘Hush!’ replied Newman. ‘Old Bobster—ferocious Turk. He’dkill ’em all—box the young lady’s ears—he does—often.’
　　‘What!’ cried Nicholas, in high wrath, ‘do you mean to tell methat any man would dare to box the ears of such a—’
　　He had no time to sing the praises of his mistress, just then, forNewman gave him a gentle push which had nearly precipitatedhim to the bottom of the area steps. Thinking it best to take thehint in good part, Nicholas descended, without furtherremonstrance, but with a countenance bespeaking anything ratherthan the hope and rapture of a passionate lover. Newmanfollowed—he would have followed head first, but for the timely assistance of Nicholas—and, taking his hand, led him through astone passage, profoundly dark, into a back-kitchen or cellar, ofthe blackest and most pitchy obscurity, where they stopped.
　　‘Well!’ said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, ‘this is not all, Isuppose, 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 imaginingthat his nose seemed to glow like a red-hot coal, even in the midstof the darkness which enshrouded them. Suddenly the sound ofcautious footsteps attracted his ear, and directly afterwards afemale voice inquired if the gentleman was there.
　　‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from whichthe 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 servantgirl 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 thatinstant, and almost simultaneously with her arrival and that of thecandle, 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 toexclaim abruptly, and with a face of ashy paleness, ‘Bobster, bythe Lord!’
　　The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung her hands,  744Nicholas gazed from one to the other in apparent stupefaction,and Newman hurried to and fro, thrusting his hands into all hispockets successively, and drawing out the linings of every one inthe excess of his irresolution. It was but a moment, but theconfusion crowded into that one moment no imagination canexaggerate.
　　‘Leave the house, for Heaven’s sake! We have done wrong, wedeserve it all,’ cried the young lady. ‘Leave the house, or I amruined 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, inexplanation of this mischance?’
　　But Nicholas might as well have spoken to the wind, for theyoung lady, with distracted looks, hurried up the stairs. He wouldhave followed her, but Newman, twisting his hand in his coatcollar, dragged him towards the passage by which they hadentered.
　　‘Let me go, Newman, in the Devil’s name!’ cried Nicholas. ‘Imust 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. ‘Letthem 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 tearsand prayers of the girl, and the tremendous knocking above,which had never ceased, Nicholas allowed himself to be hurriedoff; 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 withblank and rueful faces.
　　‘Never mind,’ said Newman, gasping for breath. ‘Don’t be castdown. It’s all right. More fortunate next time. It couldn’t behelped. I did my part.’
　　‘Excellently,’ replied Nicholas, taking his hand. ‘Excellently,and like the true and zealous friend you are. Only—mind, I am notdisappointed, 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 hisshoulder: ‘it was the wrong servant too.’
　　Newman’s under-jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, withhis 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’sall.’
　　That was all. Whether Newman Noggs had looked round thepump, in a slanting direction, so long, that his sight becameimpaired; or whether, finding that there was time to spare, he hadrecruited himself with a few drops of something stronger than thepump could yield—by whatsoever means it had come to pass, thiswas his mistake. And Nicholas went home to brood upon it, and tomeditate upon the charms of the unknown young lady, now as farbeyond his reach as ever.
Chapter 41
Containing some Romantic Passages between MrsNickleby and the Gentleman in the Small-clothesnext Door.
　　Ever since her last momentous conversation with her son,Mrs Nickleby had begun to display unusual care in theadornment of her person, gradually superadding to thosestaid and matronly habiliments, which had, up to that time,formed her ordinary attire, a variety of embellishments anddecorations, slight perhaps in themselves, but, taken together, andconsidered with reference to the subject of her disclosure, of nomean importance. Even her black dress assumed something of adeadly-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 andbeen permitted to slumber peacefully in odd corners of olddrawers and boxes where daylight seldom shone, her mourninggarments assumed quite a new character. From being the outwardtokens of respect and sorrow for the dead, they became convertedinto signals of very slaughterous and killing designs upon theliving.
　　Mrs Nickleby might have been stimulated to this proceeding bya lofty sense of duty, and impulses of unquestionable excellence.
　　She might, by this time, have become impressed with thesinfulness of long indulgence in unavailing woe, or the necessity of setting a proper example of neatness and decorum to herblooming daughter. Considerations of duty and responsibilityapart, the change might have taken its rise in feelings of the purestand most disinterested charity. The gentleman next door had beenvilified 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 ofa good Christian to show by all means in her power, that theabused gentleman was neither the one nor the other. And whatbetter means could she adopt, towards so virtuous and laudable anend, than proving to all men, in her own person, that his passionwas the most rational and reasonable in the world, and just thevery result, of all others, which discreet and thinking personsmight have foreseen, from her incautiously displaying hermatured 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 Nicholasknew what his poor dear papa suffered before we were engaged,when I used to hate him, he would have a little more feeling. ShallI ever forget the morning I looked scornfully at him when heoffered to carry my parasol? Or that night, when I frowned athim? It was a mercy he didn’t emigrate. It very nearly drove himto it.’
　　Whether the deceased might not have been better off if he hademigrated in his bachelor days, was a question which his relict didnot stop to consider; for Kate entered the room, with her workbox,in this stage of her reflections; and a much slighter interruption, orno interruption at all, would have diverted Mrs Nickleby’sthoughts into a new channel at any time.
　　 ‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘I don’t know how it is, but afine warm summer day like this, with the birds singing in everydirection, always puts me in mind of roast pig, with sage and onionsauce, 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 werechristened, we had a roast—no, that couldn’t have been a pig,either, because I recollect there were a pair of them to carve, andyour poor papa and I could never have thought of sitting down totwo pigs—they must have been partridges. Roast pig! I hardlythink we ever could have had one, now I come to remember, foryour papa could never bear the sight of them in the shops, andused 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 oflittle babies, to, because he couldn’t very well afford any increaseto his family, and had a natural dislike to the subject. It’s very oddnow, what can have put that in my head! I recollect dining once atMrs Bevan’s, in that broad street round the corner by thecoachmaker’s, where the tipsy man fell through the cellar-flap ofan empty house nearly a week before the quarter-day, and wasn’tfound till the new tenant went in—and we had roast pig there. Itmust be that, I think, that reminds me of it, especially as there wasa little bird in the room that would keep on singing all the time ofdinner—at least, not a little bird, for it was a parrot, and he didn’tsing exactly, for he talked and swore dreadfully: but I think it mustbe 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,’ returnedKate, with a cheerful smile.
　　 ‘No; but do you think so, Kate?’ said Mrs Nickleby, with asmuch gravity as if it were a question of the most imminent andthrilling interest. ‘If you don’t, say so at once, you know; becauseit’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 asher mama still appeared undetermined whether it was notabsolutely essential that the subject should be renewed, proposedthat they should take their work into the summer-house, and enjoythe beauty of the afternoon. Mrs Nickleby readily assented, and tothe 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 myword, the pains he has taken in putting this little arbour to rights,and training the sweetest flowers about it, are beyond anything Icould 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—tooblige me, mama.’
　　‘No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own side,’ said MrsNickleby. ‘Well! I declare!’
　　Kate looked up inquiringly.
　　‘If he hasn’t been,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘and got, fromsomewhere or other, a couple of roots of those flowers that I said Iwas 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 Iwasn’t—it’s the same thing. Now, upon my word, I take that asvery 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 putthe gravel there, because it’s the sunny side. Upon my word, that’svery clever now! I shouldn’t have had half as much thoughtmyself!’
　　‘Mama,’ said Kate, bending over her work so that her face wasalmost hidden, ‘before you were married—’
　　‘Dear me, Kate,’ interrupted Mrs Nickleby, ‘what in the name ofgoodness graciousness makes you fly off to the time before I wasmarried, when I’m talking to you about his thoughtfulness andattention to me? You don’t seem to take the smallest interest inthe garden.’
　　‘Oh! mama,’ said Kate, raising her face again, ‘you know I do.’
　　‘Well then, my dear, why don’t you praise the neatness andprettiness with which it’s kept?’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘How very oddyou 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 along while upon one topic, so she fell at once into her daughter’slittle trap, if trap it were, and inquired what she had been going tosay.
　　‘About what, mama?’ said Kate, who had apparently quiteforgotten her diversion.
　　‘Lor, Kate, my dear,’ returned her mother, ‘why, you’re asleepor 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 adozen at least.’
　　‘Mama!’ returned Kate, in a tone of remonstrance.
　　‘I had indeed, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘not including yourpoor papa, or a young gentleman who used to go, at that time, tothe same dancing school, and who would send gold watches andbracelets to our house in gilt-edged paper, (which were alwaysreturned,) and who afterwards unfortunately went out to BotanyBay in a cadet ship—a convict ship I mean—and escaped into abush and killed sheep, (I don’t know how they got there,) and wasgoing to be hung, only he accidentally choked himself, and thegovernment pardoned him. Then there was young Lukin,’ saidMrs Nickleby, beginning with her left thumb and checking off thenames on her fingers—‘Mogley—Tipslark—Cabbery—Smifser—’
　　Having now reached her little finger, Mrs Nickleby wascarrying 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, considerablystartled, ‘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 anordinary clearing of the throat, but in a kind of bellow, which wokeup all the echoes in the neighbourhood, and was prolonged to anextent which must have made the unseen bellower quite black inthe face.
　　‘I understand it now, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, laying herhand 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 everybodytheir due, Kate; I am bound to say that.’
　　So saying, Mrs Nickleby nodded her head, and patted the backof her daughter’s hand, a great many times, and looked as if shecould 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 evidentsurprise.
　　‘Don’t be flurried, my dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, lookingtowards the garden-wall, ‘for you see I’m not, and if it would beexcusable in anybody to be flurried, it certainly would—under allthe circumstances—be excusable in me, but I am not, Kate—not atall.’
　　‘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 herdaughter’s hand more blandly than before, ‘to attract the attentionof one of us. Hem! you needn’t be at all uneasy, my dear.’
　　Kate looked very much perplexed, and was apparently about toask for further explanation, when a shouting and scuffling noise,as of an elderly gentleman whooping, and kicking up his legs onloose gravel, with great violence, was heard to proceed from thesame direction as the former sounds; and before they hadsubsided, a large cucumber was seen to shoot up in the air withthe velocity of a sky-rocket, whence it descended, tumbling overand over, until it fell at Mrs Nickleby’s feet.
　　This remarkable appearance was succeeded by another of aprecisely similar description; then a fine vegetable marrow, ofunusually 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 andscattering, and bumping about, in all directions.
　　As Kate rose from her seat, in some alarm, and caught hermother’s hand to run with her into the house, she felt herselfrather retarded than assisted in her intention; and following thedirection of Mrs Nickleby’s eyes, was quite terrified by theapparition of an old black velvet cap, which, by slow degrees, as ifits wearer were ascending a ladder or pair of steps, rose above thewall dividing their garden from that of the next cottage, (which,like their own, was a detached building,) and was graduallyfollowed by a very large head, and an old face, in which were apair 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 youstop, why do you lose an instant? Mama, pray come in!’
　　‘Kate, my dear,’ returned her mother, still holding back, ‘howcan you be so foolish? I’m ashamed of you. How do you supposeyou are ever to get through life, if you’re such a coward as this?
　　What do you want, sir?’ said Mrs Nickleby, addressing theintruder with a sort of simpering displeasure. ‘How dare you lookinto this garden?’
　　‘Queen of my soul,’ replied the stranger, folding his handstogether, ‘this goblet sip!’
　　‘Nonsense, sir,’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘Kate, my love, pray bequiet.’
　　‘Won’t you sip the goblet?’ urged the stranger, with his head imploringly on one side, and his right hand on his breast. ‘Oh, dosip the goblet!’
　　‘I shall not consent to do anything of the kind, sir,’ said MrsNickleby. ‘Pray, begone.’
　　‘Why is it,’ said the old gentleman, coming up a step higher, andleaning his elbows on the wall, with as much complacency as if hewere looking out of window, ‘why is it that beauty is alwaysobdurate, even when admiration is as honourable and respectfulas mine?’ Here he smiled, kissed his hand, and made several lowbows. ‘Is it owing to the bees, who, when the honey season is over,and they are supposed to have been killed with brimstone, inreality fly to Barbary and lull the captive Moors to sleep with theirdrowsy songs? Or is it,’ he added, dropping his voice almost to awhisper, ‘in consequence of the statue at Charing Cross havingbeen 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 ofvoice, ‘he is very polite, and I think that was a quotation from thepoets. Pray, don’t worry me so—you’ll pinch my arm black andblue. Go away, sir!’
　　‘Quite away?’ said the gentleman, with a languishing look. ‘Oh!
　　quite away?’
　　‘Yes,’ returned Mrs Nickleby, ‘certainly. You have no businesshere. This is private property, sir; you ought to know that.’
　　‘I do know,’ said the old gentleman, laying his finger on hisnose, with an air of familiarity, most reprehensible, ‘that this is asacred and enchanted spot, where the most divine charms’—herehe kissed his hand and bowed again—‘waft mellifluousness over the neighbours’ gardens, and force the fruit and vegetables intopremature existence. That fact I am acquainted with. But will youpermit me, fairest creature, to ask you one question, in theabsence of the planet Venus, who has gone on business to theHorse Guards, and would otherwise—jealous of your superiorcharms—interpose between us?’
　　‘Kate,’ observed Mrs Nickleby, turning to her daughter, ‘it’svery awkward, positively. I really don’t know what to say to thisgentleman. One ought to be civil, you know.’
　　‘Dear mama,’ rejoined Kate, ‘don’t say a word to him, but let usrun away as fast as we can, and shut ourselves up till Nicholascomes home.’
　　Mrs Nickleby looked very grand, not to say contemptuous, atthis humiliating proposal; and, turning to the old gentleman, whohad watched them during these whispers with absorbingeagerness, said:
　　‘If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gentleman I shouldimagine you to be, from your language and—and—appearance,(quite the counterpart of your grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in hisbest days,) and will put your question to me in plain words, I willanswer it.’
　　If Mrs Nickleby’s excellent papa had borne, in his best days, aresemblance to the neighbour now looking over the wall, he musthave been, to say the least, a very queer-looking old gentleman inhis prime. Perhaps Kate thought so, for she ventured to glance athis living portrait with some attention, as he took off his blackvelvet cap, and, exhibiting a perfectly bald head, made a longseries 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 verycarefully over the tips of his ears, and resuming his formerattitude, said,‘The question is—’
　　Here he broke off to look round in every direction, and satisfyhimself 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 thoughcongratulating 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 feintof 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 ofRome? Or the Speaker of the House of Commons? Forgive me, if Iam wrong, but I was told you were niece to the Commissioners ofPaving, and daughter-in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court ofCommon Council, which would account for your relationship to allthree.’
　　‘Whoever has spread such reports, sir,’ returned Mrs Nickleby,with some warmth, ‘has taken great liberties with my name, andone which I am sure my son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, wouldnot allow for an instant. The idea!’ said Mrs Nickleby, drawingherself 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 pipingbullfinch, 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 thewall. ‘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 allactively engaged in their execution, he turned his velvet cap insideout, put it on with great dignity so as to obscure his right eye andthree-fourths of his nose, and sticking his arms a-kimbo, lookedvery fiercely at a sparrow hard by, till the bird flew away, when heput his cap in his pocket with an air of great satisfaction, andaddressed himself with respectful demeanour to Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘Beautiful madam,’ such were his words, ‘if I have made anymistake with regard to your family or connections, I humblybeseech you to pardon me. If I supposed you to be related toForeign Powers or Native Boards, it is because you have amanner, a carriage, a dignity, which you will excuse my sayingthat none but yourself (with the single exception perhaps of thetragic muse, when playing extemporaneously on the barrel organbefore the East India Company) can parallel. I am not a youth,ma’am, as you see; and although beings like you can never growold, I venture to presume that we are fitted for each other.’
　　‘Really, Kate, my love!’ said Mrs Nickleby faintly, and lookinganother 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 whaleryof my own in the North Sea, and several oyster-beds of great profitin the Pacific Ocean. If you will have the kindness to step down tothe Royal Exchange and to take the cocked-hat off the stoutestbeadle’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 beseen on application to the chaplain of the House of Commons, whois strictly forbidden to take any money for showing it. I haveenemies about me, ma’am,’ he looked towards his house and spokevery low, ‘who attack me on all occasions, and wish to secure myproperty. If you bless me with your hand and heart, you can applyto the Lord Chancellor or call out the military if necessary—sending my toothpick to the commander-in-chief will besufficient—and so clear the house of them before the ceremony isperformed. After that, love, bliss and rapture; rapture, love andbliss. Be mine, be mine!’
　　Repeating these last words with great rapture and enthusiasm,the old gentleman put on his black velvet cap again, and lookingup into the sky in a hasty manner, said something that was notquite intelligible concerning a balloon he expected, and which wasrather after its time.
　　‘Be mine, be mine!’ repeated the old gentleman.
　　‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘I have hardly the power tospeak; but it is necessary for the happiness of all parties that thismatter 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 hereyes modestly on the ground, ‘that I should tell a stranger whetherI feel flattered and obliged by such proposals, or not. Theycertainly are made under very singular circumstances; still at thesame time, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course’ (MrsNickleby’s customary qualification), ‘they must be gratifying andagreeable 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 oftaking an answer and going away—that I have made up my mindto remain a widow, and to devote myself to my children. You maynot suppose I am the mother of two children—indeed many peoplehave doubted it, and said that nothing on earth could ever make’em believe it possible—but it is the case, and they are both grownup. We shall be very glad to have you for a neighbour—very glad;delighted, I’m sure—but in any other character it’s quiteimpossible, 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 itfor 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 rejectproposals, and I would much rather that none were made; at thesame 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 ofinattention, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely finished speaking,when, to the great terror both of that lady and her daughter, hesuddenly flung off his coat, and springing on the top of the wall,threw himself into an attitude which displayed his small-clothesand grey worsteds to the fullest advantage, and concluded bystanding on one leg, and repeating his favourite bellow withincreased vehemence.
　　While he was still dwelling on the last note, and embellishing itwith a prolonged flourish, a dirty hand was observed to glidestealthily and swiftly along the top of the wall, as if in pursuit of afly, and then to clasp with the utmost dexterity one of the oldgentleman’s ankles. This done, the companion hand appeared,and clasped the other ankle.
　　Thus encumbered the old gentleman lifted his legs awkwardlyonce or twice, as if they were very clumsy and imperfect pieces ofmachinery, 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 andno worse.’
　　‘The young Prince of China,’ said the old gentleman, with muchinterest. ‘Is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potatosalesman?’
　　‘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 oldgentleman dropped into a sitting posture, and was looking roundto smile and bow to Mrs Nickleby, when he disappeared with someprecipitation, as if his legs had been pulled from below.
　　Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning tospeak to her mama, when the dirty hands again became visible,and were immediately followed by the figure of a coarse squatman, who ascended by the steps which had been recentlyoccupied by their singular neighbour.
　　‘Beg your pardon, ladies,’ said this new comer, grinning andtouching his hat. ‘Has he been making love to either of you?’
　　‘Yes,’ said Kate.
　　‘Ah!’ rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hatand wiping his face, ‘he always will, you know. Nothing willprevent his making love.’
　　‘I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,’ saidKate.
　　‘Why no,’ replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing hishandkerchief in at one dab, and putting it on again. ‘That’s prettyplain, 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 adeal pleasanter without his senses than with ’em. He was thecruellest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath.’
　　‘Indeed!’ said Kate.
　　‘By George!’ replied the keeper, shaking his head soemphatically that he was obliged to frown to keep his hat on. ‘Inever 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 atlast, through evil tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, andguzzling, and drinking, or he’d have drove many others so. Hopefor him, an old rip! There isn’t too much hope going’ but I’ll bet acrown that what there is, is saved for more deserving chaps thanhim, anyhow.’
　　With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his headagain, as much as to say that nothing short of this would do, ifthings were to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily—not thathe 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 manwith a severe and steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh,and pursing up her lips, shook her head in a slow and doubtfulmanner.
　　‘Poor creature!’ said Kate.
　　‘Ah! poor indeed!’ rejoined Mrs Nickleby. ‘It’s shameful thatsuch things should be allowed. Shameful!’
　　‘How can they be helped, mama?’ said Kate, mournfully. ‘Theinfirmities of nature—’
　　‘Nature!’ said Mrs Nickleby. ‘What! Do you suppose this poorgentleman 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 soimposed upon. It’s some plot of these people to possess themselvesof his property—didn’t he say so himself? He may be a little oddand flighty, perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! andexpress himself as he does, respectfully, and in quite poeticallanguage, and making offers with so much thought, and care, andprudence—not as if he ran into the streets, and went down uponhis 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 bestof Friends must sometimes part.
　　The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying allday in the heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guardingthe entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign theyare the duplicate presentments, looked—or seemed, in the eyes ofjaded and footsore passers-by, to look—more vicious than usual,after blistering and scorching in the sun, when, in one of the inn’ssmallest sitting-rooms, through whose open window there rose, ina palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from reeking coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed in neat andinviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and boiled, a tongue,a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little mattersof the like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, aregenerally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches,stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.
　　Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hoveredrestlessly about these delicacies, stopping occasionally to whiskthe flies out of the sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in the milk-pot and carry it tohis mouth, or to cut off a little knob of crust, and a little corner ofmeat, and swallow them at two gulps like a couple of pills. Afterevery one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out hiswatch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that hecouldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.
　　 ‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake andhalf asleep upon a sofa.
　　‘Well, John!’
　　‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feelhoongry, lass?’
　　‘Not very,’ said Mrs Browdie.
　　‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hearher say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthrythot 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 aletter, or a parcel.
　　‘A gen’l’man, sir.’
　　‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom andsay 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 ’und’rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ’un. Aha!
　　Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest dayo’ my life, sir. Hoo be all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’
　　Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of hissalutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again andagain, 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 Nicholasdirected towards his wife. ‘There she be—we shan’t quarrel abouther noo—eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot—but thou want’st soom’atto eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive—’
　　 No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing morewas heard, for John had already begun to play such a knife andfork, that his speech was, for the time, gone.
　　‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as heplaced 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 MrsBrowdie, 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 onecondition.’
　　‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.
　　‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you haveoccasion 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—agodfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!’
　　Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as JohnBrowdie was with this. He chuckled, roared, half suffocatedhimself by laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roaredagain, persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face andblack in the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off againlaughing inwardly, got worse, choked, had his back thumped,stamped about, frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a stateof 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 sufferingcould diminish.
　　‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ saidNicholas.
　　‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.
　　‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, MrsBrowdie?’ said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’
　　‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, MrNickleby, you’d have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I neverwas so frightened in all my life.’
　　‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’stbetther than thot, Tilly.’
　　‘So I was,’ replied Mrs Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mindnever to speak to you again.’
　　‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’mostmade up her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, andwheedlin’, and wheedlin’ a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou letyon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?” says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, asqueedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?” says I. “Noa,” says she, asqueedgin of me agean.’
　　‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much.
　　‘How can you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt ofsuch a thing!’
　　‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I thinkthat’s loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re afeeckle, changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,”
　　says she. “Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thoubean’t, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” saysshe, quite screeching. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she— and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a deal harder thanshe’d deane afore—“dost thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that havingsuch a proper mun as thou to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ oppwi’ 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 ofits telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare theblushes of Mrs Browdie, whose protestations were drowned inpeals of laughter from her husband. His good-nature soon put herat her ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughedso heartily at it, that Nicholas had the satisfaction of feelingassured that in all essential respects it was strictly true.
　　‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have evertaken a meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yetit 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, mygood friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know notwhat might have become of me or what plight I should have beenin by this time.’
　　‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnotbother.’
　　‘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 yoursympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk ofinvolving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how greateful he and I, and others whom you don’t know, are toyou for taking pity on him.’
　　‘Ecod!’ rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; ‘and I cannever tell you hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would beloikewise, 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 theescape?’ inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.
　　‘Not a bit,’ replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth fromear to ear. ‘There I lay, snoog in schoolmeasther’s bed long eftherit 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, henever will be; so you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind usreddy”—that is, you know, schoolmeasther might coom.’
　　‘I understand,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘Presently,’ resumed John, ‘he did coom. I heerd door shutdoonstairs, and him a warking, oop in the daark. “Slow andsteddy,’ I says to myself, “tak’ your time, sir—no hurry.” He coomsto the door, turns the key—turns the key when there warn’tnothing 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 notaggravate me,” says schoolmeasther, efther a little time. “I’ll brak’
　　every boan in your boddy, Smike,” he says, efther another littletime. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight, and when itcooms—ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! “Wa’at’s the matter?” says I.
　　“He’s gane,” says he,—stark mad wi’ vengeance. “Have you heerdnought?” “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 wrongwa’! Ho! ho! ho!’
　　‘Did you go far?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘Far!’ replied John; ‘I run him clean off his legs in quarther ofan hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi’out his hat, skimming alongoop to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, androwling into ditches, and bawling oot like mad, wi’ his one eyelooking 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 shouldha’ dropped doon, and killed myself wi’ laughing.’
　　John laughed so heartily at the mere recollection, that hecommunicated the contagion to both his hearers, and all threeburst 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, isschoolmeasther.’
　　‘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’ntalong 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 hiswife; ‘she was an old playmate of mine, you know.’
　　‘Weel,’ replied John, ‘dean’t I say so, lass? It’s best to beneighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I sayis, dean’t quarrel if ’ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr Nickleby?’
　　‘Certainly,’ returned Nicholas; ‘and you acted upon thatprinciple when I meet you on horseback on the road, after ourmemorable 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 Yorkshireover us” in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said inyour note.’
　　‘Yes,’ replied John, ‘Tilly’s bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaidshe be, too. She wean’t be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.’
　　‘For shame, John,’ said Mrs Browdie; with an acute perceptionof the joke though, being a bride herself.
　　‘The groom will be a blessed mun,’ said John, his eyes twinklingat the idea. ‘He’ll be in luck, he will.’
　　‘You see, Mr Nickleby,’ said his wife, ‘that it was inconsequence of her being here, that John wrote to you and fixedtonight, because we thought that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you tomeet, after what has passed.’
　　‘Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,’ said Nicholas,interrupting.
　　‘Especially,’ observed Mrs Browdie, looking very sly, ‘after whatwe know about past and gone love matters.’
　　‘We know, indeed!’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘Youbehaved rather wickedly there, I suspect.’
　　‘O’ course she did,’ said John Browdie, passing his hugeforefinger through one of his wife’s pretty ringlets, and lookingvery proud of her. ‘She wur always as skittish and full o’ tricks asa—’
　　‘Well, as a what?’ said his wife.
　　‘As a woman,’ returned John. ‘Ding! But I dinnot know oughtelse that cooms near it.’
　　‘You were speaking about Miss Squeers,’ said Nicholas, withthe view of stopping some slight connubialities which had begun to pass between Mr and Mrs Browdie, and which rendered theposition of a third party in some degree embarrassing, asoccasioning him to feel rather in the way than otherwise.
　　‘Oh yes,’ rejoined Mrs Browdie. ‘John ha’ done. John fixedtonight, because she had settled that she would go and drink teawith her father. And to make quite sure of there being nothingamiss, and of your being quite alone with us, he settled to go outthere and fetch her home.’
　　‘That was a very good arrangement,’ said Nicholas, ‘though Iam sorry to be the occasion of so much trouble.’
　　‘Not the least in the world,’ returned Mrs Browdie; ‘for we havelooked forward to see you—John and I have—with the greatestpossible pleasure. Do you know, Mr Nickleby,’ said Mrs Browdie,with her archest smile, ‘that I really think Fanny Squeers was veryfond of you?’
　　‘I am very much obliged to her,’ said Nicholas; ‘but upon myword, I never aspired to making any impression upon her virginheart.’
　　‘How you talk!’ tittered Mrs Browdie. ‘No, but do you know thatreally—seriously now and without any joking—I was given tounderstand by Fanny herself, that you had made an offer to her,and that you two were going to be engaged quite solemn andregular.’
　　‘Was you, ma’am—was you?’ cried a shrill female voice, ‘wasyou given to understand that I—I—was going to be engaged to anassassinating thief that shed the gore of my pa? Do you—do youthink, ma’am—that I was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet,as I couldn’t condescend to touch with kitchen tongs, withoutblacking 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 whitegarments before described (a little dirtier), but the form of herbrother and father, the pair of Wackfords.
　　‘This is the hend, is it?’ continued Miss Squeers, who, beingexcited, aspirated her h’s strongly; ‘this is the hend, is it, of all myforbearance and friendship for that double-faced thing—thatviper, that—that—mermaid?’ (Miss Squeers hesitated a long timefor this last epithet, and brought it out triumphantly as last, as if itquite clinched the business.) ‘This is the hend, is it, of all mybearing with her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, herlaying herself out to catch the admiration of vulgar minds, in a waywhich made me blush for my—for my—’
　　‘Gender,’ suggested Mr Squeers, regarding the spectators witha malevolent eye—literally A malevolent eye.
　　‘Yes,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘but I thank my stars that my ma is ofthe same—’
　　‘Hear, hear!’ remarked Mr Squeers; ‘and I wish she was here tohave a scratch at this company.’
　　‘This is the hend, is it,’ said Miss Squeers, tossing her head, andlooking contemptuously at the floor, ‘of my taking notice of thatrubbishing creature, and demeaning myself to patronise her?’
　　‘Oh, come,’ rejoined Mrs Browdie, disregarding all theendeavours of her spouse to restrain her, and forcing herself into afront 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 buthignominiousness and red-faced boldness.’
　　‘I say,’ interposed John Browdie, nettled by these accumulatedattacks on his wife, ‘dra’ it mild, dra’ it mild.’
　　‘You, Mr Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers, taking him up veryquickly, ‘I pity. I have no feeling for you, sir, but one ofunliquidated 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 ahurry, and although my husband will be in luck, I entertain nosentiments towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.’
　　Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, wholooked 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 ifyou was my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish younothing worse.’
　　‘Couldn’t you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was thecase?’ inquired Mrs Browdie, with great suavity of manner.
　　‘Oh, ma’am, how witty you are,’ retorted Miss Squeers with alow curtsy, ‘almost as witty, ma’am, as you are clever. How veryclever it was in you, ma’am, to choose a time when I had gone totea with my pa, and was sure not to come back without beingfetched! What a pity you never thought that other people might beas clever as yourself and spoil your plans!’
　　‘You won’t vex me, child, with such airs as these,’ said the lateMiss 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 whetherit is or not.’
　　‘Thanking you for your advice which was not required, MrBrowdie,’ returned Miss Squeers, with laborious politeness, ‘havethe goodness not to presume to meddle with my Christian name.
　　Even my pity shall never make me forget what’s due to myself, MrBrowdie. ’Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accessionof violence that John started in his boots, ‘I throw you off for ever,miss. I abandon you. I renounce you. I wouldn’t,’ cried MissSqueers in a solemn voice, ‘have a child named ’Tilda, not to saveit from its grave.’
　　‘As for the matther o’ that,’ observed John, ‘it’ll be time eneaf tothink 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 herfeelings, pray!’
　　‘If it’s fated that listeners are never to hear any good ofthemselves,’ said Mrs Browdie, ‘I can’t help it, and I am very sorryfor it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I havespoken so kindly of you behind your back, that even you couldhave found no fault with what I said.’
　　‘Oh, I dare say not, ma’am!’ cried Miss Squeers, with anothercurtsy. ‘Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging andpraying 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 quitetrue; 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 Ihave never borne any malice to you, and I hope you’ll not bear anyto me.’
　　Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying herformer friend from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the airwith 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 inswallowing, and very frequent comings and goings of breath,seemed to imply that feelings were swelling in Miss Squeers’sbosom too great for utterance.
　　While the foregoing conversation was proceeding, MasterWackford, finding himself unnoticed, and feeling hispreponderating inclinations strong upon him, had by little andlittle sidled up to the table and attacked the food with such slightskirmishing as drawing his fingers round and round the inside ofthe plates, and afterwards sucking them with infinite relish;picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over the surface of thebutter; pocketing lumps of sugar, pretending all the time to beabsorbed in thought; and so forth. Finding that no interferencewas attempted with these small liberties, he gradually mounted togreater, and, after helping himself to a moderately good coldcollation, was, by this time, deep in the pie.
　　Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr Squeers, who, solong as the attention of the company was fixed upon other objects,hugged himself to think that his son and heir should be fatteningat the enemy’s expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary calm, in which the proceedings of little Wackford couldscarcely fail to be observed, he feigned to be aware of thecircumstance for the first time, and inflicted upon the face of thatyoung gentleman a slap that made the very tea-cups ring.
　　‘Eating!’ cried Mr Squeers, ‘of what his father’s enemies hasleft! It’s fit to go and poison you, you unnat’ral boy.’
　　‘It wean’t hurt him,’ said John, apparently very much relievedby the prospect of having a man in the quarrel; ‘let ’un eat. I wishthe whole school was here. I’d give ’em soom’at to stay theirunfort’nate stomachs wi’, if I spent the last penny I had!’
　　Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most maliciousexpression of which his face was capable—it was a face ofremarkable capability, too, in that way—and shook his fiststealthily.
　　‘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 myrunaway boy? It was you, was it?’
　　‘Me!’ returned John, in a loud tone. ‘Yes, it wa’ me, coom; wa’ato’ that? It wa’ me. Noo then!’
　　‘You hear him say he did it, my child!’ said Squeers, appealingto his daughter. ‘You hear him say he did it!’
　　‘Did it!’ cried John. ‘I’ll tell ’ee more; hear this, too. If thou’d gotanother roonaway boy, I’d do it agean. If thou’d got twontyroonaway boys, I’d do it twonty times ower, and twonty more tothot; and I tell thee more,’ said John, ‘noo my blood is oop, thatthou’rt an old ra’ascal; and that it’s weel for thou, thou be’est anold ’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 everputting 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 youthere, sir. Rascal, eh?’ Mr Squeers took out his pocketbook andmade a note of it. ‘Very good. I should say that was worth fulltwenty 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, lookingvery white with passion; and taking his daughter’s arm, anddragging little Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the door.
　　‘As for you,’ said Squeers, turning round and addressingNicholas, who, as he had caused him to smart pretty soundly on aformer occasion, purposely abstained from taking any part in thediscussion, ‘see if I ain’t down upon you before long. You’ll go akidnapping of boys, will you? Take care their fathers don’t turnup—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 hisshoulders 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 bybreathing 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!—Artfuland designing ’Tilda!’
　　With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majesticwrath, Miss Squeers swept from the room; and having sustainedher dignity until the last possible moment, was heard to sob andscream and struggle in the passage.
　　John Browdie remained standing behind the table, lookingfrom his wife to Nicholas, and back again, with his mouth wideopen, until his hand accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale, whenhe took it up, and having obscured his features therewith for sometime, drew a long breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang thebell.
　　‘Here, waither,’ said John, briskly. ‘Look alive here. Tak’ thesethings awa’, and let’s have soomat broiled for sooper—varycomfortable and plenty o’ it—at ten o’clock. Bring soom brandyand soom wather, and a pair o’ slippers—the largest pair in thehouse—and be quick aboot it. Dash ma wig!’ said John, rubbinghis hands, ‘there’s no ganging oot to neeght, noo, to fetch anybodywhoam, and ecod, we’ll begin to spend the evening in airnest.’
Chapter 43
Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringingvarious People together.
　　The storm had long given place to a calm the mostprofound, and the evening was pretty far advanced—indeed supper was over, and the process of digestionproceeding as favourably as, under the influence of completetranquillity, cheerful conversation, and a moderate allowance ofbrandy-and-water, most wise men conversant with the anatomyand functions of the human frame will consider that it ought tohave proceeded, when the three friends, or as one might say, bothin a civil and religious sense, and with proper deference andregard to the holy state of matrimony, the two friends, (Mr andMrs Browdie counting as no more than one,) were startled by thenoise of loud and angry threatenings below stairs, which presentlyattained so high a pitch, and were conveyed besides in language sotowering, sanguinary, and ferocious, that it could hardly havebeen surpassed, if there had actually been a Saracen’s head thenpresent in the establishment, supported on the shoulders andsurmounting the trunk of a real, live, furious, and mostunappeasable Saracen.
　　This turmoil, instead of quickly subsiding after the firstoutburst, (as turmoils not unfrequently do, whether in taverns,legislative assemblies, or elsewhere,) into a mere grumbling andgrowling squabble, increased every moment; and although thewhole 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 noless flattering to the party addressed, with such great relish andstrength of tone, that a dozen voices raised in concert under anyordinary circumstances would have made far less uproar andcreated much smaller consternation.
　　‘Why, what’s the matter?’ said Nicholas, moving hastily towardsthe door.
　　John Browdie was striding in the same direction when MrsBrowdie turned pale, and, leaning back in her chair, requestedhim with a faint voice to take notice, that if he ran into any dangerit was her intention to fall into hysterics immediately, and that theconsequences might be more serious than he thought for. Johnlooked rather disconcerted by this intelligence, though there was alurking grin on his face at the same time; but, being quite unableto keep out of the fray, he compromised the matter by tucking hiswife’s arm under his own, and, thus accompanied, followingNicholas downstairs with all speed.
　　The passage outside the coffee-room door was the scene ofdisturbance, and here were congregated the coffee-roomcustomers and waiters, together with two or three coachmen andhelpers from the yard. These had hastily assembled round a youngman who from his appearance might have been a year or twoolder than Nicholas, and who, besides having given utterance tothe defiances just now described, seemed to have proceeded toeven greater lengths in his indignation, inasmuch as his feet hadno other covering than a pair of stockings, while a couple ofslippers lay at no great distance from the head of a prostrate figurein an opposite corner, who bore the appearance of having been shot into his present retreat by means of a kick, and complimentedby 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 onfrom behind an open sash window—seemed at that moment, if aspectator might judge from their winks, nods, and mutteredexclamations, strongly disposed to take part against the younggentleman in the stockings. Observing this, and that the younggentleman was nearly of his own age and had in nothing theappearance of an habitual brawler, Nicholas, impelled by suchfeelings as will influence young men sometimes, felt a very strongdisposition to side with the weaker party, and so thrust himself atonce into the centre of the group, and in a more emphatic tone,perhaps, than circumstances might seem to warrant, demandedwhat all that noise was about.
　　‘Hallo!’ said one of the men from the yard, ‘this is somebody indisguise, this is.’
　　‘Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of Roosher, gen’l’men!’
　　cried another fellow.
　　Disregarding these sallies, which were uncommonly wellreceived, as sallies at the expense of the best-dressed persons in acrowd usually are, Nicholas glanced carelessly round, andaddressing the young gentleman, who had by this time picked uphis slippers and thrust his feet into them, repeated his inquirieswith a courteous air.
　　‘A mere nothing!’ he replied.
　　At this a murmur was raised by the lookers-on, and some of theboldest cried, ‘Oh, indeed!—Wasn’t it though?—Nothing, eh?—Hecalled that nothing, did he? Lucky for him if he found it nothing.’
　　 These and many other expressions of ironical disapprobationhaving been exhausted, two or three of the out-of-door fellowsbegan to hustle Nicholas and the young gentleman who had madethe noise: stumbling against them by accident, and treading ontheir toes, and so forth. But this being a round game, and one notnecessarily limited to three or four players, was open to JohnBrowdie too, who, bursting into the little crowd—to the greatterror of his wife—and falling about in all directions, now to theright, now to the left, now forwards, now backwards, andaccidentally driving his elbow through the hat of the tallest helper,who had been particularly active, speedily caused the odds to weara very different appearance; while more than one stout fellowlimped away to a respectful distance, anathematising with tears inhis eyes the heavy tread and ponderous feet of the burlyYorkshireman.
　　‘Let me see him do it again,’ said he who had been kicked intothe corner, rising as he spoke, apparently more from the fear ofJohn Browdie’s inadvertently treading upon him, than from anydesire to place himself on equal terms with his late adversary. ‘Letme see him do it again. That’s all.’
　　‘Let me hear you make those remarks again,’ said the youngman, ‘and I’ll knock that head of yours in among the wine-glassesbehind you there.’
　　Here a waiter who had been rubbing his hands in excessiveenjoyment of the scene, so long as only the breaking of heads wasin question, adjured the spectators with great earnestness to fetchthe police, declaring that otherwise murder would be surely done,and that he was responsible for all the glass and china on thepremises.
　　 ‘No one need trouble himself to stir,’ said the young gentleman,‘I am going to remain in the house all night, and shall be foundhere 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 addressinghimself to Nicholas, said:
　　‘You inquired just now what was the matter here. The matter issimply this. Yonder person, who was drinking with a friend in thecoffee-room when I took my seat there for half an hour beforegoing to bed, (for I have just come off a journey, and preferredstopping here tonight, to going home at this hour, where I was notexpected until tomorrow,) chose to express himself in verydisrespectful, and insolently familiar terms, of a young lady, whomI recognised from his description and other circumstances, andwhom I have the honour to know. As he spoke loud enough to beoverheard by the other guests who were present, I informed himmost civilly that he was mistaken in his conjectures, which were ofan offensive nature, and requested him to forbear. He did so for alittle time, but as he chose to renew his conversation when leavingthe room, in a more offensive strain than before, I could notrefrain from making after him, and facilitating his departure by akick, which reduced him to the posture in which you saw him justnow. I am the best judge of my own affairs, I take it,’ said theyoung man, who had certainly not quite recovered from his recentheat; ‘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 circumstancesdetailed, 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 momentcould have come home to his own breast more powerfully, forhaving the unknown uppermost in his thoughts, it naturallyoccurred to him that he would have done just the same if anyaudacious gossiper durst have presumed in his hearing to speaklightly of her. Influenced by these considerations, he espoused theyoung gentleman’s quarrel with great warmth, protesting that hehad done quite right, and that he respected him for it; which JohnBrowdie (albeit not quite clear as to the merits) immediatelyprotested too, with not inferior vehemence.
　　‘Let him take care, that’s all,’ said the defeated party, who wasbeing rubbed down by a waiter, after his recent fall on the dustyboards. ‘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 girlwithout being beat to pieces for it!’
　　This reflection appeared to have great weight with the younglady in the bar, who (adjusting her cap as she spoke, and glancingat a mirror) declared that it would be a very pretty state of thingsindeed; and that if people were to be punished for actions soinnocent and natural as that, there would be more people to beknocked down than there would be people to knock them down,and that she wondered what the gentleman meant by it, that shedid.
　　‘My dear girl,’ said the young gentleman in a low voice,advancing towards the sash window.
　　‘Nonsense, sir!’ replied the young lady sharply, smiling thoughas she turned aside, and biting her lip, (whereat Mrs Browdie, whowas 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 apretty face were criminal, I should be the most hopeless personalive, for I cannot resist one. It has the most extraordinary effectupon me, checks and controls me in the most furious andobstinate mood. You see what an effect yours has had upon mealready.’
　　‘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 withan 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 itsworth and excellence, whereas this fellow has no more notion—’
　　The young lady interrupted the conversation at this point, bythrusting her head out of the bar-window, and inquiring of thewaiter in a shrill voice whether that young man who had beenknocked down was going to stand in the passage all night, orwhether the entrance was to be left clear for other people. Thewaiters taking the hint, and communicating it to the hostlers, werenot slow to change their tone too, and the result was, that theunfortunate 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 canI have—stop!—yes, to be sure—he belongs to a register-office upat 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 andstare him in the face every now and then, and when he leastexpected it.
　　‘I am much obliged to you for your kind advocacy of my causewhen it most needed an advocate,’ said the young man, laughing,and drawing a card from his pocket. ‘Perhaps you’ll do me thefavour to let me know where I can thank you.’
　　Nicholas took the card, and glancing at it involuntarily as hereturned the compliment, evinced very great surprise.
　　‘Mr Frank Cheeryble!’ said Nicholas. ‘Surely not the nephew ofCheeryble Brothers, who is expected tomorrow!’
　　‘I don’t usually call myself the nephew of the firm,’ returned MrFrank, good-humouredly; ‘but of the two excellent individuals whocompose it, I am proud to say I am the nephew. And you, I see, areMr Nickleby, of whom I have heard so much! This is a mostunexpected meeting, but not the less welcome, I assure you.’
　　Nicholas responded to these compliments with others of thesame kind, and they shook hands warmly. Then he introducedJohn Browdie, who had remained in a state of great admirationever since the young lady in the bar had been so skilfully won overto the right side. Then Mrs John Browdie was introduced, andfinally they all went upstairs together and spent the next half-hourwith great satisfaction and mutual entertainment; Mrs JohnBrowdie beginning the conversation by declaring that of all themade-up things she ever saw, that young woman below-stairs wasthe vainest and the plainest.
　　This Mr Frank Cheeryble, although, to judge from what hadrecently taken place, a hot-headed young man (which is not anabsolute miracle and phenomenon in nature), was a sprightly, good-humoured, pleasant fellow, with much both in hiscountenance and disposition that reminded Nicholas very stronglyof the kind-hearted brothers. His manner was as unaffected astheirs, and his demeanour full of that heartiness which, to mostpeople who have anything generous in their composition, ispeculiarly prepossessing. Add to this, that he was good-lookingand intelligent, had a plentiful share of vivacity, was extremelycheerful, and accommodated himself in five minutes’ time to allJohn Browdie’s oddities with as much ease as if he had known himfrom a boy; and it will be a source of no great wonder that, whenthey parted for the night, he had produced a most favourableimpression, not only upon the worthy Yorkshireman and his wife,but upon Nicholas also, who, revolving all these things in his mindas he made the best of his way home, arrived at the conclusionthat he had laid the foundation of a most agreeable and desirableacquaintance.
　　‘But it’s a most extraordinary thing about that register-officefellow!’ thought Nicholas. ‘Is it likely that this nephew can knowanything about that beautiful girl? When Tim Linkinwater gaveme to understand the other day that he was coming to take a sharein the business here, he said he had been superintending it inGermany for four years, and that during the last six months hehad been engaged in establishing an agency in the north ofEngland. That’s four years and a half—four years and a half. Shecan’t be more than seventeen—say eighteen at the outside. Shewas quite a child when he went away, then. I should say he knewnothing about her and had never seen her, so he can give me noinformation. At all events,’ thought Nicholas, coming to the realpoint 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 thatpassion called love, or does it deserve all the fine things whichpoets, in the exercise of their undoubted vocation, have said of it?
　　There are, no doubt, authenticated instances of gentlemen havinggiven up ladies and ladies having given up gentlemen tomeritorious rivals, under circumstances of great high-mindedness;but is it quite established that the majority of such ladies andgentlemen have not made a virtue of necessity, and nobly resignedwhat was beyond their reach; as a private soldier might register avow never to accept the order of the Garter, or a poor curate ofgreat piety and learning, but of no family—save a very large familyof children—might renounce a bishopric?
　　Here was Nicholas Nickleby, who would have scorned thethought of counting how the chances stood of his rising in favouror fortune with the brothers Cheeryble, now that their nephewhad returned, already deep in calculations whether that samenephew was likely to rival him in the affections of the fairunknown—discussing the matter with himself too, as gravely as if,with that one exception, it were all settled; and recurring to thesubject again and again, and feeling quite indignant and ill-used atthe notion of anybody else making love to one with whom he hadnever exchanged a word in all his life. To be sure, he exaggeratedrather than depreciated the merits of his new acquaintance; butstill he took it as a kind of personal offence that he should haveany merits at all—in the eyes of this particular young lady, that is;for elsewhere he was quite welcome to have as many as hepleased. There was undoubted selfishness in all this, and yetNicholas was of a most free and generous nature, with as few mean or sordid thoughts, perhaps, as ever fell to the lot of anyman; and there is no reason to suppose that, being in love, he feltand thought differently from other people in the like sublimecondition.
　　He did not stop to set on foot an inquiry into his train of thoughtor state of feeling, however; but went thinking on all the wayhome, and continued to dream on in the same strain all night. For,having satisfied himself that Frank Cheeryble could have noknowledge of, or acquaintance with, the mysterious young lady, itbegan to occur to him that even he himself might never see heragain; upon which hypothesis he built up a very ingenioussuccession of tormenting ideas which answered his purpose evenbetter than the vision of Mr Frank Cheeryble, and tantalised andworried him, waking and sleeping.
　　Notwithstanding all that has been said and sung to thecontrary, there is no well-established case of morning havingeither deferred or hastened its approach by the term of an hour orso for the mere gratification of a splenetic feeling against someunoffending lover: the sun having, in the discharge of his publicduty, as the books of precedent report, invariably risen accordingto the almanacs, and without suffering himself to be swayed byany private considerations. So, morning came as usual, and with itbusiness-hours, and with them Mr Frank Cheeryble, and with hima long train of smiles and welcomes from the worthy brothers, anda more grave and clerk-like, but scarcely less hearty receptionfrom Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
　　‘That Mr Frank and Mr Nickleby should have met last night,’
　　said Tim Linkinwater, getting slowly off his stool, and lookinground 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 thatmanner is, I say, a coincidence, a remarkable coincidence. Why, Idon’t believe now,’ added Tim, taking off his spectacles, andsmiling as with gentle pride, ‘that there’s such a place in all theworld 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 anobstinate air. ‘Well, but let us know. If there is any better place forsuch things, where is it? Is it in Europe? No, that it isn’t. Is it inAsia? Why, of course it’s not. Is it in Africa? Not a bit of it. Is it inAmerica? You know better than that, at all events. Well, then,’ saidTim, folding his arms resolutely, ‘where is it?’
　　‘I was not about to dispute the point, Tim,’ said youngCheeryble, laughing. ‘I am not such a heretic as that. All I wasgoing to say was, that I hold myself under an obligation to thecoincidence, that’s all.’
　　‘Oh! if you don’t dispute it,’ said Tim, quite satisfied, ‘that’sanother thing. I’ll tell you what though. I wish you had. I wish youor anybody would. I would so put that man down,’ said Tim,tapping the forefinger of his left hand emphatically with hisspectacles, ‘so put that man down by argument—’
　　It was quite impossible to find language to express the degree ofmental prostration to which such an adventurous wight would bereduced in the keen encounter with Tim Linkinwater, so Tim gaveup the rest of his declaration in pure lack of words, and mountedhis stool again.
　　‘We may consider ourselves, brother Ned,’ said Charles, afterhe had patted Tim Linkinwater approvingly on the back, ‘very fortunate in having two such young men about us as our nephewFrank and Mr Nickleby. It should be a source of great satisfactionand pleasure to us.’
　　‘Certainly, Charles, certainly,’ returned the other.
　　‘Of Tim,’ added brother Ned, ‘I say nothing whatever, becauseTim is a mere child—an infant—a nobody that we never think ofor take into account at all. Tim, you villain, what do you say tothat, sir?’
　　‘I am jealous of both of ’em,’ said Tim, ‘and mean to look out foranother situation; so provide yourselves, gentlemen, if you please.’
　　Tim thought this such an exquisite, unparalleled, and mostextraordinary joke, that he laid his pen upon the inkstand, andrather tumbling off his stool than getting down with his usualdeliberation, laughed till he was quite faint, shaking his head allthe time so that little particles of powder flew palpably about theoffice. Nor were the brothers at all behind-hand, for they laughedalmost as heartily at the ludicrous idea of any voluntary separationbetween themselves and old Tim. Nicholas and Mr Frank laughedquite boisterously, perhaps to conceal some other emotionawakened by this little incident, (and so, indeed, did the three oldfellows after the first burst,) so perhaps there was as much keenenjoyment and relish in that laugh, altogether, as the politestassembly ever derived from the most poignant witticism uttered atany one person’s expense.
　　‘Mr Nickleby,’ said brother Charles, calling him aside, andtaking him kindly by the hand, ‘I—I—am anxious, my dear sir, tosee that you are properly and comfortably settled in the cottage.
　　We cannot allow those who serve us well to labour under anyprivation or discomfort that it is in our power to remove. I wish, too, to see your mother and sister: to know them, Mr Nickleby, andhave an opportunity of relieving their minds by assuring them thatany trifling service we have been able to do them is a great dealmore than repaid by the zeal and ardour you display.—Not aword, my dear sir, I beg. Tomorrow is Sunday. I shall make bold tocome out at teatime, and take the chance of finding you at home; ifyou are not, you know, or the ladies should feel a delicacy in beingintruded on, and would rather not be known to me just now, why Ican come again another time, any other time would do for me. Letit 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, whosaw in this act of kindness, and many others of which he had beenthe subject that morning, only so many delicate renewals on thearrival of their nephew of the kind assurance which the brothershad given him in his absence, could scarcely feel sufficientadmiration and gratitude for such extraordinary consideration.
　　The intelligence that they were to have visitor—and such avisitor—next day, awakened in the breast of Mrs Nickleby mingledfeelings of exultation and regret; for whereas on the one hand shehailed it as an omen of her speedy restoration to good society andthe almost-forgotten pleasures of morning calls and evening teadrinkings, she could not, on the other, but reflect with bitternessof spirit on the absence of a silver teapot with an ivory knob on thelid, and a milk-jug to match, which had been the pride of her heartin days of yore, and had been kept from year’s end to year’s endwrapped up in wash-leather on a certain top shelf which nowpresented 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 tothe pickled onions. You remember that spice-box, Kate?’
　　‘Perfectly well, mama.’
　　‘I shouldn’t think you did, Kate,’ returned Mrs Nickleby, in asevere manner, ‘talking about it in that cold and unfeeling way! Ifthere is any one thing that vexes me in these losses more than thelosses themselves, I do protest and declare,’ said Mrs Nickleby,rubbing her nose with an impassioned air, ‘that it is to have peopleabout me who take things with such provoking calmness.’
　　‘My dear mama,’ said Kate, stealing her arm round hermother’s neck, ‘why do you say what I know you cannot seriouslymean or think, or why be angry with me for being happy andcontent? You and Nicholas are left to me, we are together onceagain, and what regard can I have for a few trifling things of whichwe never feel the want? When I have seen all the misery anddesolation that death can bring, and known the lonesome feelingof being solitary and alone in crowds, and all the agony ofseparation in grief and poverty when we most needed comfort andsupport from each other, can you wonder that I look upon this as aplace of such delicious quiet and rest, that with you beside me Ihave nothing to wish for or regret? There was a time, and not longsince, when all the comforts of our old home did come back uponme, I own, very often—oftener than you would think perhaps—butI affected to care nothing for them, in the hope that you would sobe brought to regret them the less. I was not insensible, indeed. Imight have felt happier if I had been. Dear mama,’ said Kate, ingreat agitation, ‘I know no difference between this home and thatin which we were all so happy for so many years, except that thekindest and gentlest heart that ever ached on earth has passed in peace to heaven.’
　　‘Kate my dear, Kate,’ cried Mrs Nickleby, folding her in herarms.
　　‘I have so often thought,’ sobbed Kate, ‘of all his kind words—ofthe last time he looked into my little room, as he passed upstairs tobed, and said “God bless you, darling.” There was a paleness in hisface, mama—the broken heart—I know it was—I little thoughtso—then—’
　　A gush of tears came to her relief, and Kate laid her head uponher mother’s breast, and wept like a little child.
　　It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that whenthe heart is touched and softened by some tranquil happiness oraffectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it mostpowerfully and irresistibly. It would almost seem as though ourbetter thoughts and sympathies were charms, in virtue of whichthe soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercoursewith the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas! howoften and how long may those patient angels hover above us,watching for the spell which is so seldom uttered, and so soonforgotten!
　　Poor Mrs Nickleby, accustomed to give ready utterance towhatever came uppermost in her mind, had never conceived thepossibility of her daughter’s dwelling upon these thoughts insecret, the more especially as no hard trial or querulous reproachhad ever drawn them from her. But now, when the happiness ofall that Nicholas had just told them, and of their new and peacefullife, brought these recollections so strongly upon Kate that shecould not suppress them, Mrs Nickleby began to have aglimmering that she had been rather thoughtless now and then, and was conscious of something like self-reproach as sheembraced her daughter, and yielded to the emotions which such aconversation naturally awakened.
　　There was a mighty bustle that night, and a vast quantity ofpreparation for the expected visitor, and a very large nosegay wasbrought from a gardener’s hard by, and cut up into a number ofvery small ones, with which Mrs Nickleby would have garnishedthe little sitting-room, in a style that certainly could not have failedto attract anybody’s attention, if Kate had not offered to spare herthe trouble, and arranged them in the prettiest and neatestmanner possible. If the cottage ever looked pretty, it must havebeen on such a bright and sunshiny day as the next day was. ButSmike’s pride in the garden, or Mrs Nickleby’s in the condition ofthe furniture, or Kate’s in everything, was nothing to the pridewith which Nicholas looked at Kate herself; and surely thecostliest mansion in all England might have found in her beautifulface and graceful form its most exquisite and peerless ornament.
　　About six o’clock in the afternoon Mrs Nickleby was throwninto a great flutter of spirits by the long-expected knock at thedoor, nor was this flutter at all composed by the audible tread oftwo pair of boots in the passage, which Mrs Nickleby augured, in abreathless state, must be ‘the two Mr Cheerybles;’ as it certainlywas, though not the two Mrs Nickleby expected, because it was MrCharles Cheeryble, and his nephew, Mr Frank, who made athousand apologies for his intrusion, which Mrs Nickleby (havingtea-spoons enough and to spare for all) most graciously received.
　　Nor did the appearance of this unexpected visitor occasion theleast embarrassment, (save in Kate, and that only to the extent of ablush or two at first,) for the old gentleman was so kind and cordial, and the young gentleman imitated him in this respect sowell, that the usual stiffness and formality of a first meetingshowed no signs of appearing, and Kate really more than oncedetected herself in the very act of wondering when it was going tobegin.
　　At the tea-table there was plenty of conversation on a greatvariety of subjects, nor were there wanting jocose matters ofdiscussion, such as they were; for young Mr Cheeryble’s recentstay in Germany happening to be alluded to, old Mr Cheerybleinformed the company that the aforesaid young Mr Cheeryble wassuspected to have fallen deeply in love with the daughter of acertain German burgomaster. This accusation young MrCheeryble most indignantly repelled, upon which Mrs Nicklebyslyly remarked, that she suspected, from the very warmth of thedenial, there must be something in it. Young Mr Cheeryble thenearnestly entreated old Mr Cheeryble to confess that it was all ajest, which old Mr Cheeryble at last did, young Mr Cheeryblebeing so much in earnest about it, that—as Mrs Nickleby saidmany thousand times afterwards in recalling the scene—he ‘quitecoloured,’ which she rightly considered a memorablecircumstance, and one worthy of remark, young men not being asa class remarkable for modesty or self-denial, especially whenthere is a lady in the case, when, if they colour at all, it is rathertheir practice to colour the story, and not themselves.
　　After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening beingvery fine they strolled out at the garden-gate into some lanes andbye-roads, and sauntered up and down until it grew quite dark.
　　The time seemed to pass very quickly with all the party. Kate wentfirst, leaning upon her brother’s arm, and talking with him and Mr Frank Cheeryble; and Mrs Nickleby and the elder gentlemanfollowed 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 currentof her speech was confined within very narrow and circumscribedlimits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an object of interest in hislife, had been one that day) accompanied them, joining sometimesone group and sometimes the other, as brother Charles, laying hishand upon his shoulder, bade him walk with him, or Nicholas,looking smilingly round, beckoned him to come and talk with theold friend who understood him best, and who could win a smileinto his careworn face when none else could.
　　Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the prideof a mother in her children, for that is a compound of two cardinalvirtues—faith and hope. This was the pride which swelled MrsNickleby’s heart that night, and this it was which left upon herface, glistening in the light when they returned home, traces of themost grateful tears she had ever shed.
　　There was a quiet mirth about the little supper, whichharmonised exactly with this tone of feeling, and at length the twogentlemen took their leave. There was one circumstance in theleave-taking which occasioned a vast deal of smiling andpleasantry, and that was, that Mr Frank Cheeryble offered hishand to Kate twice over, quite forgetting that he had bade heradieu already. This was held by the elder Mr Cheeryble to be aconvincing proof that he was thinking of his German flame, andthe jest occasioned immense laughter. So easy is it to move lighthearts.
　　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 acrowd of others—to which we revert with particular delight, sothis one was often looked back to afterwards, as holding aconspicuous place in the calendar of those who shared it.
　　Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to havebeen most happy?
　　Who was that who, in the silence of his own chamber, sunkupon his knees to pray as his first friend had taught him, andfolding his hands and stretching them wildly in the air, fell uponhis face in a passion of bitter grief?
Chapter 44
Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. Itwould also appear from the Contents hereof, that aJoke, even between Husband and Wife, may besometimes carried too far.
　　There are some men who, living with the one object ofenriching themselves, no matter by what means, andbeing perfectly conscious of the baseness and rascality ofthe means which they will use every day towards this end, affectnevertheless—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, orrather—for walking implies, at least, an erect position and thebearing of a man—that ever crawled and crept through life by itsdirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries theevents of every day, and keep a regular debtor and creditoraccount with Heaven, which shall always show a floating balancein their own favour. Whether this is a gratuitous (the onlygratuitous) part of the falsehood and trickery of such men’s lives,or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven itself, and lay uptreasure in the next world by the same process which has enabledthem to lay up treasure in this—not to question how it is, so it is.
　　And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain autobiographieswhich have enlightened the world) cannot fail to proveserviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angelsome time and labour.
　　 Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding,dogged, and impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, orbeyond it, save the gratification of two passions, avarice, the firstand predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second.
　　Affecting to consider himself but a type of all humanity, he was atlittle pains to conceal his true character from the world in general,and in his own heart he exulted over and cherished every baddesign as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition that RalphNickleby heeded, in the letter, was ‘know thyself.’ He knewhimself well, and choosing to imagine that all mankind were castin the same mould, hated them; for, though no man hates himself,the coldest among us having too much self-love for that, yet mostmen unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will bevery generally found that those who sneer habitually at humannature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and leastpleasant samples.
　　But the present business of these adventures is with Ralphhimself, who stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown,while that worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and spreadingthem carefully on the palm of his left hand, and flattening themwith his right to take the creases out, proceeded to roll them upwith 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. Goback again.’
　　‘No mistake,’ returned Newman. ‘Not even going; gone.’
　　‘Has he turned girl or baby?’ muttered Ralph, with a fretfulgesture.
　　‘I don’t know,’ said Newman, ‘but he’s gone.’
　　 The repetition of the word ‘gone’ seemed to afford NewmanNoggs inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed RalphNickleby. He uttered the word with a full round emphasis,dwelling upon it as long as he decently could, and when he couldhold out no longer without attracting observation, stood gasping itto himself as if even that were a satisfaction.
　　‘And where has he gone?’ said Ralph.
　　‘France,’ replied Newman. ‘Danger of another attack oferysipelas—a worse attack—in the head. So the doctors orderedhim 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 theretaliation 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; inthat case I should only be the more determined to have it, and thatwithout delay—I mean if I were he. But he’s too ill! Poor SirMulberry! Too ill!’
　　Uttering these words with supreme contempt and greatirritation of manner, Ralph signed hastily to Newman to leave theroom; and throwing himself into his chair, beat his footimpatiently upon the ground.
　　‘There is some spell about that boy,’ said Ralph, grinding histeeth. ‘Circumstances conspire to help him. Talk of fortune’sfavours! What is even money to such Devil’s luck as this?’
　　He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, butnotwithstanding his previous reflection there was some consolation there, for his face relaxed a little; and although therewas still a deep frown upon the contracted brow, it was one ofcalculation, and not of disappointment.
　　‘This Hawk will come back, however,’ muttered Ralph; ‘and if Iknow the man (and I should by this time) his wrath will have lostnothing of its violence in the meanwhile. Obliged to live inretirement—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. Heis not likely to forget his obligations to the cause of all this. Fewmen would; but he of all others? No, no!’
　　He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon hishand, fell a musing, and smiled again. After a time he rose andrang 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 beenhere 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 ninetonight—let him wait. And if there’s another man with him, asthere will be—perhaps,’ said Ralph, checking himself, ‘let him waittoo.’
　　‘Let ’em both wait?’ said Newman.
　　‘Ay,’ replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. ‘Helpme on with this spencer, and don’t repeat after me, like a croakingparrot.’
　　‘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 lookedover Ralph’s shoulder for an instant, (he was adjusting the collarof the spencer behind, just then,) as if he were strongly disposed totweak him by the nose. Meeting Ralph’s eye, however, hesuddenly recalled his wandering fingers, and rubbed his own rednose with a vehemence quite astonishing.
　　Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than athreatening look, and an admonition to be careful and make nomistake, Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked out.
　　He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneousconnection, and very odd calls he made, some at great rich houses,and some at small poor ones, but all upon one subject: money. Hisface was a talisman to the porters and servants of his moredashing clients, and procured him ready admission, though hetrudged on foot, and others, who were denied, rattled to the doorin carriages. Here he was all softness and cringing civility; his stepso light, that it scarcely produced a sound upon the thick carpets;his voice so soft that it was not audible beyond the person to whomit was addressed. But in the poorer habitations Ralph was anotherman; his boots creaked upon the passage floor as he walked boldlyin; his voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money thatwas overdue; his threats were coarse and angry. With anotherclass of customers, Ralph was again another man. These wereattorneys of more than doubtful reputation, who helped him tonew business, or raised fresh profits upon old. With them Ralphwas familiar and jocose, humorous upon the topics of the day, andespecially pleasant upon bankruptcies and pecuniary difficultiesthat made good for trade. In short, it would have been difficult to have recognised the same man under these various aspects, butfor the bulky leather case full of bills and notes which he drewfrom his pocket at every house, and the constant repetition of thesame complaint, (varied only in tone and style of delivery,) that theworld thought him rich, and that perhaps he might be if he had hisown; but there was no getting money in when it was once out,either principal or interest, and it was a hard matter to live; evento live from day to day.
　　It was evening before a long round of such visits (interruptedonly 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 puckeredbrow and firmly-set mouth would have abundantly testified, evenif they had been unaccompanied by a complete indifference to, orunconsciousness of, the objects about him. So complete was hisabstraction, however, that Ralph, usually as quick-sighted as anyman, did not observe that he was followed by a shambling figure,which at one time stole behind him with noiseless footsteps, atanother crept a few paces before him, and at another glided alongby his side; at all times regarding him with an eye so keen, and alook so eager and attentive, that it was more like the expression ofan intrusive face in some powerful picture or strongly markeddream, than the scrutiny even of a most interested and anxiousobserver.
　　The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and thecommencement of a violent storm of rain drove Ralph for shelterto a tree. He was leaning against it with folded arms, still buried inthought, when, happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met thoseof a man who, creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a searching look. There was something in the usurer’s expressionat the moment, which the man appeared to remember well, for itdecided him; and stepping close up to Ralph, he pronounced hisname.
　　Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of pacesand surveyed him from head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man,of about his own age, with a stooping body, and a very sinister facerendered more ill-favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeplysunburnt, and thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with theperfect whiteness of his hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments,of a strange and uncouth make; and having about him anindefinable manner of depression and degradation—this, for amoment, was all he saw. But he looked again, and the face andperson seemed gradually to grow less strange; to change as helooked, to subside and soften into lineaments that were familiar,until at last they resolved themselves, as if by some strange opticalillusion, 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 beckoningto Ralph to take his former place under the tree, and not to standin the falling rain, of which, in his first surprise, he had been quiteregardless, 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. ‘Thoughthere is something in that, that I remember now.’
　　‘There is little in me that you can call to mind as having beenthere 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 theother, ‘this reception, and your manner, would have decided mevery 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, duringwhich he had seemed to struggle with an inclination to answerhim by some reproach, ‘will you hear a few words that I have tosay?’
　　‘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 myears, 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 everchose 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 ofhumanity.’
　　‘Of what?’ said Ralph.
　　‘Of humanity,’ replied the other, sternly. ‘I am hungry and inwant. If the change that you must see in me after so long anabsence—must see, for I, upon whom it has come by slow andhard degrees, see it and know it well—will not move you to pity, letthe knowledge that bread; not the daily bread of the Lord’s Prayer, which, as it is offered up in cities like this, is understood toinclude half the luxuries of the world for the rich, and just as muchcoarse food as will support life for the poor—not that, but bread, acrust of dry hard bread, is beyond my reach today—let that havesome weight with you, if nothing else has.’
　　‘If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,’ said Ralph, ‘youhave studied your part well; but if you will take advice from onewho knows something of the world and its ways, I shouldrecommend a lower tone; a little lower tone, or you stand a fairchance of being starved in good earnest.’
　　As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with hisright hand, and inclining his head a little on one side and droppinghis chin upon his breast, looked at him whom he addressed with afrowning, sullen face. The very picture of a man whom nothingcould 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 yourlast also,’ replied Ralph.
　　‘I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought youwere 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 ofencountering 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 yearsold, and as destitute and helpless as a child of six.’
　　‘I am sixty years old, too,’ replied Ralph, ‘and am neitherdestitute 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 yougive them to me—will you?’
　　‘I did once,’ replied Ralph, composedly; ‘you scarcely need askme whether I will again.’
　　‘It’s twenty years ago, or more,’ said the man, in a suppressedvoice, ‘since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed ashare in the profits of some business I brought to you, and, as Ipersisted, you arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, oddshillings, including interest at fifty per cent, or so.’
　　‘I remember something of it,’ replied Ralph, carelessly. ‘Whatthen?’
　　‘That didn’t part us,’ said the man. ‘I made submission, beingon the wrong side of the bolts and bars; and as you were not themade man then that you are now, you were glad enough to takeback a clerk who wasn’t over nice, and who knew something of thetrade you drove.’
　　‘You begged and prayed, and I consented,’ returned Ralph.
　　‘That was kind of me. Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I shouldthink 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; butuseful.’
　　‘Useful, indeed!’ said the man. ‘Come. You had pinched andground me down for some years before that, but I had served youfaithfully 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 yourwork. 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 justsaid) 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 ofthat, and partly in the hope of making money someday by thescheme, I took advantage of my position about you, and possessedmyself of a hold upon you, which you would give half of all youhave to know, and never can know but through me. I left you—long after that time, remember—and, for some poor trickery thatcame within the law, but was nothing to what you money-makersdaily practise just outside its bounds, was sent away a convict forseven years. I have returned what you see me. Now, Mr Nickleby,’
　　said the man, with a strange mixture of humility and sense ofpower, ‘what help and assistance will you give me; what bribe, tospeak out plainly? My expectations are not monstrous, but I mustlive, and to live I must eat and drink. Money is on your side, andhunger and thirst on mine. You may drive an easy bargain.’
　　‘Is that all?’ said Ralph, still eyeing his companion with thesame steady look, and moving nothing but his lips.
　　‘It depends on you, Mr Nickleby, whether that’s all or not,’ wasthe rejoinder.
　　‘Why then, harkye, Mr—, I don’t know by what name I am tocall you,’ said Ralph.
　　‘By my old one, if you like.’
　　‘Why then, harkye, Mr Brooker,’ said Ralph, in his harshestaccents, ‘and don’t expect to draw another speech from me.
　　Harkye, sir. I know you of old for a ready scoundrel, but you neverhad 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 withsuch a tale as this to me. You a hold upon me! Keep it, or publish itto 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 bringingit 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 worldknows me. Whatever you gleaned, or heard, or saw, when youserved me, the world knows and magnifies already. You could tellit nothing that would surprise it, unless, indeed, it redounded tomy credit or honour, and then it would scout you for a liar. Andyet I don’t find business slack, or clients scrupulous. Quite thecontrary. I am reviled or threatened every day by one man oranother,’ said Ralph; ‘but things roll on just the same, and I don’tgrow poorer either.’
　　‘I neither revile nor threaten,’ rejoined the man. ‘I can tell youof 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 beregained.’
　　‘I tell my money pretty accurately, and generally keep it in myown custody,’ said Ralph. ‘I look sharply after most men that I dealwith, and most of all I looked sharply after you. You are welcometo all you have kept from me.’
　　‘Are those of your own name dear to you?’ said the manemphatically. ‘If they are—’
　　‘They are not,’ returned Ralph, exasperated at thisperseverance, and the thought of Nicholas, which the last questionawakened. ‘They are not. If you had come as a common beggar, I might have thrown a sixpence to you in remembrance of the cleverknave you used to be; but since you try to palm these stale tricksupon one you might have known better, I’ll not part with ahalfpenny—nor would I to save you from rotting. And rememberthis, ‘scape-gallows,’ said Ralph, menacing him with his hand,‘that if we meet again, and you so much as notice me by onebegging gesture, you shall see the inside of a jail once more, andtighten this hold upon me in intervals of the hard labour thatvagabonds are put to. There’s my answer to your trash. Take it.’
　　With a disdainful scowl at the object of his anger, who met hiseye but uttered not a word, Ralph walked away at his usual pace,without manifesting the slightest curiosity to see what became ofhis late companion, or indeed once looking behind him. The manremained on the same spot with his eyes fixed upon his retreatingfigure until it was lost to view, and then drawing his arm about hischest, as if the damp and lack of food struck coldly to him, lingeredwith slouching steps by the wayside, and begged of those whopassed along.
　　Ralph, in no-wise moved by what had lately passed, furtherthan as he had already expressed himself, walked deliberately on,and turning out of the Park and leaving Golden Square on hisright, took his way through some streets at the west end of thetown until he arrived in that particular one in which stood theresidence of Madame Mantalini. The name of that lady no longerappeared on the flaming door-plate, that of Miss Knag beingsubstituted in its stead; but the bonnets and dresses were stilldimly visible in the first-floor windows by the decaying light of asummer’s evening, and excepting this ostensible alteration in theproprietorship, the establishment wore its old appearance.
　　 ‘Humph!’ muttered Ralph, drawing his hand across his mouthwith a connoisseur-like air, and surveying the house from top tobottom; ‘these people look pretty well. They can’t last long; but if Iknow of their going in good time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. Imust keep them closely in view; that’s all.’
　　So, nodding his head very complacently, Ralph was leaving thespot, when his quick ear caught the sound of a confused noise andhubbub of voices, mingled with a great running up and downstairs, in the very house which had been the subject of hisscrutiny; and while he was hesitating whether to knock at the dooror listen at the keyhole a little longer, a female servant of MadameMantalini’s (whom he had often seen) opened it abruptly andbounced 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 ofGracious. 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 soall along.’
　　‘Come here, you silly wench,’ said Ralph, catching her by thewrist; ‘and don’t carry family matters to the neighbours,destroying the credit of the establishment. Come here; do you hearme, girl?’
　　Without any further expostulation, he led or rather pulled thefrightened handmaid into the house, and shut the door; thenbidding her walk upstairs before him, followed without moreceremony.
　　Guided by the noise of a great many voices all talking together, and passing the girl in his impatience, before they had ascendedmany steps, Ralph quickly reached the private sitting-room, whenhe was rather amazed by the confused and inexplicable scene inwhich he suddenly found himself.
　　There were all the young-lady workers, some with bonnets andsome without, in various attitudes expressive of alarm andconsternation; some gathered round Madame Mantalini, who wasin tears upon one chair; and others round Miss Knag, who was inopposition tears upon another; and others round Mr Mantalini,who was perhaps the most striking figure in the whole group, forMr 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 MrMantalini’s eyes were closed, and his face was pale and his hairwas comparatively straight, and his whiskers and moustache werelimp, and his teeth were clenched, and he had a little bottle in hisright hand, and a little tea-spoon in his left; and his hands, arms,legs, and shoulders, were all stiff and powerless. And yet MadameMantalini was not weeping upon the body, but was scoldingviolently upon her chair; and all this amidst a clamour of tonguesperfectly deafening, and which really appeared to have driven theunfortunate 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 anastounding string of such shrill contradictions as ‘He’s poisonedhimself’—‘He hasn’t’—‘Send for a doctor’—‘Don’t’—‘He’s dying’—‘He isn’t, he’s only pretending’—with various other cries, pouredforth with bewildering volubility, until Madame Mantalini wasseen to address herself to Ralph, when female curiosity to know what she would say, prevailed, and, as if by general consent, adead silence, unbroken by a single whisper, instantaneouslysucceeded.
　　‘Mr Nickleby,’ said Madame Mantalini; ‘by what chance youcame here, I don’t know.’
　　Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate, as part of thewanderings of a sick man, the words ‘Demnition sweetness!’ butnobody heeded them except the footman, who, being startled tohear such awful tones proceeding, as it were, from between hisvery fingers, dropped his master’s head upon the floor with apretty loud crash, and then, without an effort to lift it up, gazedupon the bystanders, as if he had done something rather cleverthan otherwise.
　　‘I will, however,’ continued Madame Mantalini, drying her eyes,and speaking with great indignation, ‘say before you, and beforeeverybody here, for the first time, and once for all, that I never willsupply that man’s extravagances and viciousness again. I havebeen a dupe and a fool to him long enough. In future, he shallsupport himself if he can, and then he may spend what money hepleases, 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 mostpathetic lamentations on the part of her husband, that theapothecary had not mixed the prussic acid strong enough, andthat he must take another bottle or two to finish the work he hadin hand, entered into a catalogue of that amiable gentleman’sgallantries, deceptions, extravagances, and infidelities (especiallythe last), winding up with a protest against being supposed toentertain the smallest remnant of regard for him; and adducing, in proof of the altered state of her affections, the circumstance of hishaving poisoned himself in private no less than six times withinthe last fortnight, and her not having once interfered by word ordeed to save his life.
　　‘And I insist on being separated and left to myself,’ saidMadame 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 allgirls 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, andso did the young ladies generally, with the exception of one or twowho appeared to entertain some doubts whether such whisperscould 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, andretreating towards Miss Knag.
　　‘Well, but consider,’ reasoned Ralph, who had a great interestin the matter. ‘It would be well to reflect. A married woman has noproperty.’
　　‘Not a solitary single individual dem, my soul,’ and MrMantalini, raising himself upon his elbow.
　　‘I am quite aware of that,’ retorted Madame Mantalini, tossingher 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, withwhom her late employer had secretly come to an amicableunderstanding on this point. ‘Very true, indeed, MadameMantalini—hem—very true. And I never was more glad in all my life, that I had strength of mind to resist matrimonial offers, nomatter how advantageous, than I am when I think of my presentposition as compared with your most unfortunate and mostundeserved one, Madame Mantalini.’
　　‘Demmit!’ cried Mr Mantalini, turning his head towards hiswife. ‘Will it not slap and pinch the envious dowager, that dares toreflect upon its own delicious?’
　　But the day of Mr Mantalini’s blandishments had departed.
　　‘Miss Knag, sir,’ said his wife, ‘is my particular friend;’ andalthough Mr Mantalini leered till his eyes seemed in danger ofnever coming back to their right places again, Madame Mantalinishowed no signs of softening.
　　To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she had been mainlyinstrumental in bringing about this altered state of things, for,finding by daily experience, that there was no chance of thebusiness thriving, or even continuing to exist, while Mr Mantalinihad any hand in the expenditure, and having now a considerableinterest in its well-doing, she had sedulously applied herself to theinvestigation of some little matters connected with thatgentleman’s private character, which she had so well elucidated,and artfully imparted to Madame Mantalini, as to open her eyesmore effectually than the closest and most philosophical reasoningcould have done in a series of years. To which end, the accidentaldiscovery by Miss Knag of some tender correspondence, in whichMadame Mantalini was described as ‘old’ and ‘ordinary,’ had mostprovidentially contributed.
　　However, notwithstanding her firmness, Madame Mantaliniwept very piteously; and as she leant upon Miss Knag, and signedtowards 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 awitness to this demnition cruelty, on the part of the demdestenslaver and captivator that never was, oh dem! I forgive thatwoman.’
　　‘Forgive!’ repeated Madame Mantalini, angrily.
　　‘I do forgive her, Nickleby,’ said Mr Mantalini. ‘You will blameme, the world will blame me, the women will blame me; everybodywill laugh, and scoff, and smile, and grin most demnebly. They willsay, “She had a blessing. She did not know it. He was too weak; hewas 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. Itwas a dem’d case, there never was a demder.” But I forgive her.’
　　With this affecting speech Mr Mantalini fell down again veryflat, and lay to all appearance without sense or motion, until all thefemales had left the room, when he came cautiously into a sittingposture, and confronted Ralph with a very blank face, and thelittle bottle still in one hand and the tea-spoon in the other.
　　‘You may put away those fooleries now, and live by your witsagain,’ 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 shouldknow best. Good-night.’
　　Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he would stay andadvise with him, Ralph left the crest-fallen Mr Mantalini to hismeditations, 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-bookin which Mr Mantalini’s name figured conspicuously, and findingby his watch that it was between nine and ten o’clock, made allspeed 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 wellhave been excused for wondering at such an unusual andextraordinary circumstance (for he had never seen Ralph in acoach in his life) departed on his errand, and presently returnedwith the conveyance.
　　Into it went Mr Squeers, and Ralph, and the third man, whomNewman Noggs had never seen. Newman stood upon the doorstep to see them off, not troubling himself to wonder where orupon what business they were going, until he chanced by mereaccident to hear Ralph name the address whither the coachmanwas 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 afterthe coach as if with the intention of getting up behind; but in thisdesign he was balked, for it had too much the start of him and wassoon 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 meif I had. Drive there! What can come of this? If I had only known ityesterday 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 veryremarkable, though far from prepossessing appearance, who,coming stealthily towards him, solicited relief.
　　Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away; but the manfollowed him, and pressed him with such a tale of misery thatNewman (who might have been considered a hopeless person tobeg from, and who had little enough to give) looked into his hat forsome halfpence which he usually kept screwed up, when he hadany, in a corner of his pocket-handkerchief.
　　While he was busily untwisting the knot with his teeth, the mansaid something which attracted his attention; whatever thatsomething was, it led to something else, and in the end he andNewman walked away side by side—the strange man talkingearnestly, and Newman listening.
Chapter 45
Containing Matter of a surprising Kind.
　　‘A s we gang awa’ fra’ Lunnun tomorrow neeght, and as Idinnot know that I was e’er so happy in a’ my days,Misther Nickleby, Ding! but I will tak’ anoother glass toour next merry meeting!’
　　So said John Browdie, rubbing his hands with great joyousness,and looking round him with a ruddy shining face, quite in keepingwith the declaration.
　　The time at which John found himself in this enviable conditionwas the same evening to which the last chapter bore reference; theplace 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 ofher son’s obligations to the honest Yorkshireman, had, after somedemur, yielded her consent to Mr and Mrs Browdie being invitedout to tea; in the way of which arrangement, there were at firstsundry difficulties and obstacles, arising out of her not having hadan opportunity of ‘calling’ upon Mrs Browdie first; for althoughMrs Nickleby very often observed with much complacency (asmost punctilious people do), that she had not an atom of pride orformality about her, still she was a great stickler for dignity andceremonies; and as it was manifest that, until a call had beenmade, she could not be (politely speaking, and according to thelaws of society) even cognisant of the fact of Mrs Browdie’sexistence, 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 thereshould be a sort of condescension on my part, and that I shouldshow this young person that I am willing to take notice of her.
　　There’s a very respectable-looking young man,’ added MrsNickleby, after a short consideration, ‘who is conductor to one ofthe omnibuses that go by here, and who wears a glazed hat—yoursister and I have noticed him very often—he has a wart upon hisnose, 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 hismother; ‘of course I mean that his glazed hat looks like agentleman’s servant, and not the wart upon his nose; though eventhat is not so ridiculous as it may seem to you, for we had a footboyonce, who had not only a wart, but a wen also, and a very largewen too, and he demanded to have his wages raised inconsequence, because he found it came very expensive. Let mesee, what was I—oh yes, I know. The best way that I can think ofwould be to send a card, and my compliments, (I’ve no doubt he’dtake ’em for a pot of porter,) by this young man, to the Saracenwith Two Necks. If the waiter took him for a gentleman’s servant,so much the better. Then all Mrs Browdie would have to do wouldbe to send her card back by the carrier (he could easily come witha double knock), and there’s an end of it.’
　　‘My dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘I don’t suppose suchunsophisticated people as these ever had a card of their own, orever will have.’
　　 ‘Oh that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear,’ returned Mrs Nickleby,‘that’s another thing. If you put it upon that ground, why, ofcourse, I have no more to say, than that I have no doubt they arevery good sort of persons, and that I have no kind of objection totheir coming here to tea if they like, and shall make a point ofbeing very civil to them if they do.’
　　The point being thus effectually set at rest, and Mrs Nicklebyduly placed in the patronising and mildly-condescending positionwhich became her rank and matrimonial years, Mr and MrsBrowdie were invited and came; and as they were very deferentialto Mrs Nickleby, and seemed to have a becoming appreciation ofher greatness, and were very much pleased with everything, thegood lady had more than once given Kate to understand, in awhisper, that she thought they were the very best-meaning peopleshe had ever seen, and perfectly well behaved.
　　And thus it came to pass, that John Browdie declared, in theparlour after supper, to wit, and twenty minutes before eleveno’clock p.m., that he had never been so happy in all his days.
　　Nor was Mrs Browdie much behind her husband in thisrespect, for that young matron, whose rustic beauty contrastedvery prettily with the more delicate loveliness of Kate, and withoutsuffering by the contrast either, for each served as it were to set offand decorate the other, could not sufficiently admire the gentleand winning manners of the young lady, or the engaging affabilityof the elder one. Then Kate had the art of turning the conversationto subjects upon which the country girl, bashful at first in strangecompany, could feel herself at home; and if Mrs Nickleby was notquite so felicitous at times in the selection of topics of discourse, orif she did seem, as Mrs Browdie expressed it, ‘rather high in her notions,’ still nothing could be kinder, and that she tookconsiderable interest in the young couple was manifest from thevery long lectures on housewifery with which she was so obligingas to entertain Mrs Browdie’s private ear, which were illustratedby various references to the domestic economy of the cottage, inwhich (those duties falling exclusively upon Kate) the good ladyhad about as much share, either in theory or practice, as any oneof the statues of the Twelve Apostles which embellish the exteriorof 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 wereoppressed with I don’t know how many cares, it would make mehappy only to look at him.’
　　‘He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most excellentcreature, Kate,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘most excellent. And I am surethat at all times it will give me pleasure—really pleasure now—tohave you, Mrs Browdie, to see me in this plain and homelymanner. We make no display,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with an airwhich seemed to insinuate that they could make a vast deal if theywere so disposed; ‘no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn’t allow it. Isaid, “Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs Browdie feeluncomfortable, and how very foolish and inconsiderate that wouldbe!” ‘‘I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma’am,’ returnedMrs Browdie, gratefully. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock, John. I amafraid we are keeping you up very late, ma’am.’
　　‘Late!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and onelittle cough at the end, like a note of admiration expressed. ‘This isquite early for us. We used to keep such hours! Twelve, one, two, three o’clock was nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card-parties! Neverwere such rakes as the people about where we used to live. I oftenthink now, I am sure, that how we ever could go through with it isquite astonishing, and that is just the evil of having a largeconnection and being a great deal sought after, which I wouldrecommend all young married people steadily to resist; though ofcourse, and it’s perfectly clear, and a very happy thing too, I think,that very few young married people can be exposed to suchtemptations. There was one family in particular, that used to liveabout a mile from us—not straight down the road, but turningsharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ranover the donkey—that were quite extraordinary people for givingthe most extravagant parties, with artificial flowers andchampagne, and variegated lamps, and, in short, every delicacy ofeating and drinking that the most singular epicure could possiblyrequire. I don’t think that there ever were such people as thosePeltiroguses. You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate?’
　　Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it washigh time to stay this flood of recollection, so answered that sheentertained of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinctremembrance; and then said that Mr Browdie had half promised,early in the evening, that he would sing a Yorkshire song, and thatshe was most impatient that he should redeem his promise,because she was sure it would afford her mama more amusementand pleasure than it was possible to express.
　　Mrs Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possiblegrace—for there was patronage in that too, and a kind ofimplication that she had a discerning taste in such matters, andwas something of a critic—John Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and to take his wife’srecollection respecting the same. This done, he made diversungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particularfly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyesupon him, and began to roar a meek sentiment (supposed to beuttered 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 hadwaited until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud andviolent knocking at the street-door; so loud and so violent, indeed,that the ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdiestopped.
　　‘It must be some mistake,’ said Nicholas, carelessly. ‘We knownobody who would come here at this hour.’
　　Mrs Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the countinghouse was burnt down, or perhaps ‘the Mr Cheerybles’ had sent totake Nicholas into partnership (which certainly appeared highlyprobable at that time of night), or perhaps Mr Linkinwater hadrun away with the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was takenin, or perhaps—But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in herconjectures, and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.
　　‘Stay,’ said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her waytowards him, threw herself upon his arm. ‘Before that boy says aword, hear me.’
　　Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner,but appeared for the moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kateclung closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind them, and JohnBrowdie, who had heard of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty in recognising him, stepped between the old man and hisyoung friend, as if with the intention of preventing either of themfrom advancing a step further.
　　‘Hear me, I say,’ said Ralph, ‘and not him.’
　　‘Say what thou’st gotten to say then, sir,’ retorted John; ‘andtak’ care thou dinnot put up angry bluid which thou’dst betthertry 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 willnot have it. I will not hear him. I do not know that man. I cannotbreathe the air that he corrupts. His presence is an insult to mysister. 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 amnot going to lay hands upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will nothave him here. John, John Browdie, is this my house, am I achild? If he stands there,’ cried Nicholas, burning with fury,‘looking so calmly upon those who know his black and dastardlyheart, 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 silentagain, 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 shadowootside door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself, mun;dinnot be sheame-feaced. Noo, auld gen’l’man, let’s haveschoolmeasther, coom.’
　　Hearing this adjuration, Mr Squeers, who had been lingering in the passage until such time as it should be expedient for him toenter and he could appear with effect, was fain to present himselfin a somewhat undignified and sneaking way; at which JohnBrowdie laughed with such keen and heartfelt delight, that evenKate, in all the pain, anxiety, and surprise of the scene, andthough 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 turningto Mrs Nickleby, but directing an eager glance at Kate, as if moreanxious to watch his effect upon her, said:
　　‘Now, ma’am, listen to me. I don’t imagine that you were a partyto a very fine tirade of words sent me by that boy of yours, becauseI don’t believe that under his control, you have the slightest will ofyour own, or that your advice, your opinion, your wants, yourwishes, anything which in nature and reason (or of what use isyour great experience?) ought to weigh with him, has the slightestinfluence or weight whatever, or is taken for a moment intoaccount.’
　　Mrs Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as if there were agood 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 tobe disgraced by the acts of a vicious stripling whom I was obligedto disown, and who, afterwards, in his boyish majesty, feigns to—ha! ha!—to disown me, I present myself here tonight. I haveanother motive in coming: a motive of humanity. I come here,’ saidRalph, looking round with a biting and triumphant smile, and gloating and dwelling upon the words as if he were loath to losethe 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 parenthis child; his son, sir; trepanned, waylaid, and guarded at everyturn by you, with the base design of robbing him some day of anylittle 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 upand send him back to me? Why, his father’s my friend; he’s tocome 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 somuch trouble for nothing? an’t you? an’t you?’
　　‘You bear upon your body certain marks I gave you,’ saidNicholas, looking quietly away, ‘and may talk in acknowledgmentof them as much as you please. You’ll talk a long time before yourub them out, Mr Squeers.’
　　The estimable gentleman last named cast a hasty look at thetable, as if he were prompted by this retort to throw a jug or bottleat the head of Nicholas, but he was interrupted in this design (ifsuch design he had) by Ralph, who, touching him on the elbow,bade him tell the father that he might now appear and claim hisson.
　　This being purely a labour of love, Mr Squeers readilycomplied, and leaving the room for the purpose, almostimmediately returned, supporting a sleek personage with an oily face, who, bursting from him, and giving to view the form and faceof Mr Snawley, made straight up to Smike, and tucking that poorfellow’s head under his arm in a most uncouth and awkwardembrace, elevated his broad-brimmed hat at arm’s length in theair as a token of devout thanksgiving, exclaiming, meanwhile,‘How little did I think of this here joyful meeting, when I saw himlast! Oh, how little did I think it!’
　　‘Be composed, sir,’ said Ralph, with a gruff expression ofsympathy, ‘you have got him now.’
　　‘Got him! Oh, haven’t I got him! Have I got him, though?’ criedMr Snawley, scarcely able to believe it. ‘Yes, here he is, flesh andblood, flesh and blood.’
　　‘Vary little flesh,’ said John Browdie.
　　Mr Snawley was too much occupied by his parental feelings tonotice this remark; and, to assure himself more completely of therestoration of his child, tucked his head under his arm again, andkept it there.
　　‘What was it,’ said Snawley, ‘that made me take such a stronginterest in him, when that worthy instructor of youth brought himto my house? What was it that made me burn all over with a wishto chastise him severely for cutting away from his best friends, hispastors 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 beastsof the field and birds of the air, with the exception of rabbits andtom-cats, which sometimes devour their offspring. My heartyearned towards him. I could have—I don’t know what I couldn’thave 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 shouldlike to know how we should ever get on without her. Natur,’ saidMr 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 beenquite stupefied with amazement, while Nicholas had looked keenlyfrom Snawley to Squeers, and from Squeers to Ralph, dividedbetween his feelings of disgust, doubt, and surprise. At thisjuncture, Smike escaping from his father fled to Nicholas, andimplored him, in most moving terms, never to give him up, but tolet him live and die beside him.
　　‘If you are this boy’s father,’ said Nicholas, ‘look at the wreck heis, and tell me that you purpose to send him back to thatloathsome den from which I brought him.’
　　‘Scandal again!’ cried Squeers. ‘Recollect, you an’t worthpowder and shot, but I’ll be even with you one way or another.’
　　‘Stop,’ interposed Ralph, as Snawley was about to speak. ‘Letus cut this matter short, and not bandy words here with harebrained profligates. This is your son, as you can prove. And you,Mr Squeers, you know this boy to be the same that was with youfor 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 ayear old. You received a communication from her, when you hadlived apart a year or two, that the boy was dead; and you believedit?’
　　‘Of course I did!’ returned Snawley. ‘Oh the joy of—’
　　‘Be rational, sir, pray,’ said Ralph. ‘This is business, andtransports interfere with it. This wife died a year and a half ago, orthereabouts—not more—in some obscure place, where she washousekeeper 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 inyour name, only reached you, and that by a circuitous course, afew days since?’
　　‘Just so,’ said Snawley. ‘Correct in every particular, sir.’
　　‘And this confession,’ resumed Ralph, ‘is to the effect that hisdeath was an invention of hers to wound you—was a part of asystem of annoyance, in short, which you seem to have adoptedtowards each other—that the boy lived, but was of weak andimperfect intellect—that she sent him by a trusty hand to a cheapschool in Yorkshire—that she had paid for his education for someyears, and then, being poor, and going a long way off, graduallydeserted 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 wasleft there in the name of Smike; every description was fully given,dates tally exactly with Mr Squeers’s books, Mr Squeers is lodgingwith you at this time; you have two other boys at his school: you communicated the whole discovery to him, he brought you to meas the person who had recommended to him the kidnapper of hischild; and I brought you here. Is that so?’
　　‘You talk like a good book, sir, that’s got nothing in its insidebut what’s the truth,’ replied Snawley.
　　‘This is your pocket-book,’ said Ralph, producing one from hiscoat; ‘the certificates of your first marriage and of the boy’s birth,and your wife’s two letters, and every other paper that can supportthese 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 thesepeople may be convinced of your power to substantiate your claimat once in law and reason, and you may resume your control overyour 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 thetable. ‘Let them see them if they like; and as those are the originalpapers, I should recommend you to stand near while they arebeing examined, or you may chance to lose some.’
　　With these words Ralph sat down unbidden, and compressinghis 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 indignantglance at him; but commanding himself as well as he could,entered upon a close examination of the documents, at which JohnBrowdie assisted. There was nothing about them which could becalled in question. The certificates were regularly signed asextracts from the parish books, the first letter had a genuineappearance of having been written and preserved for some years, the handwriting of the second tallied with it exactly, (makingproper allowance for its having been written by a person inextremity,) and there were several other corroboratory scraps ofentries and memoranda which it was equally difficult to question.
　　‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, who had been lookinganxiously over his shoulder, ‘can this be really the case? Is thisstatement 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 toMrs Nickleby, ‘that this boy being a minor and not of strong mind,we might have come here tonight, armed with the powers of thelaw, and backed by a troop of its myrmidons. I should have doneso, ma’am, unquestionably, but for my regard for the feelings ofyourself, and your daughter.’
　　‘You have shown your regard for her feelings well,’ saidNicholas, 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-coachhorses 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 alongwith us?’
　　‘No, no, no,’ replied Smike, drawing back, and clinging toNicholas.
　　‘No. Pray, no. I will not go from you with him. No, no.’
　　‘This is a cruel thing,’ said Snawley, looking to his friends forsupport. ‘Do parents bring children into the world for this?’
　　 ‘Do parents bring children into the world for thot?’ said JohnBrowdie bluntly, pointing, as he spoke, to Squeers.
　　‘Never you mind,’ retorted that gentleman, tapping his nosederisively.
　　‘Never I mind!’ said John, ‘no, nor never nobody mind, say’stthou, schoolmeasther. It’s nobody’s minding that keeps sike menas 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 hiselbow into the chest of Mr Squeers who was advancing uponSmike; with so much dexterity that the schoolmaster reeled andstaggered back upon Ralph Nickleby, and being unable to recoverhis balance, knocked that gentleman off his chair, and stumbledheavily upon him.
　　This accidental circumstance was the signal for some verydecisive proceedings. In the midst of a great noise, occasioned bythe prayers and entreaties of Smike, the cries and exclamations ofthe women, and the vehemence of the men, demonstrations weremade of carrying off the lost son by violence. Squeers had actuallybegun to haul him out, when Nicholas (who, until then, had beenevidently undecided how to act) took him by the collar, andshaking him so that such teeth as he had, chattered in his head,politely escorted him to the room-door, and thrusting him into thepassage, shut it upon him.
　　‘Now,’ said Nicholas to the other two, ‘have the goodness tofollow your friend.’
　　‘I want my son,’ said Snawley.
　　‘Your son,’ replied Nicholas, ‘chooses for himself. He chooses toremain 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 ofsuch brutality as that to which you would consign him,’ repliedNicholas, ‘if he were a dog or a rat.’
　　‘Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,’ cried MrSqueers, 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 MrsBrowdie, had stood crying and biting her fingers in a corner, whileKate (very pale, but perfectly quiet) had kept as near her brotheras she could. ‘I am very sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don’tknow what would be best to do, and that’s the truth. Nicholasought to be the best judge, and I hope he is. Of course, it’s a hardthing to have to keep other people’s children, though young MrSnawley is certainly as useful and willing as it’s possible foranybody to be; but, if it could be settled in any friendly manner—ifold Mr Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay somethingcertain for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement wascome to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and apudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort—I dothink that it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.’
　　This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tearsand sighs, not exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took anynotice of it; and poor Mrs Nickleby accordingly proceeded toenlighten Mrs Browdie upon the advantages of such a scheme,and the unhappy results flowing, on all occasions, from her notbeing attended to when she proffered her advice.
　　‘You, sir,’ said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, ‘are anunnatural, 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 doorbut one to a cherubim. How can you expect that he’ll love hisfather? He’ll never love his father, he won’t. He don’t know what itis 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, andthen covering his eyes with his hand, and once more raising hishat in the air, appeared deeply occupied in deploring his blackingratitude. Then drawing his arm across his eyes, he picked upMr Squeers’s hat, and taking it under one arm, and his own underthe other, walked slowly and sadly out.
　　‘Your romance, sir,’ said Ralph, lingering for a moment, ‘isdestroyed, I take it. No unknown; no persecuted descendant of aman of high degree; but the weak, imbecile son of a poor, pettytradesman. We shall see how your sympathy melts before plainmatter of fact.’
　　‘You shall,’ said Nicholas, motioning towards the door.
　　‘And trust me, sir,’ added Ralph, ‘that I never supposed youwould give him up tonight. Pride, obstinacy, reputation for finefeeling, were all against it. These must be brought down, sir,lowered, crushed, as they shall be soon. The protracted andwearing anxiety and expense of the law in its most oppressiveform, its torture from hour to hour, its weary days and sleeplessnights, 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; Iknow you), and those who think you now a young-fledged hero, we’ll go into old accounts between us two, and see who stands thedebtor, and comes out best at last, even before the world.’
　　Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr Squeers, who had heard aportion of this closing address, and was by this time wound up to apitch of impotent malignity almost unprecedented, could notrefrain from returning to the parlour door, and actually cuttingsome dozen capers with various wry faces and hideous grimaces,expressive of his triumphant confidence in the downfall and defeatof Nicholas.
　　Having concluded this war-dance, in which his short trousersand large boots had borne a very conspicuous figure, Mr Squeersfollowed his friends, and the family were left to meditate uponrecent occurrences.
Chapter 46
Throws some Light upon Nicholas’s Love; butwhether for Good or Evil the Reader mustdetermine.
　　After an anxious consideration of the painful andembarrassing position in which he was placed, Nicholasdecided that he ought to lose no time in frankly stating itto the kind brothers. Availing himself of the first opportunity ofbeing alone with Mr Charles Cheeryble at the close of next day, heaccordingly related Smike’s little history, and modestly but firmlyexpressed his hope that the good old gentleman would, under suchcircumstances as he described, hold him justified in adopting theextreme course of interfering between parent and child, andupholding the latter in his disobedience; even though his horrorand dread of his father might seem, and would doubtless berepresented as, a thing so repulsive and unnatural, as to renderthose who countenanced him in it, fit objects of generaldetestation and abhorrence.
　　‘So deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be,’ saidNicholas, ‘that I can hardly believe he really is his son. Naturedoes not seem to have implanted in his breast one lingering feelingof affection for him, and surely she can never err.’
　　‘My dear sir,’ replied brother Charles, ‘you fall into the verycommon mistake of charging upon Nature, matters with which shehas not the smallest connection, and for which she is in no wayresponsible. 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 hasnever felt a parent’s care, who has scarcely known anything all hislife but suffering and sorrow, presented to a man who he is told ishis father, and whose first act is to signify his intention of puttingan end to his short term of happiness, of consigning him to his oldfate, and taking him from the only friend he has ever had—whichis yourself. If Nature, in such a case, put into that lad’s breast butone secret prompting which urged him towards his father andaway from you, she would be a liar and an idiot.’
　　Nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke sowarmly, and in the hope that he might say something more to thesame 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 showedtheir love, complain of want of natural affection in their children;children who never showed their duty, complain of want of naturalfeeling in their parents; law-makers who find both so miserablethat their affections have never had enough of life’s sun to developthem, are loud in their moralisings over parents and children too,and cry that the very ties of nature are disregarded. Naturalaffections and instincts, my dear sir, are the most beautiful of theAlmighty’s works, but like other beautiful works of His, they mustbe reared and fostered, or it is as natural that they should bewholly 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 bebrought to consider this, and remembering natural obligations alittle more at the right time, talk about them a little less at thewrong one.’
　　 After this, brother Charles, who had talked himself into a greatheat, stopped to cool a little, and then continued:
　　‘I dare say you are surprised, my dear sir, that I have listened toyour 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, norjustice. 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 ourears with calumnies and falsehoods; but he came on a fruitlesserrand, and went away with some wholesome truths in his earbesides. Brother Ned, my dear My Nickleby—brother Ned, sir, is aperfect lion. So is Tim Linkinwater; Tim is quite a lion. We hadTim in to face him at first, and Tim was at him, sir, before youcould say “Jack Robinson.”’
　　‘How can I ever thank you for all the deep obligations youimpose upon me every day?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘By keeping silence upon the subject, my dear sir,’ returnedbrother Charles. ‘You shall be righted. At least you shall not bewronged. Nobody belonging to you shall be wronged. They shallnot hurt a hair of your head, or the boy’s head, or your mother’shead, 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 mustbe. 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 ofindignation, that Nicholas thought he might venture to put in aword, but the moment he essayed to do so, Mr Cheeryble laid hishand softly upon his arm, and pointed to a chair.
　　‘The subject is at an end for the present,’ said the oldgentleman, wiping his face. ‘Don’t revive it by a single word. I amgoing to speak upon another subject, a confidential subject, MrNickleby. 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 wasseated, said:
　　‘I am about to employ you, my dear sir, on a confidential anddelicate mission.’
　　‘You might employ many a more able messenger, sir,’ saidNicholas, ‘but a more trustworthy or zealous one, I may be bold tosay, you could not find.’
　　‘Of that I am well assured,’ returned brother Charles, ‘wellassured. You will give me credit for thinking so, when I tell youthat the object of this mission is a young lady.’
　　‘A young lady, sir!’ cried Nicholas, quite trembling for themoment 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 itseemed to his young friend, and with an expression allied to pain.
　　‘You accidentally saw a young lady in this room one morning, mydear sir, in a fainting fit. Do you remember? Perhaps you have forgotten.’
　　‘Oh no,’ replied Nicholas, hurriedly. ‘I—I—remember it verywell indeed.’
　　‘She is the lady I speak of,’ said brother Charles. Like thefamous parrot, Nicholas thought a great deal, but was unable toutter a word.
　　‘She is the daughter,’ said Mr Cheeryble, ‘of a lady who, whenshe was a beautiful girl herself, and I was very many yearsyounger, I—it seems a strange word for me to utter now—I lovedvery dearly. You will smile, perhaps, to hear a grey-headed mantalk about such things. You will not offend me, for when I was asyoung 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 havemarried her sister, but she died. She is dead too now, and hasbeen for many years. She married her choice; and I wish I couldadd that her after-life was as happy as God knows I ever prayed itmight be!’
　　A short silence intervened, which Nicholas made no effort tobreak.
　　‘If trial and calamity had fallen as lightly on his head, as in thedeepest 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 oldgentleman calmly. ‘It will be enough to say that this was not thecase; that she was not happy; that they fell into complicateddistresses and difficulties; that she came, twelve months beforeher death, to appeal to my old friendship; sadly changed, sadlyaltered, broken-spirited from suffering and ill-usage, and almostbroken-hearted. He readily availed himself of the money which, to give her but one hour’s peace of mind, I would have poured out asfreely as water—nay, he often sent her back for more—and yeteven 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 thechoice she had made, that she had married him from motives ofinterest and vanity (he was a gay young man with great friendsabout him when she chose him for her husband), and venting inshort upon her, by every unjust and unkind means, the bitternessof that ruin and disappointment which had been brought about byhis profligacy alone. In those times this young lady was a merechild. I never saw her again until that morning when you saw heralso, but my nephew, Frank—’
　　Nicholas started, and indistinctly apologising for theinterruption, begged his patron to proceed.
　　‘—My nephew, Frank, I say,’ resumed Mr Cheeryble,‘encountered her by accident, and lost sight of her almost in aminute 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, achild,—we might almost think, if we did not know the wisdom ofall Heaven’s decrees—who should have blessed a better man, wassteadily braving privation, degradation, and everything mostterrible to such a young and delicate creature’s heart, for thepurpose of supporting him. She was attended, sir,’ said brotherCharles, ‘in these reverses, by one faithful creature, who had been,in old times, a poor kitchen wench in the family, who was thentheir solitary servant, but who might have been, for the truth andfidelity of her heart—who might have been—ah! the wife of Tim Linkinwater himself, sir!’
　　Pursuing this encomium upon the poor follower with suchenergy and relish as no words can describe, brother Charles leantback in his chair, and delivered the remainder of his relation withgreater composure.
　　It was in substance this: That proudly resisting all offers ofpermanent aid and support from her late mother’s friends,because they were made conditional upon her quitting thewretched man, her father, who had no friends left, and shrinkingwith instinctive delicacy from appealing in their behalf to that trueand noble heart which he hated, and had, through its greatest andpurest goodness, deeply wronged by misconstruction and illreport, this young girl had struggled alone and unassisted tomaintain him by the labour of her hands. That through the utmostdepths of poverty and affliction she had toiled, never turning asidefor an instant from her task, never wearied by the petulant gloomof a sick man sustained by no consoling recollections of the past orhopes of the future; never repining for the comforts she hadrejected, or bewailing the hard lot she had voluntarily incurred.
　　That every little accomplishment she had acquired in happier dayshad been put into requisition for this purpose, and directed to thisone end. That for two long years, toiling by day and often too bynight, working at the needle, the pencil, and the pen, andsubmitting, as a daily governess, to such caprices and indignitiesas women (with daughters too) too often love to inflict upon theirown sex when they serve in such capacities, as though in jealousyof the superior intelligence which they are necessitated toemploy,—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 heartlessblackleg would put upon his groom—that for two long years, bydint of labouring in all these capacities and wearying in none, shehad 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 Iam not, I would have denied myself (of course anybody wouldunder such circumstances) the commonest necessaries of life, tohelp 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 thehappiest home that brother Ned and I could have, as if she wereour child or sister. But he is still alive. Nobody can help him; thathas been tried a thousand times; he was not abandoned by allwithout good cause, I know.’
　　‘Cannot she be persuaded to—’ Nicholas hesitated when he hadgot thus far.
　　‘To leave him?’ said brother Charles. ‘Who could entreat a childto desert her parent? Such entreaties, limited to her seeing himoccasionally, have been urged upon her—not by me—but alwayswith the same result.’
　　‘Is he kind to her?’ said Nicholas. ‘Does he requite heraffection?’
　　‘True kindness, considerate self-denying kindness, is not in hisnature,’ returned Mr Cheeryble. ‘Such kindness as he knows, heregards 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 deathbed to her child’s care. Her child has never forgotten it, and neverwill.’
　　‘Have you no influence over him?’ asked Nicholas.
　　‘I, my dear sir! The last man in the world. Such are his jealousyand hatred of me, that if he knew his daughter had opened herheart to me, he would render her life miserable with hisreproaches; although—this is the inconsistency and selfishness ofhis character—although if he knew that every penny she had camefrom me, he would not relinquish one personal desire that themost 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 gentlevoice; ‘but accommodate ourselves to the circumstances in whichthis young lady is placed. Such assistance as I have prevailed uponher to accept, I have been obliged, at her own earnest request, todole out in the smallest portions, lest he, finding how easily moneywas procured, should squander it even more lightly than he isaccustomed to do. She has come to and fro, to and fro, secretly andby night, to take even this; and I cannot bear that things should goon in this way, Mr Nickleby, I really cannot bear it.’
　　Then it came out by little and little, how that the twins hadbeen revolving in their good old heads manifold plans andschemes for helping this young lady in the most delicate andconsiderate way, and so that her father should not suspect thesource whence the aid was derived; and how they had at last cometo the conclusion, that the best course would be to make a feint ofpurchasing her little drawings and ornamental work at a high price, and keeping up a constant demand for the same. For thefurtherance of which end and object it was necessary thatsomebody should represent the dealer in such commodities, andafter great deliberation they had pitched upon Nicholas to supportthis character.
　　‘He knows me,’ said brother Charles, ‘and he knows my brotherNed. Neither of us would do. Frank is a very good fellow—a veryfine fellow—but we are afraid that he might be a little flighty andthoughtless in such a delicate matter, and that he might,perhaps—that he might, in short, be too susceptible (for she is abeautiful creature, sir; just what her poor mother was), and fallingin love with her before he knew well his own mind, carry pain andsorrow into that innocent breast, which we would be the humbleinstruments of gradually making happy. He took an extraordinaryinterest in her fortunes when he first happened to encounter her;and we gather from the inquiries we have made of him, that it wasshe in whose behalf he made that turmoil which led to your firstacquaintance.’
　　Nicholas stammered out that he had before suspected thepossibility of such a thing; and in explanation of its havingoccurred to him, described when and where he had seen theyoung lady himself.
　　‘Well; then you see,’ continued brother Charles, ‘that hewouldn’t do. Tim Linkinwater is out of the question; for Tim, sir, issuch a tremendous fellow, that he could never contain himself, butwould go to loggerheads with the father before he had been in theplace five minutes. You don’t know what Tim is, sir, when he isaroused 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 haveseen—or at least I have seen, and that’s the same thing, for there’sno difference between me and my brother Ned, except that he isthe finest creature that ever lived, and that there is not, and neverwill be, anybody like him in all the world—in you we have seendomestic virtues and affections, and delicacy of feeling, whichexactly qualify you for such an office. And you are the man, sir.’
　　‘The young lady, sir,’ said Nicholas, who felt so embarrassedthat 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 comefrom us; she does not know, however, but that we shall dispose ofthese 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 aprofit of them. Eh? Eh?’
　　In this guileless and most kind simplicity, brother Charles wasso happy, and in this possibility of the young lady being led tothink that she was under no obligation to him, he evidently felt sosanguine and had so much delight, that Nicholas would notbreathe a doubt upon the subject.
　　All this time, however, there hovered upon the tip of his tonguea confession that the very same objections which Mr Cheeryblehad stated to the employment of his nephew in this commissionapplied with at least equal force and validity to himself, and ahundred times had he been upon the point of avowing the realstate of his feelings, and entreating to be released from it. But asoften, treading upon the heels of this impulse, came another whichurged him to refrain, and to keep his secret to his own breast.
　　 ‘Why should I,’ thought Nicholas, ‘why should I throw difficultiesin the way of this benevolent and high-minded design? What if Ido love and reverence this good and lovely creature. Should I notappear a most arrogant and shallow coxcomb if I gravelyrepresented that there was any danger of her falling in love withme? Besides, have I no confidence in myself? Am I not now boundin honour to repress these thoughts? Has not this excellent man aright to my best and heartiest services, and should anyconsiderations of self deter me from rendering them?’
　　Asking himself such questions as these, Nicholas mentallyanswered with great emphasis ‘No!’ and persuading himself thathe was a most conscientious and glorious martyr, nobly resolvedto do what, if he had examined his own heart a little morecarefully, he would have found he could not resist. Such is thesleight of hand by which we juggle with ourselves, and change ourvery weaknesses into stanch and most magnanimous virtues!
　　Mr Cheeryble, being of course wholly unsuspicious that suchreflections were presenting themselves to his young friend,proceeded to give him the needful credentials and directions forhis first visit, which was to be made next morning; and allpreliminaries 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 ofmean and not over-cleanly houses, situated within ‘the Rules’ ofthe King’s Bench Prison, and not many hundred paces distantfrom the obelisk in St George’s Fields. The Rules are a certainliberty adjoining the prison, and comprising some dozen streets inwhich debtors who can raise money to pay large fees, from whichtheir creditors do not derive any benefit, are permitted to reside by the wise provisions of the same enlightened laws which leave thedebtor who can raise no money to starve in jail, without the food,clothing, lodging, or warmth, which are provided for felonsconvicted of the most atrocious crimes that can disgracehumanity. There are many pleasant fictions of the law in constantoperation, but there is not one so pleasant or practically humorousas that which supposes every man to be of equal value in itsimpartial eye, and the benefits of all laws to be equally attainableby all men, without the smallest reference to the furniture of theirpockets.
　　To the row of houses indicated to him by Mr Charles Cheeryble,Nicholas directed his steps, without much troubling his head withsuch matters as these; and at this row of houses—after traversinga very dirty and dusty suburb, of which minor theatricals, shellfish, ginger-beer, spring vans, greengrocery, and brokers’ shops,appeared to compose the main and most prominent features—heat length arrived with a palpitating heart. There were smallgardens in front which, being wholly neglected in all otherrespects, served as little pens for the dust to collect in, until thewind came round the corner and blew it down the road. Openingthe rickety gate which, dangling on its broken hinges before one ofthese, half admitted and half repulsed the visitor, Nicholasknocked at the street door with a faltering hand.
　　It was in truth a shabby house outside, with very dim parlourwindows and very small show of blinds, and very dirty muslincurtains dangling across the lower panes on very loose and limpstrings. Neither, when the door was opened, did the inside appearto belie the outward promise, as there was faded carpeting on thestairs and faded oil-cloth in the passage; in addition to which discomforts a gentleman Ruler was smoking hard in the frontparlour (though it was not yet noon), while the lady of the housewas busily engaged in turpentining the disjointed fragments of atent-bedstead at the door of the back parlour, as if in preparationfor the reception of some new lodger who had been fortunateenough to engage it.
　　Nicholas had ample time to make these observations while thelittle boy, who went on errands for the lodgers, clattered down thekitchen stairs and was heard to scream, as in some remote cellar,for Miss Bray’s servant, who, presently appearing and requestinghim to follow her, caused him to evince greater symptoms ofnervousness and disorder than so natural a consequence of hishaving inquired for that young lady would seem calculated tooccasion.
　　Upstairs he went, however, and into a front room he wasshown, and there, seated at a little table by the window, on whichwere drawing materials with which she was occupied, sat thebeautiful girl who had so engrossed his thoughts, and who,surrounded by all the new and strong interest which Nicholasattached to her story, seemed now, in his eyes, a thousand timesmore beautiful than he had ever yet supposed her.
　　But how the graces and elegancies which she had dispersedabout the poorly-furnished room went to the heart of Nicholas!
　　Flowers, plants, birds, the harp, the old piano whose notes hadsounded so much sweeter in bygone times; how many struggleshad it cost her to keep these two last links of that broken chainwhich bound her yet to home! With every slender ornament, theoccupation of her leisure hours, replete with that graceful charmwhich lingers in every little tasteful work of woman’s hands, how much patient endurance and how many gentle affections wereentwined! He felt as though the smile of Heaven were on the littlechamber; as though the beautiful devotion of so young and weak acreature had shed a ray of its own on the inanimate things around,and made them beautiful as itself; as though the halo with whichold painters surround the bright angels of a sinless world playedabout a being akin in spirit to them, and its light were visiblybefore 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, andthe scene a stately terrace! But, there is one broad sky over all theworld, and whether it be blue or cloudy, the same heaven beyondit; so, perhaps, he had no need of compunction for thinking as hedid.
　　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 manpropped up with pillows in an easy-chair, who, moving restlesslyand impatiently in his seat, attracted his attention.
　　He was scarce fifty, perhaps, but so emaciated as to appearmuch older. His features presented the remains of a handsomecountenance, but one in which the embers of strong andimpetuous passions were easier to be traced than any expressionwhich would have rendered a far plainer face much moreprepossessing. His looks were very haggard, and his limbs andbody literally worn to the bone, but there was something of the oldfire in the large sunken eye notwithstanding, and it seemed tokindle afresh as he struck a thick stick, with which he seemed tohave supported himself in his seat, impatiently on the floor twiceor thrice, and called his daughter by her name.
　　 ‘Madeline, who is this? What does anybody want here? Whotold a stranger we could be seen? What is it?’
　　‘I believe—’ the young lady began, as she inclined her headwith an air of some confusion, in reply to the salutation ofNicholas.
　　‘You always believe,’ returned her father, petulantly. ‘What isit?’
　　By this time Nicholas had recovered sufficient presence of mindto speak for himself, so he said (as it had been agreed he shouldsay) that he had called about a pair of hand-screens, and somepainted velvet for an ottoman, both of which were required to beof the most elegant design possible, neither time nor expensebeing of the smallest consideration. He had also to pay for the twodrawings, with many thanks, and, advancing to the little table, helaid upon it a bank note, folded in an envelope and sealed.
　　‘See that the money is right, Madeline,’ said the father. ‘Openthe paper, my dear.’
　　‘It’s quite right, papa, I’m sure.’
　　‘Here!’ said Mr Bray, putting out his hand, and opening andshutting his bony fingers with irritable impatience. ‘Let me see.
　　What are you talking about, Madeline? You’re sure? How can yoube sure of any such thing? Five pounds—well, is that right?’
　　‘Quite,’ said Madeline, bending over him. She was so busilyemployed in arranging the pillows that Nicholas could not see herface, but as she stooped he thought he saw a tear fall.
　　‘Ring the bell, ring the bell,’ said the sick man, with the samenervous eagerness, and motioning towards it with such aquivering hand that the bank note rustled in the air. ‘Tell her toget it changed, to get me a newspaper, to buy me some grapes, another bottle of the wine that I had last week—and—and—Iforget half I want just now, but she can go out again. Let her getthose first, those first. Now, Madeline, my love, quick, quick! GoodGod, how slow you are!’
　　‘He remembers nothing that she wants!’ thought Nicholas.
　　Perhaps something of what he thought was expressed in hiscountenance, for the sick man, turning towards him with greatasperity, 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. ‘Nomatter! Do you think you bring your paltry money here as a favouror a gift; or as a matter of business, and in return for valuereceived? D—n you, sir, because you can’t appreciate the time andtaste which are bestowed upon the goods you deal in, do you thinkyou give your money away? Do you know that you are talking to agentleman, sir, who at one time could have bought up fifty suchmen 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 wecan, returned the father. ‘My daughter, sir, requires no kindnessfrom you or anybody else. Have the goodness to confine yourdealings strictly to trade and business, and not to travel beyond it.
　　Every petty tradesman is to begin to pity her now, is he? Upon mysoul! Very pretty. Madeline, my dear, give him a receipt; and mindyou always do so.’
　　While she was feigning to write it, and Nicholas was ruminatingupon the extraordinary but by no means uncommon character thus presented to his observation, the invalid, who appeared attimes to suffer great bodily pain, sank back in his chair andmoaned out a feeble complaint that the girl had been gone anhour, and that everybody conspired to goad him.
　　‘When,’ said Nicholas, as he took the piece of paper, ‘when shallI call again?’
　　This was addressed to the daughter, but the father answeredimmediately.
　　‘When you’re requested to call, sir, and not before. Don’t worryand persecute. Madeline, my dear, when is this person to callagain?’
　　‘Oh, not for a long time, not for three or four weeks; it is notnecessary, indeed; I can do without,’ said the young lady, withgreat eagerness.
　　‘Why, how are we to do without?’ urged her father, notspeaking above his breath. ‘Three or four weeks, Madeline! Threeor four weeks!’
　　‘Then sooner, sooner, if you please,’ said the young lady,turning to Nicholas.
　　‘Three or four weeks!’ muttered the father. ‘Madeline, what onearth—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 tobeg, sir, and stoop to ask assistance from people I despise, three orfour months would not be a long time; three or four years wouldnot be a long time. Understand, sir, that is if I chose to bedependent; but as I don’t, you may call in a week.’
　　Nicholas bowed low to the young lady and retired, ponderingupon Mr Bray’s ideas of independence, and devoutly hoping that there might be few such independent spirits as he mingling withthe 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 sheshould call him back or no. The best way of settling the questionwas to turn back at once, which Nicholas did.
　　‘I don’t know whether I do right in asking you, sir,’ saidMadeline, hurriedly, ‘but pray, pray, do not mention to my poormother’s dear friends what has passed here today. He has sufferedmuch, and is worse this morning. I beg you, sir, as a boon, a favourto myself.’
　　‘You have but to hint a wish,’ returned Nicholas fervently, ‘andI would hazard my life to gratify it.’
　　‘You speak hastily, sir.’
　　‘Truly and sincerely,’ rejoined Nicholas, his lips trembling as heformed the words, ‘if ever man spoke truly yet. I am not skilled indisguising my feelings, and if I were, I could not hide my heartfrom you. Dear madam, as I know your history, and feel as menand angels must who hear and see such things, I do entreat you tobelieve that I would die to serve you.’
　　The young lady turned away her head, and was plainlyweeping.
　　‘Forgive me,’ said Nicholas, with respectful earnestness, ‘if Iseem to say too much, or to presume upon the confidence whichhas been intrusted to me. But I could not leave you as if myinterest and sympathy expired with the commission of the day. Iam 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 meantmore or less than this, I should be unworthy his regard, and falseto the very nature that prompts the honest words I utter.’
　　She waved her hand, entreating him to be gone, but answerednot 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 confidentialIntercourse with another old Friend. They concertbetween them a Project, which promises well forboth.
　　‘T here go the three-quarters past!’ muttered NewmanNoggs, listening to the chimes of some neighbouringchurch ‘and my dinner time’s two. He does it onpurpose. 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 hisofficial stool that Newman thus soliloquised; and the soliloquyreferred, as Newman’s grumbling soliloquies usually did, to RalphNickleby.
　　‘I don’t believe he ever had an appetite,’ said Newman, ‘exceptfor pounds, shillings, and pence, and with them he’s as greedy as awolf. I should like to have him compelled to swallow one of everyEnglish coin. The penny would be an awkward morsel—but thecrown—ha! ha!’
　　His good-humour being in some degree restored by the visionof Ralph Nickleby swallowing, perforce, a five-shilling piece,Newman slowly brought forth from his desk one of those portablebottles, currently known as pocket-pistols, and shaking the sameclose to his ear so as to produce a rippling sound very cool andpleasant to listen to, suffered his features to relax, and took agurgling 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 tohis grievance again.
　　‘Five minutes to three,’ growled Newman; ‘it can’t want moreby this time; and I had my breakfast at eight o’clock, and such abreakfast! and my right dinner-time two! And I might have a nicelittle bit of hot roast meat spoiling at home all this time—how doeshe know I haven’t? “Don’t go till I come back,” “Don’t go till Icome back,” day after day. What do you always go out at mydinner-time for then—eh? Don’t you know it’s nothing butaggravation—eh?’
　　These words, though uttered in a very loud key, were addressedto nothing but empty air. The recital of his wrongs, however,seemed to have the effect of making Newman Noggs desperate; forhe flattened his old hat upon his head, and drawing on theeverlasting gloves, declared with great vehemence, that comewhat might, he would go to dinner that very minute.
　　Carrying this resolution into instant effect, he had advanced asfar as the passage, when the sound of the latch-key in the streetdoor caused him to make a precipitate retreat into his own officeagain.
　　‘Here he is,’ growled Newman, ‘and somebody with him. Nowit’ll be “Stop till this gentleman’s gone.” But I won’t. That’s flat.’
　　So saying, Newman slipped into a tall empty closet whichopened with two half doors, and shut himself up; intending to slipout 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, andthe sun is hot upon my room. This is cool and in the shade, if youdon’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 aboutseventy or seventy-five years of age, of a very lean figure, muchbent and slightly twisted. He wore a grey coat with a very narrowcollar, an old-fashioned waistcoat of ribbed black silk, and suchscanty trousers as displayed his shrunken spindle-shanks in theirfull ugliness. The only articles of display or ornament in his dresswere a steel watch-chain to which were attached some large goldseals; and a black ribbon into which, in compliance with an oldfashion scarcely ever observed in these days, his grey hair wasgathered behind. His nose and chin were sharp and prominent,his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth, his face wasshrivelled and yellow, save where the cheeks were streaked withthe colour of a dry winter apple; and where his beard had been,there lingered yet a few grey tufts which seemed, like the raggedeyebrows, to denote the badness of the soil from which theysprung. The whole air and attitude of the form was one of stealthycat-like obsequiousness; the whole expression of the face wasconcentrated in a wrinkled leer, compounded of cunning,lecherousness, slyness, and avarice.
　　Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face there was not awrinkle, in whose dress there was not one spare fold or plait, butexpressed the most covetous and griping penury, and sufficientlyindicated his belonging to that class of which Ralph Nickleby wasa member. Such was old Arthur Gride, as he sat in a low chair looking up into the face of Ralph Nickleby, who, lounging upon thetall office stool, with his arms upon his knees, looked down intohis; a match for him on whatever errand he had come.
　　‘And how have you been?’ said Gride, feigning great interest inRalph’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 ofcompliment that his friend had come. ‘It was a narrow chance thatyou saw me now, for I had only just come up to the door as youturned the corner.’
　　‘I am very lucky,’ observed Gride.
　　‘So men say,’ replied Ralph, drily.
　　The older money-lender wagged his chin and smiled, but heoriginated no new remark, and they sat for some little timewithout speaking. Each was looking out to take the other at adisadvantage.
　　‘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 tobusiness. ‘Oh dear, dear, what a bold man you are!’
　　‘Why, you have a sleek and slinking way with you that makesme seem so by contrast,’ returned Ralph. ‘I don’t know but thatyours 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 thedepth I have, when men like you begin to compliment. You know Ihave stood by when you fawned and flattered other people, and Iremember pretty well what that always led to.’
　　 ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. ‘So you do, soyou do, no doubt. Not a man knows it better. Well, it’s a pleasantthing now to think that you remember old times. Oh dear!’
　　‘Now then,’ said Ralph, composedly; ‘what’s in the wind, I askagain? What is it?’
　　‘See that now!’ cried the other. ‘He can’t even keep frombusiness while we’re chatting over bygones. Oh dear, dear, what aman it is!’
　　‘Which of the bygones do you want to revive?’ said Ralph. ‘Oneof 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 aman it is! Mr Nickleby against all the world. There’s nobody likehim. A giant among pigmies, a giant, a giant!’
　　Ralph looked at the old dog with a quiet smile as he chuckledon in this strain, and Newman Noggs in the closet felt his heartsink within him as the prospect of dinner grew fainter and fainter.
　　‘I must humour him though,’ cried old Arthur; ‘he must havehis way—a wilful man, as the Scotch say—well, well, they’re a wisepeople, the Scotch. He will talk about business, and won’t giveaway his time for nothing. He’s very right. Time is money, time ismoney.’
　　‘He was one of us who made that saying, I should think,’ saidRalph. ‘Time is money, and very good money too, to those whoreckon interest by it. Time is money! Yes, and time costs money;it’s rather an expensive article to some people we could name, or Iforget 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 Iwas—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’tthe first time and wouldn’t be the last; that I wasn’t surprised andwasn’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 thisminute. Stay. Let me look at you. There’s a liquorish devilry inyour face. What is this?’
　　‘I wouldn’t deceive you, you know,’ whined Arthur Gride; ‘Icouldn’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 bemarried?’
　　‘To some old hag?’ said Ralph.
　　‘No, No,’ cried Arthur, interrupting him, and rubbing his handsin 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 andruddy lips that to look at is to long to kiss, beautiful clustering hairthat one’s fingers itch to play with, such a waist as might make aman clasp the air involuntarily, thinking of twining his arm aboutit, little feet that tread so lightly they hardly seem to walk upon theground—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 oldArthur. ‘He knows I want his help, he knows he can give it me, heknows 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 upor down the stairs,’ said Arthur Gride, after looking out at the doorand carefully reclosing it; ‘or but that your man might have comeback and might have been listening outside. Clerks and servantshave a trick of listening, and I should have been veryuncomfortable if Mr Noggs—’
　　‘Curse Mr Noggs,’ said Ralph, sharply, ‘and go on with whatyou have to say.’
　　‘Curse Mr Noggs, by all means,’ rejoined old Arthur; ‘I am sureI have not the least objection to that. Her name is—’
　　‘Well,’ said Ralph, rendered very irritable by old Arthur’spausing again ‘what is it?’
　　‘Madeline Bray.’
　　Whatever reasons there might have been—and Arthur Grideappeared to have anticipated some—for the mention of this nameproducing an effect upon Ralph, or whatever effect it really didproduce upon him, he permitted none to manifest itself, butcalmly repeated the name several times, as if reflecting when andwhere he had heard it before.
　　‘Bray,’ said Ralph. ‘Bray—there was young Bray of—,no, henever 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 handsomewife so ill?’
　　‘If you seek to recall any particular dashing man to myrecollection by such a trait as that,’ said Ralph, shrugging hisshoulders, ‘I shall confound him with nine-tenths of the dashingmen I have ever known.’
　　‘Tut, tut. That Bray who is now in the Rules of the Bench,’ saidold Arthur. ‘You can’t have forgotten Bray. Both of us did businesswith him. Why, he owes you money!’
　　‘Oh him!’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Ay, ay. Now you speak. Oh! It’s hisdaughter, is it?’
　　Naturally as this was said, it was not said so naturally but that akindred spirit like old Arthur Gride might have discerned a designupon the part of Ralph to lead him on to much more explicitstatements and explanations than he would have volunteered, orthat Ralph could in all likelihood have obtained by any othermeans. Old Arthur, however, was so intent upon his own designs,that he suffered himself to be overreached, and had no suspicionbut that his good friend was in earnest.
　　‘I knew you couldn’t forget him, when you came to think for amoment,’ he said.
　　‘You were right,’ answered Ralph. ‘But old Arthur Gride andmatrimony is a most anomalous conjunction of words; old ArthurGride and dark eyes and eyelashes, and lips that to look at is tolong to kiss, and clustering hair that he wants to play with, andwaists that he wants to span, and little feet that don’t tread uponanything—old Arthur Gride and such things as these is moremonstrous still; but old Arthur Gride marrying the daughter of aruined “dashing man” in the Rules of the Bench, is the most monstrous and incredible of all. Plainly, friend Arthur Gride, ifyou want any help from me in this business (which of course youdo, 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 Iknow it must turn to yours also, and to a good round tune too, oryou would have no finger in such a pie as this.’
　　There was enough acerbity and sarcasm not only in the matterof 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 theancient usurer’s cold blood and flushed even his withered cheek.
　　But he gave vent to no demonstration of anger, contenting himselfwith exclaiming as before, ‘What a man it is!’ and rolling his headfrom side to side, as if in unrestrained enjoyment of his freedomand drollery. Clearly observing, however, from the expression inRalph’s features, that he had best come to the point as speedily asmight be, he composed himself for more serious business, andentered upon the pith and marrow of his negotiation.
　　First, he dwelt upon the fact that Madeline Bray was devoted tothe support and maintenance, and was a slave to every wish, ofher only parent, who had no other friend on earth; to which Ralphrejoined that he had heard something of the kind before, and thatif she had known a little more of the world, she wouldn’t havebeen such a fool.
　　Secondly, he enlarged upon the character of her father,arguing, that even taking it for granted that he loved her in returnwith the utmost affection of which he was capable, yet he lovedhimself a great deal better; which Ralph said it was quiteunnecessary to say anything more about, as that was very natural,and probable enough.
　　 And, thirdly, old Arthur premised that the girl was a delicateand beautiful creature, and that he had really a hankering to haveher for his wife. To this Ralph deigned no other rejoinder than aharsh 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 bringthis 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 knowthe 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 muchready money to back it!’ Then, suddenly changing his tone, hewent on: ‘I have been backwards and forwards to Bray’s lodgingsseveral times within the last six months. It is just half a year since Ifirst saw this delicate morsel, and, oh dear, what a delicate morselit is! But that is neither here nor there. I am his detaining creditorfor 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 andseventy-five pounds four and threepence.’
　　‘The only other, Mr Nickleby,’ said old Arthur, eagerly. ‘Theonly other. Nobody else went to the expense of lodging a detainer,trusting to our holding him fast enough, I warrant you. We bothfell into the same snare; oh dear, what a pitfall it was; it almostruined me! And lent him our money upon bills, with only onename besides his own, which to be sure everybody supposed to be a good one, and was as negotiable as money, but which turned outyou know how. Just as we should have come upon him, he diedinsolvent. Ah! it went very nigh to ruin me, that loss did!’
　　‘Go on with your scheme,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s of no use raising thecry of our trade just now; there’s nobody to hear us!’
　　‘It’s always as well to talk that way,’ returned old Arthur, with achuckle, ‘whether there’s anybody to hear us or not. Practicemakes perfect, you know. Now, if I offer myself to Bray as his son-in-law, upon one simple condition that the moment I am fastmarried he shall be quietly released, and have an allowance to livejust t’other side the water like a gentleman (he can’t live long, for Ihave asked his doctor, and he declares that his complaint is one ofthe Heart and it is impossible), and if all the advantages of thiscondition are properly stated and dwelt upon to him, do you thinkhe could resist me? And if he could not resist me, do you think hisdaughter could resist him? Shouldn’t I have her Mrs ArthurGride—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, andspeaking in a tone whose studied coldness presented a strangecontrast to the rapturous squeak to which his friend had graduallymounted. ‘Go on. You didn’t come here to ask me that.’
　　‘Oh dear, how you talk!’ cried old Arthur, edging himself closerstill to Ralph. ‘Of course I didn’t, I don’t pretend I did! I came toask what you would take from me, if I prospered with the father,for this debt of yours. Five shillings in the pound, six andeightpence, ten shillings? I would go as far as ten for such a friendas 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 andimmovable as ever.
　　‘Yes, yes, there is, but you won’t give me time,’ returned ArthurGride. ‘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 goodcomposition 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 yourinterest would cease with your own concern in the affair,’ saidArthur Gride. ‘That’s kind of you to ask. Oh dear, how very kind ofyou! Why, supposing I had a knowledge of some property—somelittle property—very little—to which this pretty chick was entitled;which nobody does or can know of at this time, but which herhusband 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, letme turn this matter over, and consider what I ought to have if Ishould help you to success.’
　　‘But don’t be hard,’ cried old Arthur, raising his hands with animploring gesture, and speaking, in a tremulous voice. ‘Don’t be too hard upon me. It’s a very small property, it is indeed. Say theten shillings, and we’ll close the bargain. It’s more than I ought togive, but you’re so kind—shall we say the ten? Do now, do.’
　　Ralph took no notice of these supplications, but sat for three orfour minutes in a brown study, looking thoughtfully at the personfrom whom they proceeded. After sufficient cogitation he brokesilence, and it certainly could not be objected that he used anyneedless circumlocution, or failed to speak directly to the purpose.
　　‘If you married this girl without me,’ said Ralph, ‘you must paymy 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 alldeduction or incumbrance, or I should lose from being honouredwith your confidence, instead of gaining by it. That’s the firstarticle of the treaty. For the second, I shall stipulate that for mytrouble in negotiation and persuasion, and helping you to thisfortune, I have five hundred pounds. That’s very little, becauseyou have the ripe lips, and the clustering hair, and what not, all toyourself. For the third and last article, I require that you execute abond to me, this day, binding yourself in the payment of these twosums, before noon of the day of your marriage with MadelineBray. You have told me I can urge and press a point. I press thisone, and will take nothing less than these terms. Accept them ifyou like. If not, marry her without me if you can. I shall still get mydebt.’
　　To all entreaties, protestations, and offers of compromisebetween his own proposals and those which Arthur Gride had firstsuggested, Ralph was deaf as an adder. He would enter into nofurther discussion of the subject, and while old Arthur dilatedupon the enormity of his demands and proposed modifications of them, approaching by degrees nearer and nearer to the terms heresisted, sat perfectly mute, looking with an air of quietabstraction over the entries and papers in his pocket-book.
　　Finding that it was impossible to make any impression upon hisstaunch friend, Arthur Gride, who had prepared himself for somesuch result before he came, consented with a heavy heart to theproposed treaty, and upon the spot filled up the bond required(Ralph kept such instruments handy), after exacting the conditionthat Mr Nickleby should accompany him to Bray’s lodgings thatvery hour, and open the negotiation at once, should circumstancesappear auspicious and favourable to their designs.
　　In pursuance of this last understanding the worthy gentlemenwent out together shortly afterwards, and Newman Noggsemerged, bottle in hand, from the cupboard, out of the upper doorof which, at the imminent risk of detection, he had more than oncethrust his red nose when such parts of the subject were underdiscussion as interested him most.
　　‘I have no appetite now,’ said Newman, putting the flask in hispocket. ‘I’ve had my dinner.’
　　Having delivered this observation in a very grievous and dolefultone, Newman reached the door in one long limp, and came backagain 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, norcan I any of the people against whom a hundred tricks, but noneso 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 ittortures me as well as them. Gride and Nickleby! Good pair for acurricle. Oh roguery! roguery! roguery!’
　　 With these reflections, and a very hard knock on the crown ofhis unfortunate hat at each repetition of the last word, NewmanNoggs, whose brain was a little muddled by so much of thecontents of the pocket-pistol as had found their way there duringhis recent concealment, went forth to seek such consolation asmight be derivable from the beef and greens of some cheap eating-house.
　　Meanwhile the two plotters had betaken themselves to thesame house whither Nicholas had repaired for the first time but afew mornings before, and having obtained access to Mr Bray, andfound his daughter from home, had by a train of the most masterlyapproaches that Ralph’s utmost skill could frame, at length laidopen the real object of their visit.
　　‘There he sits, Mr Bray,’ said Ralph, as the invalid, not yetrecovered from his surprise, reclined in his chair, lookingalternately at him and Arthur Gride. ‘What if he has had the ill-fortune to be one cause of your detention in this place? I havebeen another; men must live; you are too much a man of the worldnot to see that in its true light. We offer the best reparation in ourpower. Reparation! Here is an offer of marriage, that many a titledfather would leap at, for his child. Mr Arthur Gride, with thefortune of a prince. Think what a haul it is!’
　　‘My daughter, sir,’ returned Bray, haughtily, ‘as I have broughther up, would be a rich recompense for the largest fortune that aman could bestow in exchange for her hand.’
　　‘Precisely what I told you,’ said the artful Ralph, turning to hisfriend, old Arthur. ‘Precisely what made me consider the thing sofair and easy. There is no obligation on either side. You havemoney, and Miss Madeline has beauty and worth. She has youth, you have money. She has not money, you have not youth. Tit fortat, 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 aremarried, it will be destiny, according to that.’
　　‘Then think, Mr Bray,’ said Ralph, hastily substituting for thisargument considerations more nearly allied to earth, ‘think what astake is involved in the acceptance or rejection of these proposalsof my friend.’
　　‘How can I accept or reject,’ interrupted Mr Bray, with anirritable consciousness that it really rested with him to decide. ‘Itis for my daughter to accept or reject; it is for my daughter. Youknow that.’
　　‘True,’ said Ralph, emphatically; ‘but you have still the power toadvise; to state the reasons for and against; to hint a wish.’
　　‘To hint a wish, sir!’ returned the debtor, proud and mean byturns, and selfish at all times. ‘I am her father, am I not? Whyshould I hint, and beat about the bush? Do you suppose, like hermother’s friends and my enemies—a curse upon them all!—thatthere is anything in what she has done for me but duty, sir, butduty? Or do you think that my having been unfortunate is asufficient 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 scarcelyable to leave this chair without assistance, that I am some broken-spirited dependent creature, without the courage or power to dowhat I may think best for my own child. Still the power to hint awish! I hope so!’
　　‘Pardon me,’ returned Ralph, who thoroughly knew his man, and had taken his ground accordingly; ‘you do not hear me out. Iwas 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 exasperatedtone. ‘If you don’t happen to have heard of the time, sir, I tell youthat there was a time, when I carried every point in triumphagainst her mother’s whole family, although they had power andwealth 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 shinein society, with many years of life before you; that is, if you lived infreer air, and under brighter skies, and chose your owncompanions. Gaiety is your element, you have shone in it before.
　　Fashion and freedom for you. France, and an annuity that wouldsupport you there in luxury, would give you a new lease of life,would transfer you to a new existence. The town rang with yourexpensive pleasures once, and you could blaze up on a new sceneagain, profiting by experience, and living a little at others’ cost,instead of letting others live at yours. What is there on the reverseside of the picture? What is there? I don’t know which is thenearest churchyard, but a gravestone there, wherever it is, and adate, perhaps two years hence, perhaps twenty. That’s all.’
　　Mr Bray rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, and shadedhis face with his hand.
　　‘I speak plainly,’ said Ralph, sitting down beside him, ‘because Ifeel strongly. It’s my interest that you should marry your daughterto 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 haveyou in recommending her to such a step? Keep that in view. She might object, remonstrate, shed tears, talk of his being too old, andplead that her life would be rendered miserable. But what is itnow?’
　　Several slight gestures on the part of the invalid showed thatthese arguments were no more lost upon him, than the smallestiota of his demeanour was upon Ralph.
　　‘What is it now, I say,’ pursued the wily usurer, ‘or what has it achance of being? If you died, indeed, the people you hate wouldmake her happy. But can you bear the thought of that?’
　　‘No!’ returned Bray, urged by a vindictive impulse he could notrepress.
　　‘I should imagine not, indeed!’ said Ralph, quietly. ‘If she profitsby anybody’s death,’ this was said in a lower tone, ‘let it be by herhusband’s. Don’t let her have to look back to yours, as the eventfrom which to date a happier life. Where is the objection? Let mehear it stated. What is it? That her suitor is an old man? Why, howoften do men of family and fortune, who haven’t your excuse, buthave all the means and superfluities of life within their reach, howoften do they marry their daughters to old men, or (worse still) toyoung men without heads or hearts, to tickle some idle vanity,strengthen some family interest, or secure some seat inParliament! 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 coveringRalph’s mouth with his trembling hand. ‘I hear her at the door!’
　　There was a gleam of conscience in the shame and terror of thishasty action, which, in one short moment, tore the thin covering ofsophistry from the cruel design, and laid it bare in all its meannessand heartless deformity. The father fell into his chair pale and trembling; Arthur Gride plucked and fumbled at his hat, and durstnot raise his eyes from the floor; even Ralph crouched for themoment like a beaten hound, cowed by the presence of one younginnocent girl!
　　The effect was almost as brief as sudden. Ralph was the first torecover himself, and observing Madeline’s looks of alarm,entreated the poor girl to be composed, assuring her that therewas no cause for fear.
　　‘A sudden spasm,’ said Ralph, glancing at Mr Bray. ‘He is quitewell now.’
　　It might have moved a very hard and worldly heart to see theyoung and beautiful creature, whose certain misery they had beencontriving but a minute before, throw her arms about her father’sneck, and pour forth words of tender sympathy and love, thesweetest a father’s ear can know, or child’s lips form. But Ralphlooked coldly on; and Arthur Gride, whose bleared eyes gloatedonly over the outward beauties, and were blind to the spirit whichreigned within, evinced—a fantastic kind of warmth certainly, butnot exactly that kind of warmth of feeling which the contemplationof virtue usually inspires.
　　‘Madeline,’ said her father, gently disengaging himself, ‘it wasnothing.’
　　‘But you had that spasm yesterday, and it is terrible to see youin such pain. Can I do nothing for you?’
　　‘Nothing just now. Here are two gentlemen, Madeline, one ofwhom you have seen before. She used to say,’ added Mr Bray,addressing Arthur Gride, ‘that the sight of you always made meworse. That was natural, knowing what she did, and only what shedid, of our connection and its results. Well, well. Perhaps she may change her mind on that point; girls have leave to change theirminds, 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 wretchedlife, my love, of daily labour and fatigue, is more than you canbear, I am sure it is. Poor Madeline!’
　　With these and many more kind words, Mr Bray drew hisdaughter to him and kissed her cheek affectionately. Ralph,watching him sharply and closely in the meantime, made his waytowards 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 daughteraside. ‘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, asold Arthur bowed. ‘You mean well, no doubt. I an bound to say sonow. If I owed you money, that was not your fault. Madeline, mylove, your hand here.’
　　‘Oh dear! If the young lady would condescent! Only the tips ofher fingers,’ said Arthur, hesitating and half retreating.
　　Madeline shrunk involuntarily from the goblin figure, but sheplaced the tips of her fingers in his hand and instantly withdrewthem. After an ineffectual clutch, intended to detain and carrythem to his lips, old Arthur gave his own fingers a mumbling kiss,and with many amorous distortions of visage went in pursuit of hisfriend, who was by this time in the street.
　　 ‘What does he say, what does he say? What does the giant say tothe 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 hopesand 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! Howhandsome her eyes looked when she was stooping over him! Suchlong 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 itcan be brought about? Don’t you think it can?’
　　Ralph looked at him with a contemptuous frown, and repliedwith 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 ismore than she can bear. Yes, yes. He’ll change it for her.’
　　‘D’ye think it’s done?’ inquired old Arthur, peering into hiscompanion’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 thinksof her good and not his own. He is acting a virtuous part, and soconsiderate and affectionate, sir, that the daughter scarcely knewhim. I saw a tear of surprise in her eye. There’ll be a few moretears 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, andpositively his last Appearance on this Stage.
　　It was with a very sad and heavy heart, oppressed by manypainful ideas, that Nicholas retraced his steps eastward andbetook 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 mindand grouped themselves round the fair image of Madeline Bray,they were now dispelled, and not a vestige of their gaiety andbrightness remained.
　　It would be a poor compliment to Nicholas’s better nature, andone which he was very far from deserving, to insinuate that thesolution, and such a solution, of the mystery which had seemed tosurround Madeline Bray, when he was ignorant even of her name,had damped his ardour or cooled the fervour of his admiration. Ifhe had regarded her before, with such a passion as young menattracted by mere beauty and elegance may entertain, he was nowconscious of much deeper and stronger feelings. But, reverencefor the truth and purity of her heart, respect for the helplessnessand loneliness of her situation, sympathy with the trials of one soyoung and fair and admiration of her great and noble spirit, allseemed to raise her far above his reach, and, while they impartednew 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 mostscrupulously and strictly. My secret feelings deserve noconsideration 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 harmto anybody but himself, and that if he kept them to himself from asense of duty, he had an additional right to entertain himself withthem as a reward for his heroism.
　　All these thoughts, coupled with what he had seen that morningand the anticipation of his next visit, rendered him a very dull andabstracted companion; so much so, indeed, that Tim Linkinwatersuspected he must have made the mistake of a figure somewhere,which was preying upon his mind, and seriously conjured him, ifsuch were the case, to make a clean breast and scratch it out,rather than have his whole life embittered by the tortures ofremorse.
　　But in reply to these considerate representations, and manyothers both from Tim and Mr Frank, Nicholas could only bebrought to state that he was never merrier in his life; and so wenton all day, and so went towards home at night, still turning overand over again the same subjects, thinking over and over again thesame things, and arriving over and over again at the sameconclusions.
　　In this pensive, wayward, and uncertain state, people are apt tolounge and loiter without knowing why, to read placards on thewalls with great attention and without the smallest idea of oneword 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-billhanging outside a Minor Theatre which he had to pass on his wayhome, and reading a list of the actors and actresses who hadpromised to do honour to some approaching benefit, with as muchgravity as if it had been a catalogue of the names of those ladiesand gentlemen who stood highest upon the Book of Fate, and hehad been looking anxiously for his own. He glanced at the top ofthe bill, with a smile at his own dulness, as he prepared to resumehis walk, and there saw announced, in large letters with a largespace between each of them, ‘Positively the last appearance of MrVincent 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 ofthe first night of a new melodrama; in another line by itself was anannouncement of the last six nights of an old one; a third line wasdevoted to the re-engagement of the unrivalled African Knife-swallower, who had kindly suffered himself to be prevailed uponto forego his country engagements for one week longer; a fourthline announced that Mr Snittle Timberry, having recovered fromhis late severe indisposition, would have the honour of appearingthat evening; a fifth line said that there were ‘Cheers, Tears, andLaughter!’ every night; a sixth, that that was positively the lastappearance of Mr Vincent Crummles of Provincial Celebrity.
　　‘Surely it must be the same man,’ thought Nicholas. ‘Therecan’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 thatRoberto (his son) was enacted by one Master Crummles, andSpaletro (his nephew) by one Master Percy Crummles—their last appearances—and that, incidental to the piece, was acharacteristic dance by the characters, and a castanet pas seul bythe Infant Phenomenon—her last appearance—he no longerentertained any doubt; and presenting himself at the stage-door,and sending in a scrap of paper with ‘Mr Johnson’ written thereonin pencil, was presently conducted by a Robber, with a very largebelt and buckle round his waist, and very large leather gauntletson his hands, into the presence of his former manager.
　　Mr Crummles was unfeignedly glad to see him, and starting upfrom before a small dressing-glass, with one very bushy eyebrowstuck on crooked over his left eye, and the fellow eyebrow and thecalf of one of his legs in his hand, embraced him cordially; at thesame time observing, that it would do Mrs Crummles’s heart goodto 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 youfrom that first day you dined with us. One that Mrs Crummles tooka fancy to, was sure to turn out right. Ah! Johnson, what a womanthat is!’
　　‘I am sincerely obliged to her for her kindness in this and allother respects,’ said Nicholas. ‘But where are you going,’ that youtalk about bidding goodbye?’
　　‘Haven’t you seen it in the papers?’ said Crummles, with somedignity.
　　‘No,’ replied Nicholas.
　　‘I wonder at that,’ said the manager. ‘It was among thevarieties. I had the paragraph here somewhere—but I don’tknow—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 thepocket of the pantaloons he wore in private life (which, togetherwith the plain clothes of several other gentlemen, lay scatteredabout on a kind of dresser in the room), and gave it to Nicholas toread:
　　‘The talented Vincent Crummles, long favourably known tofame as a country manager and actor of no ordinary pretensions,is about to cross the Atlantic on a histrionic expedition. Crummlesis to be accompanied, we hear, by his lady and gifted family. Weknow no man superior to Crummles in his particular line ofcharacter, 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 stillsmaller scrap. ‘This is from the notices to correspondents, thisone.’
　　Nicholas read it aloud. ‘“Philo-Dramaticus. Crummles, thecountry manager and actor, cannot be more than forty-three, orforty-four years of age. Crummles is not a Prussian, having beenborn at Chelsea.” Humph!’ said Nicholas, ‘that’s an oddparagraph.’
　　‘Very,’ returned Crummles, scratching the side of his nose, andlooking at Nicholas with an assumption of great unconcern. ‘Ican’t think who puts these things in. I didn’t.’
　　Still keeping his eye on Nicholas, Mr Crummles shook his headtwice or thrice with profound gravity, and remarking, that hecould not for the life of him imagine how the newspapers foundout the things they did, folded up the extracts and put them in hispocket again.
　　 ‘I am astonished to hear this news,’ said Nicholas. ‘Going toAmerica! You had no such thing in contemplation when I was withyou.’
　　‘No,’ replied Crummles, ‘I hadn’t then. The fact is that MrsCrummles—most extraordinary woman, Johnson.’ Here he brokeoff and whispered something in his ear.
　　‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, smiling. ‘The prospect of an addition toyour family?’
　　‘The seventh addition, Johnson,’ returned Mr Crummles,solemnly. ‘I thought such a child as the Phenomenon must havebeen a closer; but it seems we are to have another. She is a veryremarkable woman.’
　　‘I congratulate you,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I hope this may prove aphenomenon too.’
　　‘Why, it’s pretty sure to be something uncommon, I suppose,’
　　rejoined Mr Crummles. ‘The talent of the other three is principallyin combat and serious pantomime. I should like this one to have aturn for juvenile tragedy; I understand they want something ofthat sort in America very much. However, we must take it as itcomes. Perhaps it may have a genius for the tight-rope. It mayhave 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 hisother eyebrow, and the calves of his legs, and then put on his legs,which were of a yellowish flesh-colour, and rather soiled about theknees, 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 theproceeds of a tolerably good engagement which he had beenfortunate enough to obtain, and as he and Mrs Crummles couldscarcely hope to act for ever (not being immortal, except in thebreath of Fame and in a figurative sense) he had made up hismind to settle there permanently, in the hope of acquiring someland of his own which would support them in their old age, andwhich they could afterwards bequeath to their children. Nicholas,having highly commended the resolution, Mr Crummles went onto impart such further intelligence relative to their mutual friendsas he thought might prove interesting; informing Nicholas, amongother things, that Miss Snevellicci was happily married to anaffluent young wax-chandler who had supplied the theatre withcandles, and that Mr Lillyvick didn’t dare to say his soul was hisown, such was the tyrannical sway of Mrs Lillyvick, who reignedparamount and supreme.
　　Nicholas responded to this confidence on the part of MrCrummles, by confiding to him his own name, situation, andprospects, 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 improvedstate of his fortunes, Mr Crummles gave him to understand thatnext morning he and his were to start for Liverpool, where thevessel 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 inhonour of the family at a neighbouring tavern; at which Mr SnittleTimberry would preside, while the honours of the vice-chair wouldbe sustained by the African Swallower.
　　 The room being by this time very warm and somewhatcrowded, in consequence of the influx of four gentlemen, who hadjust killed each other in the piece under representation, Nicholasaccepted the invitation, and promised to return at the conclusionof the performances; preferring the cool air and twilight out ofdoors 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—thebest his funds would afford—as a token of remembrance for MrCrummles, and having purchased besides a pair of ear-rings forMrs Crummles, a necklace for the Phenomenon, and a flamingshirt-pin for each of the young gentlemen, he refreshed himselfwith a walk, and returning a little after the appointed time, foundthe lights out, the theatre empty, the curtain raised for the night,and Mr Crummles walking up and down the stage expecting hisarrival.
　　‘Timberry won’t be long,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘He played theaudience out tonight. He does a faithful black in the last piece, andit takes him a little longer to wash himself.’
　　‘A very unpleasant line of character, I should think?’ saidNicholas.
　　‘No, I don’t know,’ replied Mr Crummles; ‘it comes off easilyenough, and there’s only the face and neck. We had a first-tragedyman in our company once, who, when he played Othello, used toblack himself all over. But that’s feeling a part and going into it asif you meant it; it isn’t usual; more’s the pity.’
　　Mr Snittle Timberry now appeared, arm-in-arm with theAfrican Swallower, and, being introduced to Nicholas, raised hishat 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 MrTimberry. ‘I hope you are none the worse for your exertionstonight?’
　　Mr Timberry, in reply, shook his head with a gloomy air, tappedhis chest several times with great significancy, and drawing hiscloak more closely about him, said, ‘But no matter, no matter.
　　Come!’
　　It is observable that when people upon the stage are in anystrait involving the very last extremity of weakness andexhaustion, they invariably perform feats of strength requiringgreat ingenuity and muscular power. Thus, a wounded prince orbandit chief, who is bleeding to death and too faint to move, exceptto 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 ofwrithings and twistings, and with such curlings up of the legs, andsuch rollings over and over, and such gettings up and tumblingsdown again, as could never be achieved save by a very strong manskilled in posture-making. And so natural did this sort ofperformance come to Mr Snittle Timberry, that on their way out ofthe theatre and towards the tavern where the supper was to beholden, he testified the severity of his recent indisposition and itswasting effects upon the nervous system, by a series of gymnasticperformances which were the admiration of all witnesses.
　　‘Why this is indeed a joy I had not looked for!’ said MrsCrummles, when Nicholas was presented.
　　‘Nor I,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It is by a mere chance that I have thisopportunity of seeing you, although I would have made a greatexertion to have availed myself of it.’
　　 ‘Here is one whom you know,’ said Mrs Crummles, thrustingforward the Phenomenon in a blue gauze frock, extensivelyflounced, and trousers of the same; ‘and here another—andanother,’ presenting the Master Crummleses. ‘And how is yourfriend, the faithful Digby?’
　　‘Digby!’ said Nicholas, forgetting at the instant that this hadbeen Smike’s theatrical name. ‘Oh yes. He’s quite—what am Isaying?—he is very far from well.’
　　‘How!’ exclaimed Mrs Crummles, with a tragic recoil.
　　‘I fear,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head, and making an attemptto smile, ‘that your better-half would be more struck with him nowthan ever.’
　　‘What mean you?’ rejoined Mrs Crummles, in her most popularmanner. ‘Whence comes this altered tone?’
　　‘I mean that a dastardly enemy of mine has struck at methrough him, and that while he thinks to torture me, he inflicts onhim such agonies of terror and suspense as—You will excuse me, Iam sure,’ said Nicholas, checking himself. ‘I should never speak ofthis, and never do, except to those who know the facts, but for amoment I forgot myself.’
　　With this hasty apology Nicholas stooped down to salute thePhenomenon, and changed the subject; inwardly cursing hisprecipitation, and very much wondering what Mrs Crummlesmust think of so sudden an explosion.
　　That lady seemed to think very little about it, for the supperbeing by this time on table, she gave her hand to Nicholas andrepaired with a stately step to the left hand of Mr SnittleTimberry. Nicholas had the honour to support her, and MrCrummles 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 orthirty, being composed of such members of the theatricalprofession, then engaged or disengaged in London, as werenumbered among the most intimate friends of Mr and MrsCrummles. The ladies and gentlemen were pretty equallybalanced; the expenses of the entertainment being defrayed by thelatter, each of whom had the privilege of inviting one of the formeras his guest.
　　It was upon the whole a very distinguished party, forindependently of the lesser theatrical lights who clustered on thisoccasion round Mr Snittle Timberry, there was a literarygentleman present who had dramatised in his time two hundredand forty-seven novels as fast as they had come out—some of themfaster than they had come out—and who was a literary gentlemanin consequence.
　　This gentleman sat on the left hand of Nicholas, to whom hewas introduced by his friend the African Swallower, from thebottom of the table, with a high eulogium upon his fame andreputation.
　　‘I am happy to know a gentleman of such great distinction,’ saidNicholas, politely.
　　‘Sir,’ replied the wit, ‘you’re very welcome, I’m sure. Thehonour 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 isyours?’
　　‘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 havehanded down to fame the names of those on whom theycommitted their most impudent robberies?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘I don’t know anything about that, sir,’ answered the literarygentleman.
　　‘Shakespeare dramatised stories which had previouslyappeared in print, it is true,’ observed Nicholas.
　　‘Meaning Bill, sir?’ said the literary gentleman. ‘So he did. Billwas an adapter, certainly, so he was—and very well he adaptedtoo—considering.’
　　‘I was about to say,’ rejoined Nicholas, ‘that Shakespearederived some of his plots from old tales and legends in generalcirculation; but it seems to me, that some of the gentlemen of yourcraft, 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. ‘Humanintellect, sir, has progressed since his time, is progressing, willprogress.’
　　‘Shot beyond him, I mean,’ resumed Nicholas, ‘in quite anotherrespect, for, whereas he brought within the magic circle of hisgenius, traditions peculiarly adapted for his purpose, and turnedfamiliar things into constellations which should enlighten theworld for ages, you drag within the magic circle of your dulness,subjects not at all adapted to the purposes of the stage, and debaseas he exalted. For instance, you take the uncompleted books ofliving 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, hastilyand crudely vamp up ideas not yet worked out by their originalprojector, but which have doubtless cost him many thoughtfuldays and sleepless nights; by a comparison of incidents anddialogue, down to the very last word he may have written afortnight before, do your utmost to anticipate his plot—all thiswithout his permission, and against his will; and then, to crownthe whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, anunmeaning farrago of garbled extracts from his work, to whichyour name as author, with the honourable distinction annexed, ofhaving perpetrated a hundred other outrages of the samedescription. Now, show me the distinction between such pilferingas this, and picking a man’s pocket in the street: unless, indeed, itbe, that the legislature has a regard for pocket-handkerchiefs, andleaves men’s brains, except when they are knocked out byviolence, to take care of themselves.’
　　‘Men must live, sir,’ said the literary gentleman, shrugging hisshoulders.
　　‘That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,’ repliedNicholas; ‘but if you put it upon that ground, I have nothing moreto say, than, that if I were a writer of books, and you a thirstydramatist, I would rather pay your tavern score for six months,large as it might be, than have a niche in the Temple of Fame withyou for the humblest corner of my pedestal, through six hundredgenerations.’
　　The conversation threatened to take a somewhat angry tonewhen it had arrived thus far, but Mrs Crummles opportunelyinterposed to prevent its leading to any violent outbreak, bymaking some inquiries of the literary gentleman relative to the plots of the six new pieces which he had written by contract tointroduce the African Knife-swallower in his various unrivalledperformances. This speedily engaged him in an animatedconversation with that lady, in the interest of which, allrecollection of his recent discussion with Nicholas very quicklyevaporated.
　　The board being now clear of the more substantial articles offood, and punch, wine, and spirits being placed upon it andhanded about, the guests, who had been previously conversing inlittle groups of three or four, gradually fell off into a dead silence,while the majority of those present glanced from time to time atMr Snittle Timberry, and the bolder spirits did not even hesitateto strike the table with their knuckles, and plainly intimate theirexpectations, 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 otherrejoinder than striking his chest and gasping for breath, andgiving many other indications of being still the victim ofindisposition—for a man must not make himself too cheap eitheron the stage or off—while Mr Crummles, who knew full well thathe would be the subject of the forthcoming toast, sat gracefully inhis chair with his arm thrown carelessly over the back, and nowand then lifted his glass to his mouth and drank a little punch,with the same air with which he was accustomed to take longdraughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard goblets in banquetscenes.
　　At length Mr Snittle Timberry rose in the most approvedattitude, with one hand in the breast of his waistcoat and the other on the nearest snuff-box, and having been received with greatenthusiasm, proposed, with abundance of quotations, his friendMr Vincent Crummles: ending a pretty long speech by extendinghis right hand on one side and his left on the other, and severallycalling upon Mr and Mrs Crummles to grasp the same. This done,Mr Vincent Crummles returned thanks, and that done, the AfricanSwallower proposed Mrs Vincent Crummles, in affecting terms.
　　Then were heard loud moans and sobs from Mrs Crummles andthe ladies, despite of which that heroic woman insisted uponreturning thanks herself, which she did, in a manner and in aspeech which has never been surpassed and seldom equalled. Itthen became the duty of Mr Snittle Timberry to give the youngCrummleses, which he did; after which Mr Vincent Crummles, astheir father, addressed the company in a supplementary speech,enlarging on their virtues, amiabilities, and excellences, andwishing that they were the sons and daughter of every lady andgentleman present. These solemnities having been succeeded by adecent interval, enlivened by musical and other entertainments,Mr Crummles proposed that ornament of the profession, theAfrican Swallower, his very dear friend, if he would allow him tocall him so; which liberty (there being no particular reason why heshould not allow it) the African Swallower graciously permitted.
　　The literary gentleman was then about to be drunk, but it beingdiscovered that he had been drunk for some time in anotheracceptation of the term, and was then asleep on the stairs, theintention was abandoned, and the honour transferred to theladies. Finally, after a very long sitting, Mr Snittle Timberryvacated the chair, and the company with many adieux andembraces dispersed.
　　 Nicholas waited to the last to give his little presents. When hehad said goodbye all round and came to Mr Crummles, he couldnot but mark the difference between their present separation andtheir parting at Portsmouth. Not a jot of his theatrical mannerremained; he put out his hand with an air which, if he could havesummoned it at will, would have made him the best actor of hisday in homely parts, and when Nicholas shook it with the warmthhe honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.
　　‘We were a very happy little company, Johnson,’ said poorCrummles. ‘You and I never had a word. I shall be very gladtomorrow morning to think that I saw you again, but now I almostwish you hadn’t come.’
　　Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply, when he wasgreatly disconcerted by the sudden apparition of Mrs Grudden,who it seemed had declined to attend the supper in order that shemight rise earlier in the morning, and who now burst out of anadjoining bedroom, habited in very extraordinary white robes; andthrowing her arms about his neck, hugged him with greataffection.
　　‘What! Are you going too?’ said Nicholas, submitting with asgood a grace as if she had been the finest young creature in theworld.
　　‘Going?’ returned Mrs Grudden. ‘Lord ha’ mercy, what do youthink they’d do without me?’
　　Nicholas submitted to another hug with even a better gracethan before, if that were possible, and waving his hat as cheerfullyas he could, took farewell of the Vincent Crummleses.
Chapter 49
Chronicles the further Proceedings of the NicklebyFamily, and the Sequel of the Adventure of theGentleman in the Small-clothes.
　　While Nicholas, absorbed in the one engrossing subject ofinterest which had recently opened upon him, occupiedhis leisure hours with thoughts of Madeline Bray, andin execution of the commissions which the anxiety of brotherCharles in her behalf imposed upon him, saw her again and again,and each time with greater danger to his peace of mind and amore 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 withcertain harassing proceedings taken by Mr Snawley for therecovery of his son, and their anxiety for Smike himself, whosehealth, long upon the wane, began to be so much affected byapprehension and uncertainty as sometimes to occasion both themand Nicholas considerable uneasiness, and even alarm.
　　It was no complaint or murmur on the part of the poor fellowhimself that thus disturbed them. Ever eager to be employed insuch slight services as he could render, and always anxious torepay his benefactors with cheerful and happy looks, less friendlyeyes might have seen in him no cause for any misgiving. But therewere times, and often too, when the sunken eye was too bright, thehollow cheek too flushed, the breath too thick and heavy in itscourse, 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 throwsaround familiar looks unearthly indications of the coming change;a dread disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is sogradual, quiet, and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day,and grain by grain, the mortal part wastes and withers away, sothat the spirit grows light and sanguine with its lightening load,and, feeling immortality at hand, deems it but a new term ofmortal life; a disease in which death and life are so strangelyblended, that death takes the glow and hue of life, and life thegaunt and grisly form of death; a disease which medicine nevercured, wealth never warded off, or poverty could boast exemptionfrom; which sometimes moves in giant strides, and sometimes at atardy sluggish pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure and certain.
　　It was with some faint reference in his own mind to thisdisorder, though he would by no means admit it, even to himself,that Nicholas had already carried his faithful companion to aphysician of great repute. There was no cause for immediatealarm, he said. There were no present symptoms which could bedeemed conclusive. The constitution had been greatly tried andinjured 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 tofind a reason for these symptoms of illness in the shock andagitation he had recently undergone, Nicholas comforted himselfwith the hope that his poor friend would soon recover. This hopehis mother and sister shared with him; and as the object of theirjoint solicitude seemed to have no uneasiness or despondency forhimself, but each day answered with a quiet smile that he felt better than he had upon the day before, their fears abated, and thegeneral happiness was by degrees restored.
　　Many and many a time in after years did Nicholas look back tothis period of his life, and tread again the humble quiet homelyscenes that rose up as of old before him. Many and many a time, inthe twilight of a summer evening, or beside the flickering winter’sfire—but not so often or so sadly then—would his thoughtswander back to these old days, and dwell with a pleasant sorrowupon every slight remembrance which they brought crowdinghome. The little room in which they had so often sat long after itwas dark, figuring such happy futures; Kate’s cheerful voice andmerry laugh; how, if she were from home, they used to sit andwatch for her return scarcely breaking silence but to say how dullit seemed without her; the glee with which poor Smike would startfrom the darkened corner where he used to sit, and hurry to admither, and the tears they often saw upon his face, half wondering tosee them too, and he so pleased and happy; every little incident,and even slight words and looks of those old days little heededthen, but well remembered when busy cares and trials were quiteforgotten, came fresh and thick before him many and many a time,and, rustling above the dusty growth of years, came back greenboughs of yesterday.
　　But there were other persons associated with theserecollections, and many changes came about before they hadbeing. A necessary reflection for the purposes of these adventures,which at once subside into their accustomed train, and shunningall flighty anticipations or wayward wanderings, pursue theirsteady and decorous course.
　　If the brothers Cheeryble, as they found Nicholas worthy of trust and confidence, bestowed upon him every day some new andsubstantial mark of kindness, they were not less mindful of thosewho depended on him. Various little presents to Mrs Nickleby,always of the very things they most required, tended in no slightdegree to the improvement and embellishment of the cottage.
　　Kate’s little store of trinkets became quite dazzling; and forcompany! If brother Charles and brother Ned failed to look in forat least a few minutes every Sunday, or one evening in the week,there was Mr Tim Linkinwater (who had never made half-a-dozenother acquaintances in all his life, and who took such delight in hisnew friends as no words can express) constantly coming and goingin his evening walks, and stopping to rest; while Mr FrankCheeryble happened, by some strange conjunction ofcircumstances, to be passing the door on some business or other atleast three nights in the week.
　　‘He is the most attentive young man I ever saw, Kate,’ said MrsNickleby to her daughter one evening, when this last-namedgentleman had been the subject of the worthy lady’s eulogium forsome time, and Kate had sat perfectly silent.
　　‘Attentive, mama!’ rejoined Kate.
　　‘Bless my heart, Kate!’ cried Mrs Nickleby, with her wontedsuddenness, ‘what a colour you have got; why, you’re quiteflushed!’
　　‘Oh, mama! what strange things you fancy!’
　　‘It wasn’t fancy, Kate, my dear, I’m certain of that,’ returnedher mother. ‘However, it’s gone now at any rate, so it don’t muchmatter 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 beserious? I’m sure I never was more serious. I will say that hispoliteness and attention to me is one of the most becoming,gratifying, pleasant things I have seen for a very long time. Youdon’t often meet with such behaviour in young men, and it strikesone 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 extraordinarygirl you are! Was it likely I should be talking of his attention toanybody else? I declare I’m quite sorry to think he should be inlove 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 firstnight 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 bethorough English people, and not half English and half I don’tknow what. I shall tell him point-blank next time he comes, that Iwish he would marry one of his own country-women; and see whathe 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 hereyes in great astonishment.
　　Before Kate had returned any reply, a queer little double knockannounced that Miss La Creevy had called to see them; and whenMiss La Creevy presented herself, Mrs Nickleby, though strongly disposed to be argumentative on the previous question, forgot allabout it in a gush of supposes about the coach she had come by;supposing that the man who drove must have been either the manin the shirt-sleeves or the man with the black eye; that whoever hewas, he hadn’t found that parasol she left inside last week; that nodoubt they had stopped a long while at the Halfway House, comingdown; 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 thatdear old soul Mr Linkinwater.’
　　‘Taking his evening walk, and coming on to rest here, before heturns back to the city, I’ll be bound!’ said Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘I should think he was,’ returned Miss La Creevy; ‘especially asyoung Mr Cheeryble was with him.’
　　‘Surely that is no reason why Mr Linkinwater should be cominghere,’ said Kate.
　　‘Why I think it is, my dear,’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘For a youngman, Mr Frank is not a very great walker; and I observe that hegenerally falls tired, and requires a good long rest, when he hascome as far as this. But where is my friend?’ said the little woman,looking about, after having glanced slyly at Kate. ‘He has not beenrun away with again, has he?’
　　‘Ah! where is Mr Smike?’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘he was here thisinstant.’ Upon further inquiry, it turned out, to the good lady’sunbounded astonishment, that Smike had, that moment, goneupstairs to bed.
　　‘Well now,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘he is the strangest creature!
　　Last Tuesday—was it Tuesday? Yes, to be sure it was; yourecollect, Kate, my dear, the very last time young Mr Cheeryble was here—last Tuesday night he went off in just the same strangeway, at the very moment the knock came to the door. It cannot bethat he don’t like company, because he is always fond of peoplewho 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 itcannot be because he is tired. I know he doesn’t go to bed, becausemy 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 allthe time. Now, upon my word,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘when I come tothink of it, that’s very extraordinary!’
　　As the hearers did not echo this sentiment, but remainedprofoundly silent, either as not knowing what to say, or as beingunwilling to interrupt, Mrs Nickleby pursued the thread of herdiscourse after her own fashion.
　　‘I hope,’ said that lady, ‘that this unaccountable conduct maynot be the beginning of his taking to his bed and living there all hislife, like the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury, or the Cock-lane Ghost, orsome of those extraordinary creatures. One of them had someconnection with our family. I forget, without looking back to someold letters I have upstairs, whether it was my great-grandfatherwho went to school with the Cock-lane Ghost, or the ThirstyWoman of Tutbury who went to school with my grandmother.
　　Miss La Creevy, you know, of course. Which was it that didn’tmind what the clergyman said? The Cock-lane Ghost or theThirsty Woman of Tutbury?’
　　‘The Cock-lane Ghost, I believe.’
　　‘Then I have no doubt,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘that it was with himmy 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 impropermanner to the clergyman when he grew up. Ah! Train up aGhost—child, I mean—’
　　Any further reflections on this fruitful theme were abruptly cutshort by the arrival of Tim Linkinwater and Mr Frank Cheeryble;in the hurry of receiving whom, Mrs Nickleby speedily lost sight ofeverything 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 mayventure to say so—oppose all change in her.’
　　‘Then at all events she shall press you to stay,’ returned MrsNickleby. ‘Mr Linkinwater says ten minutes, but I cannot let yougo 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 frownsof extra significance, Kate added her entreaties that the visitorswould remain; but it was observable that she addressed themexclusively to Tim Linkinwater; and there was, besides, a certainembarrassment in her manner, which, although it was as far fromimpairing its graceful character as the tinge it communicated toher cheek was from diminishing her beauty, was obvious at aglance even to Mrs Nickleby. Not being of a very speculativecharacter, however, save under circumstances when herspeculations could be put into words and uttered aloud, thatdiscreet matron attributed the emotion to the circumstance of herdaughter’s not happening to have her best frock on: ‘though Inever saw her look better, certainly,’ she reflected at the same time. Having settled the question in this way, and being mostcomplacently satisfied that in this, and in all other instances, herconjecture could not fail to be the right one, Mrs Nicklebydismissed it from her thoughts, and inwardly congratulatedherself on being so shrewd and knowing.
　　Nicholas did not come home nor did Smike reappear; butneither circumstance, to say the truth, had any great effect uponthe little party, who were all in the best humour possible. Indeed,there sprung up quite a flirtation between Miss La Creevy andTim Linkinwater, who said a thousand jocose and facetious things,and became, by degrees, quite gallant, not to say tender. LittleMiss La Creevy, on her part, was in high spirits, and rallied Timon having remained a bachelor all his life with so much success,that Tim was actually induced to declare, that if he could getanybody to have him, he didn’t know but what he might changehis condition even yet. Miss La Creevy earnestly recommended alady she knew, who would exactly suit Mr Linkinwater, and had avery comfortable property of her own; but this latter qualificationhad very little effect upon Tim, who manfully protested thatfortune would be no object with him, but that true worth andcheerfulness of disposition were what a man should look for in awife, and that if he had these, he could find money enough for themoderate wants of both. This avowal was considered sohonourable to Tim, that neither Mrs Nickleby nor Miss La Creevycould sufficiently extol it; and stimulated by their praises, Timlaunched out into several other declarations also manifesting thedisinterestedness of his heart, and a great devotion to the fair sex:
　　which were received with no less approbation. This was done andsaid 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 athome; but she was more silent than usual upon this occasion(perhaps because Tim and Miss La Creevy engrossed so much ofit), and, keeping aloof from the talkers, sat at the window watchingthe shadows as the evening closed in, and enjoying the quietbeauty of the night, which seemed to have scarcely less attractionsto Frank, who first lingered near, and then sat down beside, her.
　　No doubt, there are a great many things to be said appropriate to asummer evening, and no doubt they are best said in a low voice, asbeing most suitable to the peace and serenity of the hour; longpauses, too, at times, and then an earnest word or so, and thenanother interval of silence which, somehow, does not seem likesilence either, and perhaps now and then a hasty turning away ofthe head, or drooping of the eyes towards the ground, all theseminor circumstances, with a disinclination to have candlesintroduced and a tendency to confuse hours with minutes, aredoubtless mere influences of the time, as many lovely lips canclearly testify. Neither is there the slightest reason why MrsNickleby should have expressed surprise when, candles being atlength brought in, Kate’s bright eyes were unable to bear the lightwhich obliged her to avert her face, and even to leave the room forsome short time; because, when one has sat in the dark so long,candles are dazzling, and nothing can be more strictly naturalthan that such results should be produced, as all well-informedyoung people know. For that matter, old people know it too, or didknow it once, but they forget these things sometimes, and more’sthe pity.
　　The good lady’s surprise, however, did not end here. It was greatly increased when it was discovered that Kate had not theleast appetite for supper: a discovery so alarming that there is noknowing in what unaccountable efforts of oratory Mrs Nickleby’sapprehensions might have been vented, if the general attentionhad not been attracted, at the moment, by a very strange anduncommon noise, proceeding, as the pale and trembling servantgirl affirmed, and as everybody’s sense of hearing seemed toaffirm 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 noisedid nevertheless proceed from the chimney in question; and thenoise (which was a strange compound of various shuffling, sliding,rumbling, and struggling sounds, all muffled by the chimney) stillcontinuing, Frank Cheeryble caught up a candle, and TimLinkinwater the tongs, and they would have very quicklyascertained the cause of this disturbance if Mrs Nickleby had notbeen taken very faint, and declined being left behind, on anyaccount. This produced a short remonstrance, which terminatedin their all proceeding to the troubled chamber in a body,excepting only Miss La Creevy, who, as the servant girlvolunteered a confession of having been subject to fits in herinfancy, remained with her to give the alarm and applyrestoratives, in case of extremity.
　　Advancing to the door of the mysterious apartment, they werenot a little surprised to hear a human voice, chanting with a highlyelaborated expression of melancholy, and in tones of suffocationwhich a human voice might have produced from under five or sixfeather-beds of the best quality, the once popular air of ‘Has shethen failed in her truth, the beautiful maid I adore?’ Nor, on bursting into the room without demanding a parley, was theirastonishment lessened by the discovery that these romanticsounds certainly proceeded from the throat of some man up thechimney, of whom nothing was visible but a pair of legs, whichwere dangling above the grate; apparently feeling, with extremeanxiety, for the top bar whereon to effect a landing.
　　A sight so unusual and unbusiness-like as this, completelyparalysed Tim Linkinwater, who, after one or two gentle pinchesat the stranger’s ankles, which were productive of no effect, stoodclapping the tongs together, as if he were sharpening them foranother assault, and did nothing else.
　　‘This must be some drunken fellow,’ said Frank. ‘No thiefwould announce his presence thus.’
　　As he said this, with great indignation, he raised the candle toobtain a better view of the legs, and was darting forward to pullthem down with very little ceremony, when Mrs Nickleby,clasping her hands, uttered a sharp sound, something between ascream and an exclamation, and demanded to know whether themysterious limbs were not clad in small-clothes and grey worstedstockings, or whether her eyes had deceived her.
　　‘Yes,’ cried Frank, looking a little closer. ‘Small-clothescertainly, and—and—rough grey stockings, too. Do you know him,ma’am?’
　　‘Kate, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, deliberately sitting herselfdown in a chair with that sort of desperate resignation whichseemed to imply that now matters had come to a crisis, and alldisguise was useless, ‘you will have the goodness, my love, toexplain precisely how this matter stands. I have given him noencouragement—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 witnessto; still at the same time, if I am to be persecuted in this way, ifvegetable what’s-his-names and all kinds of garden-stuff are tostrew my path out of doors, and gentlemen are to come choking upour chimneys at home, I really don’t know—upon my word I donot know—what is to become of me. It’s a very hard case—harderthan anything I was ever exposed to, before I married your poordear papa, though I suffered a good deal of annoyance then—butthat, of course, I expected, and made up my mind for. When I wasnot nearly so old as you, my dear, there was a young gentlemanwho sat next us at church, who used, almost every Sunday, to cutmy name in large letters in the front of his pew while the sermonwas going on. It was gratifying, of course, naturally so, but still itwas an annoyance, because the pew was in a very conspicuousplace, and he was several times publicly taken out by the beadlefor doing it. But that was nothing to this. This is a great dealworse, and a great deal more embarrassing. I would rather, Kate,my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with great solemnity, and an effusionof tears: ‘I would rather, I declare, have been a pig-faced lady, thanbe exposed to such a life as this!’
　　Frank Cheeryble and Tim Linkinwater looked, in irrepressibleastonishment, first at each other and then at Kate, who felt thatsome explanation was necessary, but who, between her terror atthe apparition of the legs, her fear lest their owner should besmothered, and her anxiety to give the least ridiculous solution ofthe mystery that it was capable of bearing, was quite unable toutter 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 noaccount hurt a hair of his head.’
　　It would not, under existing circumstances, have been quite soeasy to hurt a hair of the gentleman’s head as Mrs Nicklebyseemed to imagine, inasmuch as that part of his person was somefeet up the chimney, which was by no means a wide one. But, asall this time he had never left off singing about the bankruptcy ofthe beautiful maid in respect of truth, and now began not only tocroak very feebly, but to kick with great violence as if respirationbecame a task of difficulty, Frank Cheeryble, without furtherhesitation, pulled at the shorts and worsteds with such heartinessas to bring him floundering into the room with greaterprecipitation than he had quite calculated upon.
　　‘Oh! yes, yes,’ said Kate, directly the whole figure of thissingular 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 seeif he is hurt.’
　　‘He is not, I assure you,’ replied Frank, handling the object ofhis surprise, after this appeal, with sudden tenderness andrespect. ‘He is not hurt in the least.’
　　‘Don’t let him come any nearer,’ said Kate, retiring as far as shecould.
　　‘Oh, no, he shall not,’ rejoined Frank. ‘You see I have himsecure here. But may I ask you what this means, and whether youexpected, this old gentleman?’
　　‘Oh, no,’ said Kate, ‘of course not; but he—mama does not thinkso, I believe—but he is a mad gentleman who has escaped fromthe next house, and must have found an opportunity of secretinghimself here.’
　　 ‘Kate,’ interposed Mrs Nickleby with severe dignity, ‘I amsurprised 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 ofthis unfortunate gentleman, when you know very well that theyhave the basest designs upon his property, and that that is thewhole secret of it. It would be much kinder of you, Kate, to ask MrLinkinwater or Mr Cheeryble to interfere in his behalf, and seehim 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 yousuppose? If anybody ought to be indignant, who is it? I, of course,and very properly so. Still, at the same time, I wouldn’t commitsuch an injustice for the world. No,’ continued Mrs Nickleby,drawing herself up, and looking another way with a kind ofbashful stateliness; ‘this gentleman will understand me when I tellhim that I repeat the answer I gave him the other day; that Ialways will repeat it, though I do believe him to be sincere when Ifind him placing himself in such dreadful situations on myaccount; and that I request him to have the goodness to go awaydirectly, or it will be impossible to keep his behaviour a secretfrom my son Nicholas. I am obliged to him, very much obliged tohim, but I cannot listen to his addresses for a moment. It’s quiteimpossible.’
　　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 inprofound silence, and with a very majestic demeanour. He did notappear to take the smallest notice of what Mrs Nickleby said, but when she ceased to speak he honoured her with a long stare, andinquired if she had quite finished.
　　‘I have nothing more to say,’ replied that lady modestly. ‘I reallycannot say anything more.’
　　‘Very good,’ said the old gentleman, raising his voice, ‘thenbring in the bottled lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.’
　　Nobody executing this order, the old gentleman, after a shortpause, raised his voice again and demanded a thunder sandwich.
　　This article not being forthcoming either, he requested to beserved with a fricassee of boot-tops and goldfish sauce, and thenlaughing 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 allabout her, shook her head as though to assure them that she sawnothing whatever in all this, unless, indeed, it were a slight degreeof eccentricity. She might have remained impressed with theseopinions down to the latest moment of her life, but for a slighttrain of circumstances, which, trivial as they were, altered thewhole complexion of the case.
　　It happened that Miss La Creevy, finding her patient in no verythreatening condition, and being strongly impelled by curiosity tosee what was going forward, bustled into the room while the oldgentleman was in the very act of bellowing. It happened, too, thatthe instant the old gentleman saw her, he stopped short, skippedsuddenly on his feet, and fell to kissing his hand violently: achange of demeanour which almost terrified the little portraitpainter out of her senses, and caused her to retreat behind TimLinkinwater 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 hernow! My love, my life, my bride, my peerless beauty. She is comeat last—at last—and all is gas and gaiters!’
　　Mrs Nickleby looked rather disconcerted for a moment, butimmediately recovering, nodded to Miss La Creevy and the otherspectators several times, and frowned, and smiled gravely, givingthem to understand that she saw where the mistake was, andwould set it all to rights in a minute or two.
　　‘She is come!’ said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon hisheart. ‘Cormoran and Blunderbore! She is come! All the wealth Ihave is hers if she will take me for her slave. Where are grace,beauty, and blandishments, like those? In the Empress ofMadagascar? No. In the Queen of Diamonds? No. In MrsRowland, who every morning bathes in Kalydor for nothing? No.
　　Melt all these down into one, with the three Graces, the nineMuses, 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 hisfingers twenty or thirty times, and then subsided into an ecstaticcontemplation of Miss La Creevy’s charms. This affording MrsNickleby a favourable opportunity of explanation, she went aboutit straight.
　　‘I am sure,’ said the worthy lady, with a prefatory cough, ‘thatit’s a great relief, under such trying circumstances as these, tohave anybody else mistaken for me—a very great relief; and it’s acircumstance that never occurred before, although I have severaltimes been mistaken for my daughter Kate. I have no doubt thepeople 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 maderesponsible for it. However, in this instance, of course, I must feelthat I should do exceedingly wrong if I suffered anybody—especially anybody that I am under great obligations to—to bemade uncomfortable on my account. And therefore I think it myduty to tell that gentleman that he is mistaken, that I am the ladywho he was told by some impertinent person was niece to theCouncil of Paving-stones, and that I do beg and entreat of him togo quietly away, if it’s only for,’ here Mrs Nickleby simpered andhesitated, ‘for my sake.’
　　It might have been expected that the old gentleman would havebeen penetrated to the heart by the delicacy and condescension ofthis appeal, and that he would at least have returned a courteousand suitable reply. What, then, was the shock which Mrs Nicklebyreceived, 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 ahissing manner between his teeth, the old gentleman swung hisarms violently round and round, and at the same time alternatelyadvanced on Mrs Nickleby, and retreated from her, in that speciesof savage dance with which boys on market-days may be seen tofrighten pigs, sheep, and other animals, when they give outobstinate indications of turning down a wrong street.
　　Mrs Nickleby wasted no words, but uttered an exclamation ofhorror and surprise, and immediately fainted away.
　　‘I’ll attend to mama,’ said Kate, hastily; ‘I am not at allfrightened. But pray take him away: pray take him away!’
　　 Frank was not at all confident of his power of complying withthis request, until he bethought himself of the stratagem ofsending Miss La Creevy on a few paces in advance, and urging theold gentleman to follow her. It succeeded to a miracle; and hewent away in a rapture of admiration, strongly guarded by TimLinkinwater on one side, and Frank himself on the other.
　　‘Kate,’ murmured Mrs Nickleby, reviving when the coast wasclear, ‘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 toldyour brother, weeks and weeks ago, Kate, that I hoped adisappointment might not be too much for him. You see what awreck he is. Making allowance for his being a little flighty, youknow how rationally, and sensibly, and honourably he talked,when we saw him in the garden. You have heard the dreadfulnonsense he has been guilty of this night, and the manner inwhich 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! ifI am the unfortunate cause of this, I have the satisfaction ofknowing 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 properlytaken 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 thatshould be enough for me!’
　　Washing her hands, thus, of all responsibility under this head,past, present, or to come, Mrs Nickleby kindly added that shehoped her children might never have greater cause to reproachthemselves than she had, and prepared herself to receive theescort, who soon returned with the intelligence that the oldgentleman was safely housed, and that they found his custodians,who had been making merry with some friends, wholly ignorant ofhis absence.
　　Quiet being again restored, a delicious half-hour—so Frankcalled it, in the course of subsequent conversation with TimLinkinwater as they were walking home—was spent inconversation, and Tim’s watch at length apprising him that it washigh time to depart, the ladies were left alone, though not withoutmany offers on the part of Frank to remain until Nicholas arrived,no matter what hour of the night it might be, if, after the lateneighbourly irruption, they entertained the least fear of being leftto themselves. As their freedom from all further apprehension,however, left no pretext for his insisting on mounting guard, hewas obliged to abandon the citadel, and to retire with the trustyTim.
　　Nearly three hours of silence passed away. Kate blushed tofind, 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,’ rejoinedNicholas gaily, ‘to make time pass away like that. What were theynow?’
　　 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 andkissing 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’llread your thoughts for you.’
　　There was something in this proposition, albeit it was saidwithout the slightest consciousness or application, which soalarmed his sister, that Nicholas laughingly changed the subject todomestic matters, and thus gathered, by degrees, as they left theroom and went upstairs together, how lonely Smike had been allnight—and by very slow degrees, too; for on this subject also, Kateseemed to speak with some reluctance.
　　‘Poor fellow,’ said Nicholas, tapping gently at his door, ‘whatcan be the cause of all this?’
　　Kate was hanging on her brother’s arm. The door being quicklyopened, she had not time to disengage herself, before Smike, verypale 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 toretire; and asked, ‘Why not?’
　　‘I could not sleep,’ said Smike, grasping the hand which hisfriend 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 thecause? 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 howfull 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 ifthere were something in their strong affection which touched himvery deeply, withdrew into his chamber, and was soon the onlywatcher under that quiet roof.
Chapter 50
Involves a serious Catastrophe.
　　The little race-course at Hampton was in the full tide andheight of its gaiety; the day as dazzling as day could be; thesun high in the cloudless sky, and shining in its fullestsplendour. Every gaudy colour that fluttered in the air fromcarriage 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’ ragswere freshened up, and sentiment quite forgot its charity in itsfervent admiration of poverty so picturesque.
　　It was one of those scenes of life and animation, caught in itsvery brightest and freshest moments, which can scarcely fail toplease; for if the eye be tired of show and glare, or the ear beweary with a ceaseless round of noise, the one may repose, turnalmost where it will, on eager, happy, and expectant faces, and theother deaden all consciousness of more annoying sounds in thoseof mirth and exhilaration. Even the sunburnt faces of gypsychildren, half naked though they be, suggest a drop of comfort. Itis a pleasant thing to see that the sun has been there; to know thatthe air and light are on them every day; to feel that they arechildren, and lead children’s lives; that if their pillows be damp, itis with the dews of Heaven, and not with tears; that the limbs oftheir girls are free, and that they are not crippled by distortions,imposing an unnatural and horrible penance upon their sex; thattheir lives are spent, from day to day, at least among the waving trees, and not in the midst of dreadful engines which make youngchildren old before they know what childhood is, and give themthe exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like age, the privilegeto die. God send that old nursery tales were true, and that gypsiesstole such children by the score!
　　The great race of the day had just been run; and the close linesof people, on either side of the course, suddenly breaking up andpouring into it, imparted a new liveliness to the scene, which wasagain all busy movement. Some hurried eagerly to catch a glimpseof the winning horse; others darted to and fro, searching, no lesseagerly, for the carriages they had left in quest of better stations.
　　Here, a little knot gathered round a pea and thimble table to watchthe plucking of some unhappy greenhorn; and there, anotherproprietor with his confederates in various disguises—one man inspectacles; another, with an eyeglass and a stylish hat; a third,dressed as a farmer well to do in the world, with his top-coat overhis arm and his flash notes in a large leathern pocket-book; and allwith heavy-handled whips to represent most innocent countryfellows who had trotted there on horseback—sought, by loud andnoisy 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 inthe concern by the anxious furtive glance they cast on all newcomers. These would be hanging on the outskirts of a wide circleof people assembled round some itinerant juggler, opposed, in histurn, by a noisy band of music, or the classic game of ‘Ring theBull,’ 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 incarriages, hampers to be unpacked, tempting provisions to be setforth, knives and forks to rattle, champagne corks to fly, eyes tobrighten that were not dull before, and pickpockets to count theirgains during the last heat. The attention so recently strained onone object of interest, was now divided among a hundred; and lookwhere you would, there was a motley assemblage of feasting,laughing, talking, begging, gambling, and mummery.
　　Of the gambling-booths there was a plentiful show, flourishingin all the splendour of carpeted ground, striped hangings, crimsoncloth, pinnacled roofs, geranium pots, and livery servants. Therewere the Stranger’s club-house, the Athenaeum club-house, theHampton club-house, the St James’s club-house, and half a mile ofclub-houses to play in; and there were rouge-et-noir, Frenchhazard, and other games to play at. It is into one of these boothsthat our story takes its way.
　　Fitted up with three tables for the purposes of play, andcrowded with players and lookers on, it was, although the largestplace of the kind upon the course, intensely hot, notwithstandingthat 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. Exceptingone or two men who, each with a long roll of half-crowns,chequered with a few stray sovereigns, in his left hand, stakedtheir money at every roll of the ball with a business-likesedateness which showed that they were used to it, and had beenplaying all day, and most probably all the day before, there was novery distinctive character about the players, who were chieflyyoung men, apparently attracted by curiosity, or staking smallsums 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 apassing 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 hishands folded on the top of his stick, and his chin appearing abovethem. He was a tall, fat, long-bodied man, buttoned up to thethroat in a light green coat, which made his body look still longerthan it was. He wore, besides, drab breeches and gaiters, a whiteneckerchief, and a broad-brimmed white hat. Amid all the buzzingnoise of the games, and the perpetual passing in and out of thepeople, he seemed perfectly calm and abstracted, without thesmallest particle of excitement in his composition. He exhibited noindication of weariness, nor, to a casual observer, of interesteither. There he sat, quite still and collected. Sometimes, but veryrarely, he nodded to some passing face, or beckoned to a waiter toobey a call from one of the tables. The next instant he subsidedinto his old state. He might have been some profoundly deaf oldgentleman, who had come in to take a rest, or he might have beenpatiently waiting for a friend, without the least consciousness ofanybody’s presence, or fixed in a trance, or under the influence ofopium. People turned round and looked at him; he made nogesture, caught nobody’s eye, let them pass away, and others comeon and be succeeded by others, and took no notice. When he didmove, it seemed wonderful how he could have seen anything tooccasion it. And so, in truth, it was. But there was not a face thatpassed in or out, which this man failed to see; not a gesture at anyone of the three tables that was lost upon him; not a word, spokenby the bankers, but reached his ear; not a winner or loser he couldnot have marked. And he was the proprietor of the place.
　　 The other presided over the rouge-et-noir table. He wasprobably some ten years younger, and was a plump, paunchy,sturdy-looking fellow, with his under-lip a little pursed, from ahabit of counting money inwardly as he paid it, but with nodecidedly bad expression in his face, which was rather an honestand jolly one than otherwise. He wore no coat, the weather beinghot, and stood behind the table with a huge mound of crowns andhalf-crowns before him, and a cash-box for notes. This game wasconstantly playing. Perhaps twenty people would be staking at thesame time. This man had to roll the ball, to watch the stakes asthey were laid down, to gather them off the colour which lost, topay those who won, to do it all with the utmost dispatch, to roll theball again, and to keep this game perpetually alive. He did it allwith a rapidity absolutely marvellous; never hesitating, nevermaking a mistake, never stopping, and never ceasing to repeatsuch unconnected phrases as the following, which, partly fromhabit, and partly to have something appropriate and business-liketo say, he constantly poured out with the same monotonousemphasis, and in nearly the same order, all day long:
　　‘Rooge-a-nore from Paris! Gentlemen, make your game andback your own opinions—any time while the ball rolls—rooge-anore from Paris, gentlemen, it’s a French game, gentlemen, Ibrought 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 putdown your money, gentlemen, any time while the ball rolls—blackagain—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 beenbacking 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 excellentchampagne. Here, wai-ter, bring a bottle of champagne, and let’shave a dozen or fifteen cigars here—and let’s be comfortable,gentlemen—and bring some clean glasses—any time while the ballrolls!—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 orchange of voice, and giving a wink so slight that it seems anaccident), ‘will you take a glass of sherry, sir?—here, wai-ter! bringa clean glass, and hand the sherry to this gentleman—and hand itround, will you, waiter?—this is the rooge-a-nore from Paris,gentlemen—any time while the ball rolls!—gentlemen, make yourgame, and back your own opinions—it’s the rooge-a-nore fromParis—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-dozenpersons sauntered through the booth, to whom, but withoutstopping either in his speech or work, he bowed respectfully; atthe same time directing, by a look, the attention of a man besidehim to the tallest figure in the group, in recognition of whom theproprietor pulled off his hat. This was Sir Mulberry Hawk, withwhom 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. SirMulberry, 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 thathe was an object of curiosity, on this first occasion of showinghimself in public after the accident that had befallen him; and itwas easy to perceive that he appeared on the race-course, thatday, more in the hope of meeting with a great many people whoknew him, and so getting over as much as possible of theannoyance at once, than with any purpose of enjoying the sport.
　　There yet remained a slight scar upon his face, and whenever hewas recognised, as he was almost every minute by peoplesauntering in and out, he made a restless effort to conceal it withhis glove; showing how keenly he felt the disgrace he hadundergone.
　　‘Ah! Hawk,’ said one very sprucely-dressed personage in aNewmarket coat, a choice neckerchief, and all other accessories ofthe most unexceptionable kind. ‘How d’ye do, old fellow?’
　　This was a rival trainer of young noblemen and gentlemen, andthe person of all others whom Sir Mulberry most hated anddreaded 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 alittle 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 generallyfinished with the same monosyllable, which he uttered so as todisplay them.
　　‘He’s in very good condition; there’s nothing the matter withhim,’ said the young man carelessly.
　　 ‘Upon my soul I’m glad to hear it,’ rejoined the other. ‘Have youjust returned from Brussels?’
　　‘We only reached town late last night,’ said Lord Frederick. SirMulberry turned away to speak to one of his own party, andfeigned not to hear.
　　‘Now, upon my life,’ said the friend, affecting to speak in awhisper, ‘it’s an uncommonly bold and game thing in Hawk toshow himself so soon. I say it advisedly; there’s a vast deal ofcourage in it. You see he has just rusticated long enough to excitecuriosity, and not long enough for men to have forgotten thatdeuced unpleasant—by-the-bye—you know the rights of the affair,of course? Why did you never give those confounded papers thelie? I seldom read the papers, but I looked in the papers for that,and may I be—’
　　‘Look in the papers,’ interrupted Sir Mulberry, turningsuddenly round, ‘tomorrow—no, next day, will you?’
　　‘Upon my life, my dear fellow, I seldom or never read thepapers,’ said the other, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but I will, at yourrecommendation. What shall I look for?’
　　‘Good day,’ said Sir Mulberry, turning abruptly on his heel, anddrawing his pupil with him. Falling, again, into the loitering,careless pace at which they had entered, they lounged out, arm inarm.
　　‘I won’t give him a case of murder to read,’ muttered SirMulberry with an oath; ‘but it shall be something very near it ifwhipcord cuts and bludgeons bruise.’
　　His companion said nothing, but there was something in hismanner which galled Sir Mulberry to add, with nearly as muchferocity as if his friend had been Nicholas himself:
　　 ‘I sent Jenkins to old Nickleby before eight o’clock thismorning. He’s a staunch one; he was back with me before themessenger. I had it all from him in the first five minutes. I knowwhere this hound is to be met with; time and place both. Butthere’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, butcondescended to return no verbal answer to this inquiry. Bothwalked sullenly on, as though their thoughts were busily occupied,until they were quite clear of the crowd, and almost alone, whenSir 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 aswell as here?’ returned his Mentor, disengaging his arm.
　　‘Hawk,’ rejoined the other, ‘tell me; I must know.’
　　‘MUST know,’ interrupted the other disdainfully. ‘Whew! Goon. If you must know, of course there’s no escape for me. Mustknow!’
　　‘Must ask then,’ returned Lord Frederick, ‘and must press youfor a plain and straightforward answer. Is what you have just saidonly a mere whim of the moment, occasioned by your being out ofhumour and irritated, or is it your serious intention, and one thatyou have actually contemplated?’
　　‘Why, don’t you remember what passed on the subject onenight, 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, andsuch the latter’s general habit of submission, that, for the moment,the young man seemed half afraid to pursue the subject. He soonovercame this feeling, however, if it had restrained him at all, andretorted angrily:
　　‘If I remember what passed at the time you speak of, Iexpressed a strong opinion on this subject, and said that, with myknowledge or consent, you never should do what you threatennow.’
　　‘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; ‘andone you stand in need of. Oh! look to your own business, and leaveme to look to mine.’
　　‘This is mine,’ retorted Lord Frederick. ‘I make it mine; I willmake it mine. It’s mine already. I am more compromised than Ishould be, as it is.’
　　‘Do as you please, and what you please, for yourself,’ said SirMulberry, affecting an easy good-humour. ‘Surely that mustcontent you! Do nothing for me; that’s all. I advise no man tointerfere in proceedings that I choose to take. I am sure you knowme better than to do so. The fact is, I see, you mean to offer meadvice. It is well meant, I have no doubt, but I reject it. Now, if youplease, we will return to the carriage. I find no entertainment here,but quite the reverse. If we prolong this conversation, we mightquarrel, which would be no proof of wisdom in either you or me.’
　　With this rejoinder, and waiting for no further discussion, SirMulberry Hawk yawned, and very leisurely turned back.
　　 There was not a little tact and knowledge of the young lord’sdisposition in this mode of treating him. Sir Mulberry clearly sawthat if his dominion were to last, it must be established now. Heknew that the moment he became violent, the young man wouldbecome violent too. He had, many times, been enabled tostrengthen his influence, when any circumstance had occurred toweaken it, by adopting this cool and laconic style; and he trustedto it now, with very little doubt of its entire success.
　　But while he did this, and wore the most careless andindifferent deportment that his practised arts enabled him toassume, he inwardly resolved, not only to visit all the mortificationof being compelled to suppress his feelings, with additionalseverity upon Nicholas, but also to make the young lord pay dearlyfor it, one day, in some shape or other. So long as he had been apassive instrument in his hands, Sir Mulberry had regarded himwith no other feeling than contempt; but, now that he presumed toavow opinions in opposition to his, and even to turn upon himwith 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 couldthe less brook humiliation at his hands; and when he began todislike him he measured his dislike—as men often do—by theextent of the injuries he had inflicted upon its object. When it isremembered that Sir Mulberry Hawk had plundered, duped,deceived, and fooled his pupil in every possible way, it will not bewondered at, that, beginning to hate him, he began to hate himcordially.
　　On the other hand, the young lord having thought—which hevery seldom did about anything—and seriously too, upon the affair with Nicholas, and the circumstances which led to it, had arrivedat a manly and honest conclusion. Sir Mulberry’s coarse andinsulting behaviour on the occasion in question had produced adeep impression on his mind; a strong suspicion of his having ledhim on to pursue Miss Nickleby for purposes of his own, had beenlurking there for some time; he was really ashamed of his share inthe transaction, and deeply mortified by the misgiving that he hadbeen gulled. He had had sufficient leisure to reflect upon thesethings, during their late retirement; and, at times, when hiscareless and indolent nature would permit, had availed himself ofthe opportunity. Slight circumstances, too, had occurred toincrease his suspicion. It wanted but a very slight circumstance tokindle his wrath against Sir Mulberry. This his disdainful andinsolent tone in their recent conversation (the only one they hadheld upon the subject since the period to which Sir Mulberryreferred), effected.
　　Thus they rejoined their friends: each with causes of dislikeagainst the other rankling in his breast: and the young manhaunted, besides, with thoughts of the vindictive retaliation whichwas threatened against Nicholas, and the determination toprevent it by some strong step, if possible. But this was not all. SirMulberry, conceiving that he had silenced him effectually, couldnot suppress his triumph, or forbear from following up what heconceived to be his advantage. Mr Pyke was there, and Mr Pluckwas there, and Colonel Chowser, and other gentlemen of the samecaste, and it was a great point for Sir Mulberry to show them thathe had not lost his influence. At first, the young lord contentedhimself with a silent determination to take measures forwithdrawing himself from the connection immediately. By degrees, he grew more angry, and was exasperated by jests andfamiliarities which, a few hours before, would have been a sourceof amusement to him. This did not serve him; for, at suchbantering or retort as suited the company, he was no match for SirMulberry. Still, no violent rupture took place. They returned totown; Messrs Pyke and Pluck and other gentlemen frequentlyprotesting, on the way thither, that Sir Mulberry had never beenin such tiptop spirits in all his life.
　　They dined together, sumptuously. The wine flowed freely, asindeed it had done all day. Sir Mulberry drank to recompensehimself for his recent abstinence; the young lord, to drown hisindignation; and the remainder of the party, because the wine wasof the best and they had nothing to pay. It was nearly midnightwhen they rushed out, wild, burning with wine, their bloodboiling, 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 notcalculated to allay the fever of the time. In that giddy whirl of noiseand 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, theirparched and scalding mouths were cracked with thirst. Downpoured the wine like oil on blazing fire. And still the riot went on.
　　The debauchery gained its height; glasses were dashed upon thefloor by hands that could not carry them to lips; oaths wereshouted out by lips which could scarcely form the words to ventthem in; drunken losers cursed and roared; some mounted on thetables, waving bottles above their heads and bidding defiance tothe rest; some danced, some sang, some tore the cards and raved.
　　 Tumult and frenzy reigned supreme; when a noise arose thatdrowned 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 theirliving 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; ‘hestruck 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 awayfor tonight!’
　　‘I will not, by G—,’ he replied. ‘A dozen men about us saw theblow.’
　　‘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, butstood clenching his fist, tearing his hair, and stamping upon theground.
　　‘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 proclaimit to all here! I struck him, and he knows why. I say, with him, letthis quarrel be adjusted now. Captain Adams,’ said the young lord,looking hurriedly about him, and addressing one of those who hadinterposed, ‘let me speak with you, I beg.’
　　The person addressed stepped forward, and taking the youngman’s arm, they retired together, followed shortly afterwards bySir Mulberry and his friend.
　　 It was a profligate haunt of the worst repute, and not a place inwhich such an affair was likely to awaken any sympathy for eitherparty, or to call forth any further remonstrance or interposition.
　　Elsewhere, its further progress would have been instantlyprevented, and time allowed for sober and cool reflection; but notthere. Disturbed in their orgies, the party broke up; some reeledaway with looks of tipsy gravity; others withdrew noisilydiscussing what had just occurred; the gentlemen of honour wholived upon their winnings remarked to each other, as they wentout, that Hawk was a good shot; and those who had been mostnoisy, fell fast asleep upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.
　　Meanwhile, the two seconds, as they may be called now, after along conference, each with his principal, met together in anotherroom. Both utterly heartless, both men upon town, boththoroughly initiated in its worst vices, both deeply in debt, bothfallen from some higher estate, both addicted to every depravityfor which society can find some genteel name and plead its mostdepraving conventionalities as an excuse, they were naturallygentlemen of most unblemished honour themselves, and of greatnicety concerning the honour of other people.
　　These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful just now; for theaffair was pretty certain to make some noise, and could scarcelyfail to enhance their reputations.
　　‘This is an awkward affair, Adams,’ said Mr Westwood, drawinghimself up.
　　‘Very,’ returned the captain; ‘a blow has been struck, and thereis 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 certainterms, which Lord Frederick, defending the girl, repelled. But thisled to a long recrimination upon a great many sore subjects,charges, and counter-charges. Sir Mulberry was sarcastic; LordFrederick was excited, and struck him in the heat of provocation,and under circumstances of great aggravation. That blow, unlessthere is a full retraction on the part of Sir Mulberry, LordFrederick is ready to justify.’
　　‘There is no more to be said,’ returned the other, ‘but to settlethe hour and the place of meeting. It’s a responsibility; but there isa 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, andnegotiation is only a waste of words, no.’
　　‘Something may possibly be said, out of doors, after whatpassed in the other room, which renders it desirable that weshould be off without delay, and quite clear of town,’ said MrWestwood. ‘What do you say to one of the meadows oppositeTwickenham, by the river-side?’
　　The captain saw no objection.
　　‘Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads fromPetersham to Ham House, and settle the exact spot when wearrive there?’ said Mr Westwood.
　　To this the captain also assented. After a few otherpreliminaries, equally brief, and having settled the road each partyshould 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 willallow 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 theyhad just left! It was already daybreak. For the flaring yellow lightwithin, was substituted the clear, bright, glorious morning; for ahot, 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 airblew, it seemed to come laden with remorse for time misspent andcountless opportunities neglected. With throbbing veins andburning skin, eyes wild and heavy, thoughts hurried anddisordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach, andshrunk involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul andhideous thing.
　　‘Shivering?’ said the captain. ‘You are cold.’
　　‘Rather.’
　　‘It does strike cool, coming out of those hot rooms. Wrap thatcloak about you. So, so; now we’re off.’
　　They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at thecaptain’s lodgings, cleared the town, and emerged upon the openroad, 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. Therewas a peace and serenity upon them all, strangely at variance withthe 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 nowcleared away, he rather wished he had never known him thanthought of its having come to this.
　　The past night, the day before, and many other days and nightsbeside, all mingled themselves up in one unintelligible andsenseless whirl; he could not separate the transactions of one timefrom those of another. Now, the noise of the wheels resolved itselfinto some wild tune in which he could recognise scraps of airs heknew; now, there was nothing in his ears but a stunning andbewildering sound, like rushing water. But his companion ralliedhim on being so silent, and they talked and laughed boisterously.
　　When they stopped, he was a little surprised to find himself in theact of smoking; but, on reflection, he remembered when andwhere he had taken the cigar.
　　They stopped at the avenue gate and alighted, leaving thecarriage to the care of the servant, who was a smart fellow, andnearly as well accustomed to such proceedings as his master. SirMulberry and his friend were already there. All four walked inprofound silence up the aisle of stately elm trees, which, meetingfar above their heads, formed a long green perspective of Gothicarches, 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 alittle meadow, passed Ham House and came into some fieldsbeyond. In one of these, they stopped. The ground was measured,some usual forms gone through, the two principals were placedfront to front at the distance agreed upon, and Sir Mulberryturned his face towards his young adversary for the first time. Hewas very pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his dress disordered, and his hair dishevelled. For the face, it expressed nothing but violentand evil passions. He shaded his eyes with his hand; grazed at hisopponent, steadfastly, for a few moments; and, then taking theweapon which was tendered to him, bent his eyes upon that, andlooked up no more until the word was given, when he instantlyfired.
　　The two shots were fired, as nearly as possible, at the sameinstant. In that instant, the young lord turned his head sharplyround, fixed upon his adversary a ghastly stare, and without agroan or stagger, fell down dead.
　　‘He’s gone!’ cried Westwood, who, with the other second, hadrun up to the body, and fallen on one knee beside it.
　　‘His blood on his own head,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘He brought thisupon himself, and forced it upon me.’
　　‘Captain Adams,’ cried Westwood, hastily, ‘I call you to witnessthat this was fairly done. Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. Wemust leave this place immediately, push for Brighton, and cross toFrance with all speed. This has been a bad business, and may beworse, if we delay a moment. Adams, consult your own safety, anddon’t remain here; the living before the dead; goodbye!’
　　With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm, andhurried him away. Captain Adams—only pausing to convincehimself, beyond all question, of the fatal result—sped off in thesame direction, to concert measures with his servant for removingthe body, and securing his own safety likewise.
　　So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the hand which he hadloaded with gifts, and clasped a thousand times; by the act of him,but for whom, and others like him, he might have lived a happyman, and died with children’s faces round his bed.
　　 The sun came proudly up in all his majesty, the noble river ranits winding course, the leaves quivered and rustled in the air, thebirds poured their cheerful songs from every tree, the short-livedbutterfly fluttered its little wings; all the light and life of day cameon; and, amidst it all, and pressing down the grass whose everyblade bore twenty tiny lives, lay the dead man, with his stark andrigid face turned upwards to the sky.
Chapter 51
The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friendapproaching a successful Issue, becomesunexpectedly known to another Party, not admittedinto their Confidence.
　　In an old house, dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to havewithered, like himself, and to have grown yellow andshrivelled in hoarding him from the light of day, as he had inhoarding his money, lived Arthur Gride. Meagre old chairs andtables, 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 thetreasures they enclosed, and tottering, as though from constantfear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark corners, whence theycast no shadows on the ground, and seemed to hide and cowerfrom observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs, with long leanhands and famished face, ticked in cautious whispers; and when itstruck 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 theirguard. Others, were fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawnthemselves up to their utmost height, and put on their fiercestlooks 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 witnessthat they were not worth the taking. The dark square lumberingbedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty hangingsseemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering amongthemselves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledgeof the tempting wares that lurked within the dark and tight-lockedclosets.
　　From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare andhungry house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of oldGride’s voice, as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of someforgotten 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 andagain, until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and topursue 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 frowsy garments, one by one; tosubject each to a careful and minute inspection by holding it upagainst the light, and after folding it with great exactness, to lay iton one or other of two little heaps beside him. He never took twoarticles of clothing out together, but always brought them forth,singly, and never failed to shut the wardrobe door, and turn thekey, between each visit to its shelves.
　　‘The snuff-coloured suit,’ said Arthur Gride, surveying athreadbare coat. ‘Did I look well in snuff-colour? Let me think.’
　　 The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, forhe folded the garment once more, laid it aside, and mounted on achair 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 areonly written for the sake of rhyme, and this is a silly one that thepoor country-people sang, when I was a little boy. Though stop—young is quite right too—it means the bride—yes. He, he, he! Itmeans the bride. Oh dear, that’s good. That’s very good. And truebesides, quite true!’
　　In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verseagain, with increased expression, and a shake or two here andthere. He then resumed his employment.
　　‘The bottle-green,’ said old Arthur; ‘the bottle-green was afamous suit to wear, and I bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker’s,and there was—he, he, he!—a tarnished shilling in the waistcoatpocket. To think that the pawnbroker shouldn’t have known therewas a shilling in it! I knew it! I felt it when I was examining thequality. Oh, what a dull dog of a pawnbroker! It was a lucky suittoo, this bottle-green. The very day I put it on first, old LordMallowford was burnt to death in his bed, and all the post-obitsfell in. I’ll be married in the bottle-green. Peg. Peg Sliderskew—I’llwear 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 hershrivelled face upon her dirty apron, inquired, in that subduedtone in which deaf people commonly speak:
　　‘Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearinggets 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 inthe house.’
　　‘Me, Peg, me,’ said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breastto 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 anythingworse than this?’
　　‘Nothing that’ll do,’ replied old Arthur.
　　‘Why not do?’ retorted Peg. ‘Why don’t you wear your everyday 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 towear?’
　　Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper’sdeafness, 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, shewon’t look much at you, master, take your oath of that; and as tohow you look yourself—pepper-and-salt, bottle-green, sky-blue, ortartan-plaid will make no difference in you.’
　　 With which consolatory assurance, Peg Sliderskew gathered upthe chosen suit, and folding her skinny arms upon the bundle,stood, mouthing, and grinning, and blinking her watery eyes, likean uncouth figure in some monstrous piece of carving.
　　‘You’re in a funny humour, an’t you, Peg?’ said Arthur, with notthe best possible grace.
　　‘Why, isn’t it enough to make me?’ rejoined the old woman. ‘Ishall, soon enough, be put out, though, if anybody tries todomineer it over me: and so I give you notice, master. Nobodyshall be put over Peg Sliderskew’s head, after so many years; youknow 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, appalledby the mention of the word, ‘not for the world. It would be veryeasy 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 hergood looks, Peg, because I like to see ’em.’
　　‘Take care you don’t find good looks come expensive,’ returnedPeg, shaking her forefinger.
　　‘But she can earn money herself, Peg,’ said Arthur Gride,eagerly watching what effect his communication produced uponthe old woman’s countenance: ‘she can draw, paint, work allmanner of pretty things for ornamenting stools and chairs:
　　slippers, Peg, watch-guards, hair-chains, and a thousand littledainty trifles that I couldn’t give you half the names of. Then shecan play the piano, (and, what’s more, she’s got one), and sing likea little bird. She’ll be very cheap to dress and keep, Peg; don’t youthink 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 tobe fooled by pretty faces, Peg; no, no, no—nor by ugly onesneither, Mrs Sliderskew,’ he softly added by way of soliloquy.
　　‘You’re a saying something you don’t want me to hear,’ saidPeg; ‘I know you are.’
　　‘Oh dear! the devil’s in this woman,’ muttered Arthur; addingwith an ugly leer, ‘I said I trusted everything to you, Peg. That wasall.’
　　‘You do that, master, and all your cares are over,’ said Pegapprovingly.
　　‘When I do that, Peg Sliderskew,’ thought Arthur Gride, ‘theywill be.’
　　Although he thought this very distinctly, he durst not move hislips lest the old woman should detect him. He even seemed halfafraid that she might have read his thoughts; for he leeredcoaxingly upon her, as he said aloud:
　　‘Take up all loose stitches in the bottle-green with the bestblack silk. Have a skein of the best, and some new buttons for thecoat, and—this is a good idea, Peg, and one you’ll like, I know—asI 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 hercharming 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 thefool of there, I wonder, to begin with—eh, Peg?’
　　Mrs Sliderskew appeared to approve highly of this ingeniousscheme, and expressed her satisfaction by various rackings andtwitchings of her head and body, which by no means enhanced hercharms. These she prolonged until she had hobbled to the door, when she exchanged them for a sour malignant look, and twistingher under-jaw from side to side, muttered hearty curses upon thefuture Mrs Gride, as she crept slowly down the stairs, and pausedfor breath at nearly every one.
　　‘She’s half a witch, I think,’ said Arthur Gride, when he foundhimself 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 atkeyholes; for she can’t hear. She’s a charming woman—for thepurpose; a most discreet old housekeeper, and worth her weightin—copper.’
　　Having extolled the merits of his domestic in these high terms,old Arthur went back to the burden of his song. The suit destinedto grace his approaching nuptials being now selected, he replacedthe others with no less care than he had displayed in drawingthem from the musty nooks where they had silently reposed formany years.
　　Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily concluded thisoperation, and locked the press; but there was no need for anyparticular hurry, as the discreet Peg seldom knew the bell wasrung unless she happened to cast her dim eyes upwards, and tosee 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. ‘Mygood friend, Mr Noggs, what news do you bring for me?’
　　Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixedeye very fixed indeed, replied, suiting the action to the word, ‘Aletter. 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 devouredits contents with the utmost greediness; chuckling rapturouslyover it, and reading it several times, before he could take it frombefore his eyes. So many times did he peruse and re-peruse it, thatNewman considered it expedient to remind him of his presence.
　　‘Answer,’ said Newman. ‘Bearer waits.’
　　‘True,’ replied old Arthur. ‘Yes—yes; I almost forgot, I dodeclare.’
　　‘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, MrNoggs. 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’llnot detain you long. I know you’re a treasure to your master, MrNoggs. 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. Ialways 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 abouthim for an instant, Newman, impelled by curiosity to know theresult of the design he had overheard from his office closet, caughtit up and rapidly read as follows:
　　‘Gride.
　　 ‘I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day aftertomorrow (as you suggested) for the marriage. There is noobjection on his part, and all days are alike to his daughter. Wewill go together, and you must be with me by seven in themorning. I need not tell you to be punctual.
　　‘Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You havebeen there, of late, much oftener than you should. She does notlanguish for you, and it might have been dangerous. Restrain youryouthful ardour for eight-and-forty hours, and leave her to thefather. You only undo what he does, and does well.
　　‘Yours,‘RALPH NICKLEBY.’
　　A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter onthe same spot again, pressed it with his foot to prevent itsfluttering away, regained his seat in a single stride, and looked asvacant and unconscious as ever mortal looked. Arthur Gride, afterpeering nervously about him, spied it on the ground, picked it up,and sitting down to write, glanced at Newman Noggs, who wasstaring at the wall with an intensity so remarkable, that Arthurwas quite alarmed.
　　‘Do you see anything particular, Mr Noggs?’ said Arthur, tryingto follow the direction of Newman’s eyes—which was animpossibility, 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 thisrepartee, 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 eccentricmessenger 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 himback again, and said, in a shrill whisper, and with a grin whichpuckered 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 richestwine that was ever made; but to see what he would be at, and topunish him as much as he could, he accepted the offerimmediately.
　　Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, andfrom a shelf laden with tall Flemish drinking-glasses, and quaintbottles: some with necks like so many storks, and others withsquare Dutch-built bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: tookdown one dusty bottle of promising appearance, and two glasses ofcuriously small size.
　　‘You never tasted this,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s eau-d’or—goldenwater. I like it on account of its name. It’s a delicious name. Waterof 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 trifledwith 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 gentlereminder that he had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh,Arthur Gride slowly filled it—though not to the brim—and thenfilled his own.
　　‘Stop, stop; don’t drink it yet,’ he said, laying his hand onNewman’s; ‘it was given to me, twenty years ago, and when I takea 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, MrNoggs?’
　　‘Ah!’ said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. ‘Looksharp. 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. LittleMadeline!’
　　‘Madeline!’ said Newman; inwardly adding, ‘and God help her!’
　　The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed hisportion 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 ifthe sight had taken away his breath. Quite unmoved, however,Newman left him to sip his own at leisure, or to pour it back againinto the bottle, if he chose, and departed; after greatly outragingthe 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, anddiscussed the arrangements which should be made for thereception of the young bride. As they were, like some othercommittees, extremely dull and prolix in debate, this history maypursue the footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby combiningadvantage with necessity; for it would have been necessary to doso under any circumstances, and necessity has no law, as all theworld 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 youone: his message, if he didn’t. And don’t go away. I want a wordwith you, sir.’
　　Newman handed in the note, and looked very virtuous andinnocent while his employer broke the seal, and glanced his eyeover 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 saythat? Noggs! Pray, sir, what man was that, with whom I saw you inthe street last night?’
　　‘I don’t know,’ replied Newman.
　　‘You had better refresh your memory, sir,’ said Ralph, with athreatening look.
　　‘I tell you,’ returned Newman boldly, ‘that I don’t know. Hecame 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 thestreet. 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 longago either. He wants to see you face to face, he says, and you’llsoon hear him out, he warrants.’
　　‘And what say you to that?’ inquired Ralph, looking keenly athis drudge.
　　‘That it’s no business of mine, and I won’t. I told him he mightcatch you in the street, if that was all he wanted, but no! thatwouldn’t do. You wouldn’t hear a word there, he said. He musthave you alone in a room with the door locked, where he couldspeak without fear, and you’d soon change your tone, and hearhim patiently.’
　　‘An audacious dog!’ Ralph muttered.
　　‘That’s all I know,’ said Newman. ‘I say again, I don’t knowwhat man he is. I don’t believe he knows himself. You have seenhim; perhaps you do.’
　　‘I think I do,’ replied Ralph.
　　‘Well,’ retored Newman, sulkily, ‘don’t expect me to know himtoo; 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 snapat me like a dragon.’
　　This was true enough; though the question which Newmananticipated, was, in fact, upon Ralph’s lips at the moment.
　　‘He is an idle ruffian,’ said Ralph; ‘a vagabond from beyond thesea where he travelled for his crimes; a felon let loose to run hisneck into the halter; a swindler, who has the audacity to try hisschemes on me who know him well. The next time he tamperswith you, hand him over to the police, for attempting to extortmoney 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 helooks for other folks to fleece, when he comes out. You mind whatI say, do you?’
　　‘I hear,’ said Newman.
　　‘Do it then,’ returned Ralph, ‘and I’ll reward you. Now, you maygo.’
　　Newman readily availed himself of the permission, and,shutting himself up in his little office, remained there, in veryserious cogitation, all day. When he was released at night, heproceeded, with all the expedition he could use, to the city, andtook up his old position behind the pump, to watch for Nicholas.
　　For Newman Noggs was proud in his way, and could not bear toappear as his friend, before the brothers Cheeryble, in the shabbyand degraded state to which he was reduced.
　　He had not occupied this position many minutes, when he wasrejoiced to see Nicholas approaching, and darted out from hisambuscade to meet him. Nicholas, on his part, was no less pleasedto 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 helpcoming up, tonight. I say, I think I am going to find out something.’
　　‘And what may that be?’ returned Nicholas, smiling at this oddcommunication.
　　‘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 mystrong suspicions. I’ll not hint ’em now, in case you should bedisappointed.’
　　 ‘I disappointed!’ cried Nicholas; ‘am I interested?’
　　‘I think you are,’ replied Newman. ‘I have a crotchet in my headthat it must be so. I have found out a man, who plainly knowsmore than he cares to tell at once. And he has already droppedsuch hints to me as puzzle me—I say, as puzzle me,’ said Newman,scratching his red nose into a state of violent inflammation, andstaring at Nicholas with all his might and main meanwhile.
　　Admiring what could have wound his friend up to such a pitchof mystery, Nicholas endeavoured, by a series of questions, toelucidate the cause; but in vain. Newman could not be drawn intoany more explicit statement than a repetition of the perplexities hehad already thrown out, and a confused oration, showing, How itwas necessary to use the utmost caution; how the lynx-eyed Ralphhad already seen him in company with his unknowncorrespondent; and how he had baffled the said Ralph by extremeguardedness of manner and ingenuity of speech; having preparedhimself for such a contingency from the first.
　　Remembering his companion’s propensity,—of which his nose,indeed, perpetually warned all beholders like a beacon,—Nicholashad drawn him into a sequestered tavern. Here, they fell toreviewing the origin and progress of their acquaintance, as mensometimes do, and tracing out the little events by which it wasmost strongly marked, came at last to Miss Cecilia Bobster.
　　‘And that reminds me,’ said Newman, ‘that you never told methe 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 idlyby, and let that unnatural marriage take place without oneattempt 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?’ saidNewman. ‘Do you know that within one day, by means of youruncle 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 besacrificed, as sure as you stand there alive, to a hoary wretch—adevil born and bred, and grey in devils’ ways?’
　　‘Be careful what you say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘For Heaven’s sakebe careful! I am left here alone, and those who could stretch out ahand to rescue her are far away. What is it that you mean?’
　　‘I never heard her name,’ said Newman, choking with hisenergy. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? How was I to know? We might, atleast, 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 agreat quantity of extraordinary pantomime, which in no wayassisted it, Nicholas, who was almost as wild as Newman Noggshimself, forced the latter down upon his seat and held him downuntil he began his tale.
　　Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm of passions,rushed through the listener’s heart, as the plot was laid bare. Heno sooner understood it all, than with a face of ashy paleness, andtrembling in every limb, he darted from the house.
　　‘Stop him!’ cried Newman, bolting out in pursuit. ‘He’ll bedoing something desperate; he’ll murder somebody. Hallo! there, stop him. Stop thief! stop thief!’
Chapter 52
Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, butplucks up his Spirits again, and determines toattempt it. Domestic Intelligence of the Kenwigsesand Lillyvicks.
　　Finding that Newman was determined to arrest his progressat 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 adisagreeable predicament from which he might have somedifficulty 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 couldhave held out for a minute longer.
　　‘I will go straight to Bray’s,’ said Nicholas. ‘I will see this man. Ifthere is a feeling of humanity lingering in his breast, a spark ofconsideration for his own child, motherless and friendless as sheis, I will awaken it.’
　　‘You will not,’ replied Newman. ‘You will not, indeed.’
　　‘Then,’ said Nicholas, pressing onward, ‘I will act upon my firstimpulse, and go straight to Ralph Nickleby.’
　　‘By the time you reach his house he will be in bed,’ saidNewman.
　　‘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 headagainst many trials; but the misery of another, and such misery, isinvolved 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 makeany use of such intelligence as Newman Noggs had gleaned, whenhe lay concealed in the closet. The mere circumstance of thecompact between Ralph Nickleby and Gride would not invalidatethe marriage, or render Bray averse to it, who, if he did notactually know of the existence of some such understanding,doubtless suspected it. What had been hinted with reference tosome fraud on Madeline, had been put, with sufficient obscurityby Arthur Gride, but coming from Newman Noggs, and obscuredstill further by the smoke of his pocket-pistol, it became whollyunintelligible, and involved in utter darkness.
　　‘There seems no ray of hope,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘The greater necessity for coolness, for reason, forconsideration, for thought,’ said Newman, pausing at everyalternate word, to look anxiously in his friend’s face. ‘Where arethe brothers?’
　　‘Both absent on urgent business, as they will be for a week tocome.’
　　‘Is there no way of communicating with them? No way ofgetting 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 takethree 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 silenceon this subject. What right have I to betray the confidence reposedin 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. Thefather urges, the daughter consents. These demons have her intheir toils; legal right, might, power, money, and every influenceare 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’tanswer. Do you mind me, Nick? It don’t answer. Don’t leave astone unturned. It’s always something, to know you’ve done themost you could. But, don’t leave off hoping, or it’s of no use doinganything. Hope, hope, to the last!’
　　Nicholas needed encouragement. The suddenness with whichintelligence of the two usurers’ plans had come upon him, the littletime which remained for exertion, the probability, almostamounting to certainty itself, that a few hours would placeMadeline Bray for ever beyond his reach, consign her tounspeakable misery, and perhaps to an untimely death; all thisquite stunned and overwhelmed him. Every hope connected withher that he had suffered himself to form, or had entertainedunconsciously, seemed to fall at his feet, withered and dead. Everycharm with which his memory or imagination had surroundedher, presented itself before him, only to heighten his anguish andadd new bitterness to his despair. Every feeling of sympathy forher forlorn condition, and of admiration for her heroism andfortitude, aggravated the indignation which shook him in everylimb, and swelled his heart almost to bursting.
　　 But, if Nicholas’s own heart embarrassed him, Newman’s cameto his relief. There was so much earnestness in his remonstrance,and such sincerity and fervour in his manner, odd and ludicrousas it always was, that it imparted to Nicholas new firmness, andenabled him to say, after he had walked on for some little way insilence:
　　‘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 tothat 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 werehere, as Heaven send they were! To reason with her upon thishideous union, to point out to her all the horrors to which she ishastening; rashly, it may be, and without due reflection. To entreather, at least, to pause. She can have had no counsellor for hergood. Perhaps even I may move her so far yet, though it is theeleventh 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, ‘thatin this effort I am influenced by no selfish or personalconsiderations, but by pity for her, and detestation andabhorrence of this scheme; and that I would do the same, werethere twenty rivals in the field, and I the last and least favoured ofthem all.’
　　‘You would, I believe,’ said Newman. ‘But where are youhurrying now?’
　　 ‘Homewards,’ answered Nicholas. ‘Do you come with me, or Ishall 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 youwhat 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 quicklylost to view.
　　‘He’s a violent youth at times,’ said Newman, looking after him;‘and yet like him for it. There’s cause enough now, or the deuce isin it. Hope! I said hope, I think! Ralph Nickleby and Gride withtheir heads together! And hope for the opposite party! Ho! ho!’
　　It was with a very melancholy laugh that Newman Noggsconcluded this soliloquy; and it was with a very melancholy shakeof 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 somesmall tavern or dram-shop; that being his way, in more sensesthan one. But, Newman was too much interested, and too anxious,to betake himself even to this resource, and so, with manydesponding and dismal reflections, went straight home.
　　It had come to pass, that afternoon, that Miss MorleenaKenwigs had received an invitation to repair next day, per steamerfrom 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 alocomotive band, conveyed thither for the purpose: the steamerbeing specially engaged by a dancing-master of extensive connection for the accommodation of his numerous pupils, andthe pupils displaying their appreciation of the dancing-master’sservices, by purchasing themselves, and inducing their friends todo the like, divers light-blue tickets, entitling them to join theexpedition. Of these light-blue tickets, one had been presented byan ambitious neighbour to Miss Morleena Kenwigs, with aninvitation to join her daughters; and Mrs Kenwigs, rightlydeeming that the honour of the family was involved in MissMorleena’s making the most splendid appearance possible on soshort a notice, and testifying to the dancing-master that therewere other dancing-masters besides him, and to all fathers andmothers present that other people’s children could learn to begenteel besides theirs, had fainted away twice under themagnitude of her preparations, but, upheld by a determination tosustain the family name or perish in the attempt, was still hard atwork when Newman Noggs came home.
　　Now, between the italian-ironing of frills, the flouncing oftrousers, the trimming of frocks, the faintings and the comings-toagain, incidental to the occasion, Mrs Kenwigs had been soentirely occupied, that she had not observed, until within half anhour before, that the flaxen tails of Miss Morleena’s hair were, in amanner, run to seed; and that, unless she were put under thehands of a skilful hairdresser, she never could achieve that signaltriumph over the daughters of all other people, anything less thanwhich would be tantamount to defeat. This discovery drove MrsKenwigs to despair; for the hairdresser lived three streets andeight dangerous crossings off; Morleena could not be trusted to gothere alone, even if such a proceeding were strictly proper: ofwhich Mrs Kenwigs had her doubts; Mr Kenwigs had not returned from business; and there was nobody to take her. So, Mrs Kenwigsfirst slapped Miss Kenwigs for being the cause of her vexation, andthen shed tears.
　　‘You ungrateful child!’ said Mrs Kenwigs, ‘after I have gonethrough what I have, this night, for your good.’
　　‘I can’t help it, ma,’ replied Morleena, also in tears; ‘my hair willgrow.’
　　‘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 beingrun over, I know you’d run in to Laura Chopkins,’ who was thedaughter of the ambitious neighbour, ‘and tell her what you’regoing to wear tomorrow, I know you would. You’ve no properpride in yourself, and are not to be trusted out of sight for aninstant.’
　　Deploring the evil-mindedness of her eldest daughter in theseterms, Mrs Kenwigs distilled fresh drops of vexation from hereyes, and declared that she did believe there never was anybodyso 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 limppast the door on his way upstairs; when Mrs Kenwigs, gaining newhope from the sound of his footsteps, hastily removed from hercountenance as many traces of her late emotion as were effaceableon so short a notice: and presenting herself before him, andrepresenting their dilemma, entreated that he would escortMorleena to the hairdresser’s shop.
　　‘I wouldn’t ask you, Mr Noggs,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, ‘if I didn’tknow what a good, kind-hearted creature you are; no, not forworlds. 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 ofits being refused, than it would let me submit to see my childrentrampled down and trod upon, by envy and lowness!’
　　Newman was too good-natured not to have consented, evenwithout this avowal of confidence on the part of Mrs Kenwigs.
　　Accordingly, a very few minutes had elapsed, when he and MissMorleena were on their way to the hairdresser’s.
　　It was not exactly a hair-dresser’s; that is to say, people of acoarse and vulgar turn of mind might have called it a barber’s; forthey not only cut and curled ladies elegantly, and childrencarefully, but shaved gentlemen easily. Still, it was a highly genteelestablishment—quite first-rate in fact—and there were displayedin the window, besides other elegancies, waxen busts of a lightlady and a dark gentleman which were the admiration of thewhole neighbourhood. Indeed, some ladies had gone so far as toassert, that the dark gentleman was actually a portrait of thespirited young proprietor; and the great similarity between theirhead-dresses—both wore very glossy hair, with a narrow walkstraight down the middle, and a profusion of flat circular curls onboth sides—encouraged the idea. The better informed among thesex, however, made light of this assertion, for however willing theywere (and they were very willing) to do full justice to thehandsome face and figure of the proprietor, they held thecountenance of the dark gentleman in the window to be anexquisite and abstract idea of masculine beauty, realisedsometimes, perhaps, among angels and military men, but veryrarely embodied to gladden the eyes of mortals.
　　It was to this establishment that Newman Noggs led MissKenwigs in safety. The proprietor, knowing that Miss Kenwigs had three sisters, each with two flaxen tails, and all good forsixpence apiece, once a month at least, promptly deserted an oldgentleman whom he had just lathered for shaving, and handinghim over to the journeyman, (who was not very popular among theladies, by reason of his obesity and middle age,) waited on theyoung lady himself.
　　Just as this change had been effected, there presented himselffor shaving, a big, burly, good-humoured coal-heaver with a pipein his mouth, who, drawing his hand across his chin, requested toknow when a shaver would be disengaged.
　　The journeyman, to whom this question was put, lookeddoubtfully at the young proprietor, and the young proprietorlooked 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 youngproprietor.
　　‘Why, I see you a shaving of a baker, when I was a lookingthrough 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 beyondbakers. If we was to get any lower than bakers, our customerswould desert us, and we might shut up shop. You must try someother establishment, sir. We couldn’t do it here.’
　　The applicant stared; grinned at Newman Noggs, whoappeared highly entertained; looked slightly round the shop, as ifin depreciation of the pomatum pots and other articles of stock;took his pipe out of his mouth and gave a very loud whistle; andthen put it in again, and walked out.
　　 The old gentleman who had just been lathered, and who wassitting in a melancholy manner with his face turned towards thewall, appeared quite unconscious of this incident, and to beinsensible to everything around him in the depth of a reverie—avery mournful one, to judge from the sighs he occasionallyvented—in which he was absorbed. Affected by this example, theproprietor began to clip Miss Kenwigs, the journeyman to scrapethe old gentleman, and Newman Noggs to read last Sunday’spaper, all three in silence: when Miss Kenwigs uttered a shrilllittle scream, and Newman, raising his eyes, saw that it had beenelicited 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. Ifever an old gentleman had made a point of appearing in public,shaved close and clean, that old gentleman was Mr Lillyvick. Ifever a collector had borne himself like a collector, and assumed,before all men, a solemn and portentous dignity as if he had theworld on his books and it was all two quarters in arrear, thatcollector was Mr Lillyvick. And now, there he sat, with theremains of a beard at least a week old encumbering his chin; asoiled and crumpled shirt-frill crouching, as it were, upon hisbreast, instead of standing boldly out; a demeanour so abashedand drooping, so despondent, and expressive of such humiliation,grief, and shame; that if the souls of forty unsubstantialhousekeepers, all of whom had had their water cut off for nonpayment of the rate, could have been concentrated in one body,that one body could hardly have expressed such mortification anddefeat as were now expressed in the person of Mr Lillyvick thecollector.
　　 Newman Noggs uttered his name, and Mr Lillyvick groaned:
　　then coughed to hide it. But the groan was a full-sized groan, andthe cough was but a wheeze.
　　‘Is anything the matter?’ said Newman Noggs.
　　‘Matter, sir!’ cried Mr Lillyvick. ‘The plug of life is dry, sir, andbut the mud is left.’
　　This speech—the style of which Newman attributed to MrLillyvick’s recent association with theatrical characters—not beingquite explanatory, Newman looked as if he were about to askanother question, when Mr Lillyvick prevented him by shaking hishand mournfully, and then waving his own.
　　‘Let me be shaved!’ said Mr Lillyvick. ‘It shall be done beforeMorleena; it is Morleena, isn’t it?’
　　‘Yes,’ said Newman.
　　‘Kenwigses have got a boy, haven’t they?’ inquired thecollector.
　　Again Newman said ‘Yes.’
　　‘Is it a nice boy?’ demanded the collector.
　　‘It ain’t a very nasty one,’ returned Newman, ratherembarrassed by the question.
　　‘Susan Kenwigs used to say,’ observed the collector, ‘that if evershe had another boy, she hoped it might be like me. Is this one likeme, Mr Noggs?’
　　This was a puzzling inquiry; but Newman evaded it, by replyingto Mr Lillyvick, that he thought the baby might possibly come likehim in time.
　　‘I should be glad to have somebody like me, somehow,’ said MrLillyvick, ‘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 beshaved!’ and again consigning himself to the hands of thejourneyman, said no more.
　　This was remarkable behaviour. So remarkable did it seem toMiss Morleena, that that young lady, at the imminent hazard ofhaving her ear sliced off, had not been able to forbear lookinground, some score of times, during the foregoing colloquy. Of her,however, Mr Lillyvick took no notice: rather striving (so, at least, itseemed to Newman Noggs) to evade her observation, and toshrink into himself whenever he attracted her regards. Newmanwondered very much what could have occasioned this alteredbehaviour on the part of the collector; but, philosophicallyreflecting that he would most likely know, sooner or later, and thathe could perfectly afford to wait, he was very little disturbed bythe singularity of the old gentleman’s deportment.
　　The cutting and curling being at last concluded, the oldgentleman, 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 theyhad very nearly reached Miss Morleena’s home, when Mr Lillyvicksaid:
　　‘Were the Kenwigses very much overpowered, Mr Noggs, bythat 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 hisspirits, 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 toask you, Morleena?’ said the collector, with some hesitation.
　　‘Yes; uncle Lillyvick, I would,’ returned Miss Morleena, with theenergy 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 Lillyvickcaught Miss Morleena up in his arms, and kissed her; and, beingby 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 putMiss Morleena down in the midst. Mr and Mrs Kenwigs were atsupper. At sight of their perjured relative, Mrs Kenwigs turnedfaint 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 toshake hands with such a man as that man as now surweys me. Thetime has been, sir,’ said Mr Kenwigs, ‘when a wisit from that manhas excited in me and my family’s boozums sensations bothnateral and awakening. But, now, I look upon that man withemotions totally surpassing everythink, and I ask myself where ishis Honour, where is his straight-for’ardness, and where is hishuman 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 thereflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints of malt liquor a dayis hardly able to sustain her.’
　　‘I am glad,’ said the poor collector meekly, ‘that the baby is ahealthy one. I am very glad of that.’
　　This was touching the Kenwigses on their tenderest point. MrsKenwigs instantly burst into tears, and Mr Kenwigs evinced greatemotion.
　　‘My pleasantest feeling, all the time that child was expected,’
　　said Mr Kenwigs, mournfully, ‘was a thinking, “If it’s a boy, as Ihope it may be; for I have heard its uncle Lillyvick say again andagain he would prefer our having a boy next, if it’s a boy, what willhis uncle Lillyvick say? What will he like him to be called? Will hebe Peter, or Alexander, or Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will hebe?” And now when I look at him; a precious, unconscious,helpless infant, with no use in his little arms but to tear his littlecap, and no use in his little legs but to kick his little self—when Isee him a lying on his mother’s lap, cooing and cooing, and, in hisinnocent state, almost a choking hisself with his little fist—when Isee 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 himselfaway, such a feeling of wengeance comes over me as no languagecan depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe was a telling me tohate him.’
　　This affecting picture moved Mrs Kenwigs deeply. After severalimperfect words, which vainly attempted to struggle to thesurface, but were drowned and washed away by the strong tide ofher tears, she spake.
　　‘Uncle,’ said Mrs Kenwigs, ‘to think that you should have turned your back upon me and my dear children, and uponKenwigs which is the author of their being—you who was once sokind and affectionate, and who, if anybody had told us such athing of, we should have withered with scorn like lightning—youthat little Lillyvick, our first and earliest boy, was named after atthe very altar! Oh gracious!’
　　‘Was it money that we cared for?’ said Mr Kenwigs. ‘Was itproperty 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, ‘myheart has been torn asunder with anguish, I have been thrownback in my confinement, my unoffending infant has beenrendered uncomfortable and fractious, Morleena has pined herselfaway to nothing; all this I forget and forgive, and with you, uncle, Inever 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 willconsider 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 Kenwigswas fain to administer hartshorn internally, and vinegarexternally, and to destroy a staylace, four petticoat strings, andseveral small buttons.
　　Newman had been a silent spectator of this scene; for MrLillyvick had signed to him not to withdraw, and Mr Kenwigs hadfurther solicited his presence by a nod of invitation. When MrsKenwigs had been, in some degree, restored, and Newman, as a person possessed of some influence with her, had remonstratedand begged her to compose herself, Mr Lillyvick said in a falteringvoice:
　　‘I never shall ask anybody here to receive my—I needn’tmention 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, ‘baselyand falsely eloped with a half-pay captain. With a bottle-nosedcaptain that any man might have considered himself safe from. Itwas in this room,’ said Mr Lillyvick, looking sternly round, ‘that Ifirst see Henrietta Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off,for ever.’
　　This declaration completely changed the whole posture ofaffairs. 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! MrKenwigs grasped his hand, and vowed eternal friendship andremorse. Mrs Kenwigs was horror-stricken to think that sheshould ever have nourished in her bosom such a snake, adder,viper, serpent, and base crocodile as Henrietta Petowker. MrKenwigs argued that she must have been bad indeed not to haveimproved by so long a contemplation of Mrs Kenwigs’s virtue. MrsKenwigs remembered that Mr Kenwigs had often said that he wasnot quite satisfied of the propriety of Miss Petowker’s conduct,and wondered how it was that she could have been blinded bysuch a wretch. Mr Kenwigs remembered that he had had hissuspicions, but did not wonder why Mrs Kenwigs had not hadhers, as she was all chastity, purity, and truth, and Henrietta all baseness, falsehood, and deceit. And Mr and Mrs Kenwigs bothsaid, with strong feelings and tears of sympathy, that everythinghappened for the best; and conjured the good collector not to giveway to unavailing grief, but to seek consolation in the society ofthose affectionate relations whose arms and hearts were ever opento him.
　　‘Out of affection and regard for you, Susan and Kenwigs,’ saidMr Lillyvick, ‘and not out of revenge and spite against her, for sheis below it, I shall, tomorrow morning, settle upon your children,and make payable to the survivors of them when they come of ageof marry, that money that I once meant to leave ’em in my will.
　　The deed shall be executed tomorrow, and Mr Noggs shall be oneof the witnesses. He hears me promise this, and he shall see itdone.’
　　Overpowered by this noble and generous offer, Mr Kenwigs,Mrs Kenwigs, and Miss Morleena Kenwigs, all began to sobtogether; and the noise of their sobbing, communicating itself tothe next room, where the children lay a-bed, and causing them tocry too, Mr Kenwigs rushed wildly in, and bringing them out in hisarms, by two and two, tumbled them down in their nightcaps andgowns at the feet of Mr Lillyvick, and called upon them to thankand bless him.
　　‘And now,’ said Mr Lillyvick, when a heart-rending scene hadensued and the children were cleared away again, ‘give me somesupper. This took place twenty mile from town. I came up thismorning, and have being lingering about all day, without beingable to make up my mind to come and see you. I humoured her ineverything, she had her own way, she did just as she pleased, andnow she has done this. There was twelve teaspoons and twenty- four pound in sovereigns—I missed them first—it’s a trial—I feel Ishall never be able to knock a double knock again, when I go myrounds—don’t say anything more about it, please—the spoonswere worth—never mind—never mind!’
　　With such muttered outpourings as these, the old gentlemanshed a few tears; but, they got him into the elbow-chair, andprevailed upon him, without much pressing, to make a heartysupper, and by the time he had finished his first pipe, anddisposed of half-a-dozen glasses out of a crown bowl of punch,ordered by Mr Kenwigs, in celebration of his return to the bosomof his family, he seemed, though still very humble, quite resignedto his fate, and rather relieved than otherwise by the flight of hiswife.
　　‘When I see that man,’ said Mr Kenwigs, with one hand roundMrs Kenwigs’s waist: his other hand supporting his pipe (whichmade him wink and cough very much, for he was no smoker): andhis eyes on Morleena, who sat upon her uncle’s knee, ‘when I seethat man as mingling, once again, in the spear which he adorns,and see his affections deweloping themselves in legitimatesitiwations, I feel that his nature is as elewated and expanded, ashis standing afore society as a public character is unimpeached,and the woices of my infant children purvided for in life, seem towhisper to me softly, “This is an ewent at which Evins itself looksdown!”’
Chapter 53
Containing the further Progress of the Plotcontrived by Mr Ralph Nickleby and Mr ArthurGride.
　　With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose towhich extreme circumstances so often give birth, actingupon far less excitable and more sluggishtemperaments than that which was the lot of Madeline Bray’sadmirer, Nicholas started, at dawn of day, from the restless couchwhich no sleep had visited on the previous night, and prepared tomake that last appeal, by whose slight and fragile thread her onlyremaining hope of escape depended.
　　Although, to restless and ardent minds, morning may be thefitting season for exertion and activity, it is not always at that timethat hope is strongest or the spirit most sanguine and buoyant. Intrying and doubtful positions, youth, custom, a steadycontemplation of the difficulties which surround us, and afamiliarity with them, imperceptibly diminish our apprehensionsand beget comparative indifference, if not a vague and recklessconfidence in some relief, the means or nature of which we carenot to foresee. But when we come, fresh, upon such things in themorning, with that dark and silent gap between us and yesterday;with every link in the brittle chain of hope, to rivet afresh; our hotenthusiasm 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 mindtogether, so, the wayfarer in the toilsome path of human life sees,with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount, somenew height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which,last night, were scarcely taken into account, and the light whichgilds all nature with its cheerful beams, seems but to shine uponthe weary obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.
　　So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to asituation like his, he softly left the house, and, feeling as though toremain in bed were to lose most precious time, and to be up andstirring were in some way to promote the end he had in view,wandered into London; perfectly well knowing that for hours tocome he could not obtain speech with Madeline, and could donothing but wish the intervening time away.
　　And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly lookedround on the gradually increasing bustle and preparation for theday, everything appeared to yield him some new occasion fordespondency. Last night, the sacrifice of a young, affectionate, andbeautiful creature, to such a wretch, and in such a cause, hadseemed a thing too monstrous to succeed; and the warmer hegrew, the more confident he felt that some interposition must saveher from his clutches. But now, when he thought how regularlythings went on, from day to day, in the same unvarying round;how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age lived totteringon; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts werepoor and sad; how few they were who tenanted the stately houses,and how many of those who lay in noisome pens, or rose each dayand 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 onesingle man directed to their aid; how, in seeking, not a luxuriousand splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched andinadequate subsistence, there were women and children in thatone town, divided into classes, numbered and estimated asregularly as the noble families and folks of great degree, andreared from infancy to drive most criminal and dreadful trades;how ignorance was punished and never taught; how jail-doorsgaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands urged towards them bycircumstances darkly curtaining their very cradles’ heads, and butfor which they might have earned their honest bread and lived inpeace; how many died in soul, and had no chance of life; howmany who could scarcely go astray, be they vicious as they would,turned haughtily from the crushed and stricken wretch who couldscarce do otherwise, and who would have been a greater wonderhad he or she done well, than even they had they done ill; howmuch injustice, misery, and wrong, there was, and yet how theworld rolled on, from year to year, alike careless and indifferent,and no man seeking to remedy or redress it; when he thought ofall this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on whichhis thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that there was little groundfor hope, and little reason why it should not form an atom in thehuge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one small andunimportant unit to swell the great amount.
　　But youth is not prone to contemplate the darkest side of apicture it can shift at will. By dint of reflecting on what he had todo, and reviving the train of thought which night had interrupted,Nicholas gradually summoned up his utmost energy, and whenthe morning was sufficiently advanced for his purpose, had no thought but that of using it to the best advantage. A hastybreakfast taken, and such affairs of business as required promptattention disposed of, he directed his steps to the residence ofMadeline Bray: whither he lost no time in arriving.
　　It had occurred to him that, very possibly, the young lady mightbe denied, although to him she never had been; and he was stillpondering upon the surest method of obtaining access to her inthat case, when, coming to the door of the house, he found it hadbeen left ajar—probably by the last person who had gone out. Theoccasion was not one upon which to observe the nicest ceremony;therefore, availing himself of this advantage, Nicholas walkedgently upstairs and knocked at the door of the room into which hehad been accustomed to be shown. Receiving permission to enter,from some person on the other side, he opened the door andwalked in.
　　Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone. It was nearlythree weeks since he had seen her last, but there was a change inthe lovely girl before him which told Nicholas, in startling terms,how much mental suffering had been compressed into that shorttime. There are no words which can express, nothing with whichcan be compared, the perfect pallor, the clear transparentwhiteness, of the beautiful face which turned towards him whenhe entered. Her hair was a rich deep brown, but shading that face,and straying upon a neck that rivalled it in whiteness, it seemed bythe strong contrast raven black. Something of wildness andrestlessness there was in the dark eye, but there was the samepatient look, the same expression of gentle mournfulness which hewell 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 touchingthan the wildest agony of grief. It was not merely calm andcomposed, but fixed and rigid, as though the violent effort whichhad summoned that composure beneath her father’s eye, while itmastered all other thoughts, had prevented even the momentaryexpression 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 disguisedthe anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials were not ontheir accustomed table, nor were any of the other tokens of herusual occupations to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas hadalways seen filled with fresh flowers were empty, or supplied onlywith a few withered stalks and leaves. The bird was silent. Thecloth that covered his cage at night was not removed. His mistresshad forgotten him.
　　There are times when, the mind being painfully alive to receiveimpressions, a great deal may be noted at a glance. This was one,for Nicholas had but glanced round him when he was recognisedby 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 otherand 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 andimpatience of this speech were assumed, and that Bray, in hisheart, was rejoiced at any interruption which promised to engagethe attention of his daughter. He bent his eyes involuntarily uponthe 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 causingMadeline to interfere, was successful. She rose, and advancingtowards Nicholas paused half-way, and stretched out her hand asexpecting a letter.
　　‘Madeline,’ said her father impatiently, ‘my love, what are youdoing?’
　　‘Miss Bray expects an inclosure perhaps,’ said Nicholas,speaking very distinctly, and with an emphasis she could scarcelymisunderstand. ‘My employer is absent from England, or I shouldhave brought a letter with me. I hope she will give me time—alittle time. I ask a very little time.’
　　‘If that is all you come about, sir,’ said Mr Bray, ‘you may makeyourself easy on that head. Madeline, my dear, I didn’t know thisperson was in your debt?’
　　‘A—a trifle, I believe,’ returned Madeline, faintly.
　　‘I suppose you think now,’ said Bray, wheeling his chair roundand confronting Nicholas, ‘that, but for such pitiful sums as youbring here, because my daughter has chosen to employ her time asshe has, we should starve?’
　　‘I have not thought about it,’ returned Nicholas.
　　‘You have not thought about it!’ sneered the invalid. ‘You knowyou have thought about it, and have thought that, and think soevery time you come here. Do you suppose, young man, that Idon’t know what little purse-proud tradesmen are, when, throughsome fortunate circumstances, they get the upper hand for a briefday—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 thisinterrogatory was put; but remembering the necessity ofsupporting his assumed character, produced a scrap of paperpurporting to contain a list of some subjects for drawings whichhis employer desired to have executed; and with which he hadprepared 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 paperback again, with an exulting smile, ‘that my daughter, MissMadeline Bray, condescends to employ herself no longer in suchlabours as these; that she is not at his beck and call, as hesupposes her to be; that we don’t live upon his money, as heflatters himself we do; that he may give whatever he owes us, tothe first beggar that passes his shop, or add it to his own profitsnext time he calculates them; and that he may go to the devil forme. That’s my acknowledgment of his orders, sir!’
　　‘And this is the independence of a man who sells his daughteras he has sold that weeping girl!’ thought Nicholas.
　　The father was too much absorbed with his own exultation tomark the look of scorn which, for an instant, Nicholas could nothave suppressed had he been upon the rack. ‘There,’ hecontinued, after a short silence, ‘you have your message and canretire—unless you have any further—ha!—any further orders.’
　　‘I have none,’ said Nicholas; ‘nor, in the consideration of thestation 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 havefears—fears that I will express, chafe as you may—fears that youmay be consigning that young lady to something worse thansupporting you by the labour of her hands, had she worked herselfdead. These are my fears, and these fears I found upon your owndemeanour. Your conscience will tell you, sir, whether I construeit well or not.’
　　‘For Heaven’s sake!’ cried Madeline, interposing in alarmbetween them. ‘Remember, sir, he is ill.’
　　‘Ill!’ cried the invalid, gasping and catching for breath. ‘Ill! Ill! Iam bearded and bullied by a shop-boy, and she beseeches him topity me and remember I am ill!’
　　He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so violent that for a fewmoments Nicholas was alarmed for his life; but finding that hebegan to recover, he withdrew, after signifying by a gesture to theyoung lady that he had something important to communicate, andwould wait for her outside the room. He could hear that the sickman came gradually, but slowly, to himself, and that without anyreference to what had just occurred, as though he had no distinctrecollection of it as yet, he requested to be left alone.
　　‘Oh!’ thought Nicholas, ‘that this slender chance might not belost, and that I might prevail, if it were but for one week’s time andreconsideration!’
　　‘You are charged with some commission to me, sir,’ saidMadeline, presenting herself in great agitation. ‘Do not press itnow, I beg and pray you. The day after tomorrow; come herethen.’
　　‘It will be too late—too late for what I have to say,’ rejoinedNicholas, ‘and you will not be here. Oh, madam, if you have but one thought of him who sent me here, but one last lingering carefor your own peace of mind and heart, I do for God’s sake urge youto 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 mealone, but him for whom I speak, who is far away and does notknow your danger. In the name of Heaven hear me!’
　　The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and red withweeping, stood by; and to her Nicholas appealed in suchpassionate terms that she opened a side-door, and, supporting hermistress into an adjoining room, beckoned Nicholas to followthem.
　　‘Leave me, sir, pray,’ said the young lady.
　　‘I cannot, will not leave you thus,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I have aduty to discharge; and, either here, or in the room from which wehave just now come, at whatever risk or hazard to Mr Bray, I mustbeseech you to contemplate again the fearful course to which youhave 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, orlent his aid to any good design; of this marriage, the history ofwhich is known to me, better, far better, than it is to you. I knowwhat web is wound about you. I know what men they are fromwhom these schemes have come. You are betrayed and sold formoney; for gold, whose every coin is rusted with tears, if not redwith the blood of ruined men, who have fallen desperately by theirown mad hands.’
　　 ‘You say you have a duty to discharge,’ said Madeline, ‘and sohave I. And with the help of Heaven I will perform it.’
　　‘Say rather with the help of devils,’ replied Nicholas, ‘with thehelp of men, one of them your destined husband, who are—’
　　‘I must not hear this,’ cried the young lady, striving to repress ashudder, occasioned, as it seemed, even by this slight allusion toArthur Gride. ‘This evil, if evil it be, has been of my own seeking. Iam impelled to this course by no one, but follow it of my own freewill. You see I am not constrained or forced. Report this,’ saidMadeline, ‘to my dear friend and benefactor, and, taking with youmy prayers and thanks for him and for yourself, leave me for ever!’
　　‘Not until I have besought you, with all the earnestness andfervour by which I am animated,’ cried Nicholas, ‘to postpone thismarriage for one short week. Not until I have besought you tothink more deeply than you can have done, influenced as you are,upon the step you are about to take. Although you cannot be fullyconscious of the villainy of this man to whom you are about to giveyour hand, some of his deeds you know. You have heard himspeak, and have looked upon his face. Reflect, reflect, before it istoo late, on the mockery of plighting to him at the altar, faith inwhich your heart can have no share—of uttering solemn words,against which nature and reason must rebel—of the degradationof yourself in your own esteem, which must ensue, and must beaggravated every day, as his detested character opens upon youmore and more. Shrink from the loathsome companionship of thiswretch as you would from corruption and disease. Suffer toil andlabour if you will, but shun him, shun him, and be happy. For,believe me, I speak the truth; the most abject poverty, the mostwretched condition of human life, with a pure and upright mind, would be happiness to that which you must undergo as the wife ofsuch a man as this!’
　　Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the young lady buriedher face in her hands, and gave her tears free way. In a voice atfirst inarticulate with emotion, but gradually recovering strengthas she proceeded, she answered him:
　　‘I will not disguise from you, sir—though perhaps I ought—thatI have undergone great pain of mind, and have been nearlybroken-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 acceptingit, and by that step alone, I can release my father who is dying inthis place; prolong his life, perhaps, for many years; restore him tocomfort—I may almost call it affluence; and relieve a generousman from the burden of assisting one, by whom, I grieve to say, hisnoble heart is little understood. Do not think so poorly of me as tobelieve 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, lovethe man who pays this price for my poor hand, I can discharge theduties of a wife: I can be all he seeks in me, and will. He is contentto take me as I am. I have passed my word, and should rejoice, notweep, that it is so. I do. The interest you take in one so friendlessand forlorn as I, the delicacy with which you have discharged yourtrust, the faith you have kept with me, have my warmest thanks:
　　and, while I make this last feeble acknowledgment, move me totears, as you see. But I do not repent, nor am I unhappy. I amhappy in the prospect of all I can achieve so easily. I shall be moreso 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 mustbe laden with so much misery to you. Defer this marriage for aweek. For but one week!’
　　‘He was talking, when you came upon us just now, with suchsmiles as I remember to have seen of old, and have not seen formany 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 freshlife to his exhausted frame. His eye grew bright, and his facelightened 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 toomuch—more than I should—already. What I have said to you, sir, Ihave said as to that dear friend to whom I trust in you honourablyto repeat it. Some time hence, when I am more composed andreconciled to my new mode of life, if I should live so long, I willwrite to him. Meantime, all holy angels shower blessings on hishead, and prosper and preserve him.’
　　She was hurrying past Nicholas, when he threw himself beforeher, and implored her to think, but once again, upon the fate towhich 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 bitterit must be. What can I say, that will induce you to pause at this lastmoment? What can I do to save you?’
　　‘Nothing,’ she incoherently replied. ‘This is the hardest trial Ihave had. Have mercy on me, sir, I beseech, and do not pierce myheart with such appeals as these. I—I hear him calling. I—I—mustnot, will not, remain here for another instant.’
　　 ‘If this were a plot,’ said Nicholas, with the same violentrapidity with which she spoke, ‘a plot, not yet laid bare by me, butwhich, with time, I might unravel; if you were (not knowing it)entitled to fortune of your own, which, being recovered, would doall that this marriage can accomplish, would you not retract?’
　　‘No, no, no! It is impossible; it is a child’s tale. Time would bringhis death. He is calling again!’
　　‘It may be the last time we shall ever meet on earth,’ saidNicholas, ‘it may be better for me that we should never meetmore.’
　　‘For both, for both,’ replied Madeline, not heeding what shesaid. ‘The time will come when to recall the memory of this oneinterview might drive me mad. Be sure to tell them, that you leftme calm and happy. And God be with you, sir, and my gratefulheart and blessing!’
　　She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the house, thought ofthe hurried scene which had just closed upon him, as if it were thephantom of some wild, unquiet dream. The day wore on; at night,having been enabled in some measure to collect his thoughts, heissued forth again.
　　That night, being the last of Arthur Gride’s bachelorship, foundhim in tiptop spirits and great glee. The bottle-green suit had beenbrushed, ready for the morrow. Peg Sliderskew had rendered theaccounts of her past housekeeping; the eighteen-pence had beenrigidly accounted for (she was never trusted with a larger sum atonce, and the accounts were not usually balanced more than twicea day); every preparation had been made for the coming festival;and Arthur might have sat down and contemplated hisapproaching happiness, but that he preferred sitting down and contemplating the entries in a dirty old vellum-book with rustyclasps.
　　‘Well-a-day!’ he chuckled, as sinking on his knees before astrong chest screwed down to the floor, he thrust in his arm nearlyup 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 mostentertaining 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 ofEngland, and real as its gold and silver. Written by Arthur Gride.
　　He, he, he! None of your storybook writers will ever make as gooda 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 tothe table, and, adjusting it upon a dusty desk, put on hisspectacles, 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, andthreepence, 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 thisabout, myself. “Faint heart never won fair lady.” Why was myheart so faint? Why didn’t I boldly open it to Bray myself, and saveone thousand four hundred and seventy-five, four, three?’
　　These reflections depressed the old usurer so much, as to wringa 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 havesucceeded had he undertaken his enterprise alone, he regainedhis equanimity, and chattered and mowed over more satisfactoryitems, 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 andskinny.
　　‘A beautiful bird!’ said Arthur, after inquiring the price, andfinding it proportionate to the size. ‘With a rasher of ham, and anegg made into sauce, and potatoes, and greens, and an applepudding, Peg, and a little bit of cheese, we shall have a dinner foran emperor. There’ll only be she and me—and you, Peg, whenwe’ve done.’
　　‘Don’t you complain of the expense afterwards,’ said MrsSliderskew, 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. Iwon’t eat more than I can help, and I know you love your oldmaster 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: ‘lovehim 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, andhears all the others!’ whined Gride. ‘At his expense—you catamaran!’
　　The last-mentioned tribute to the charms of Mrs Sliderskewbeing uttered in a whisper, that lady assented to the generalproposition by a harsh growl, which was accompanied by a ring atthe 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 hecould roar; and, his meaning being rendered further intelligible toMrs Sliderskew’s dull sense of hearing by pantomime expressiveof ringing at a street-door, Peg hobbled out, after sharplydemanding why he hadn’t said there was a ring before, instead oftalking 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 turningcrazy, I think. If you are, you must take yourself off, Mrs Peg—orbe taken off. All’s one to me.’ Turning over the leaves of his bookas he muttered this, he soon lighted upon something whichattracted his attention, and forgot Peg Sliderskew and everythingelse in the engrossing interest of its pages.
　　The room had no other light than that which it derived from adim and dirt-clogged lamp, whose lazy wick, being still furtherobscured by a dark shade, cast its feeble rays over a very littlespace, and left all beyond in heavy shadow. This lamp the moneylender had drawn so close to him, that there was only room between it and himself for the book over which he bent; and as hesat, with his elbows on the desk, and his sharp cheek-bonesresting on his hands, it only served to bring out his ugly features instrong relief, together with the little table at which he sat, and toshroud all the rest of the chamber in a deep sullen gloom. Raisinghis eyes, and looking vacantly into this gloom as he made somemental calculation, Arthur Gride suddenly met the fixed gaze of aman.
　　‘Thieves! thieves!’ shrieked the usurer, starting up and foldinghis 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, ‘itis 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, comingclose up to him. ‘I am no thief.’
　　‘What then, and how come you here?’ cried Gride, somewhatreassured, 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 addressedyou twice or thrice, but you were too profoundly engaged withyour book to hear me, and I have been silently waiting until youshould be less abstracted. What I want I will tell you, when youcan 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 badcharacters about, and that this, with former attempts upon hishouse, 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,’ saidNicholas (for Nicholas it was), as he observed a gesture of alarmon the part of Gride. ‘Listen to me. You are to be marriedtomorrow morning.’
　　‘N-n-no,’ rejoined Gride. ‘Who said I was? How do you knowthat?’
　　‘No matter how,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I know it. The young ladywho is to give you her hand hates and despises you. Her bloodruns cold at the mention of your name; the vulture and the lamb,the rat and the dove, could not be worse matched than you andshe. 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 hatchedthis plot between you,’ pursued Nicholas. ‘You pay him for hisshare in bringing about this sale of Madeline Bray. You do. A lie istrembling 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 notknow; at present I do not know, but I am not alone or single-handed in this business. If the energy of man can compass thediscovery of your fraud and treachery before your death; if wealth,revenge, and just hatred, can hunt and track you through yourwindings; 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, whenwe shall have you down!’
　　He paused again, and still Arthur Gride glared upon him insilence.
　　‘If you were a man to whom I could appeal with any hope oftouching his compassion or humanity,’ said Nicholas, ‘I wouldurge upon you to remember the helplessness, the innocence, theyouth, of this lady; her worth and beauty, her filial excellence, andlast, and more than all, as concerning you more nearly, the appealshe has made to your mercy and your manly feeling. But, I takethe only ground that can be taken with men like you, and ask whatmoney will buy you off. Remember the danger to which you areexposed. You see I know enough to know much more with verylittle help. Bate some expected gain for the risk you save, and saywhat is your price.’
　　Old Arthur Gride moved his lips, but they only formed an uglysmile 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 tosave her in such a strait as this. Name your price, defer thesenuptials 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, thatRalph Nickleby had betrayed him; but, as he proceeded, he feltconvinced that however he had come by the knowledge hepossessed, the part he acted was a genuine one, and that withRalph he had no concern. All he seemed to know, for certain, was,that he, Gride, paid Ralph’s debt; but that, to anybody who knewthe circumstances of Bray’s detention—even to Bray himself, on Ralph’s own statement—must be perfectly notorious. As to thefraud on Madeline herself, his visitor knew so little about itsnature or extent, that it might be a lucky guess, or a hap-hazardaccusation. 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 bemere empty vapouring, for purposes of delay. ‘And even if moneywere to be had,’ thought Arthur Glide, as he glanced at Nicholas,and trembled with passion at his boldness and audacity, ‘I’d havethat dainty chick for my wife, and cheat you of her, young smooth-face!’
　　Long habit of weighing and noting well what clients said, andnicely balancing chances in his mind and calculating odds to theirfaces, without the least appearance of being so engaged, hadrendered Gride quick in forming conclusions, and arriving, frompuzzling, intricate, and often contradictory premises, at verycunning deductions. Hence it was that, as Nicholas went on, hefollowed him closely with his own constructions, and, when heceased to speak, was as well prepared as if he had deliberated for afortnight.
　　‘I hear you,’ he cried, starting from his seat, casting back thefastenings 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 robme, if you don’t quit my house,’ replied Gride, drawing in his headwith a frightful grin, ‘I will!’
　　‘Wretch!’ cried Nicholas.
　　 ‘You’ll bring your threats here, will you?’ said Gride, whomjealousy of Nicholas and a sense of his own triumph had convertedinto 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 dotinglittle 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 intears.’
　　‘Villain!’ said Nicholas, choking with his rage.
　　‘One minute more,’ cried Arthur Gride, ‘and I’ll rouse the streetwith such screams, as, if they were raised by anybody else, shouldwake 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 itwouldn’t be so bad; but for me, so old and ugly! To be jilted bylittle Madeline for me!’
　　‘Hear me,’ said Nicholas, ‘and be thankful I have enoughcommand over myself not to fling you into the street, which no aidcould prevent my doing if I once grappled with you. I have been nolover 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 ArthurGride. ‘Yes, and she’ll tell me, and pay them back, and we’ll laughtogether, and hug ourselves, and be very merry, when we think ofthe poor youth that wanted to have her, but couldn’t because shewas bespoke by me!’
　　This taunt brought such an expression into the face of Nicholas,that Arthur Gride plainly apprehended it to be the forerunner ofhis putting his threat of throwing him into the street in immediateexecution; for he thrust his head out of the window, and holding tight on with both hands, raised a pretty brisk alarm. Not thinkingit necessary to abide the issue of the noise, Nicholas gave vent toan indignant defiance, and stalked from the room and from thehouse. Arthur Gride watched him across the street, and then,drawing in his head, fastened the window as before, and sat downto take breath.
　　‘If she ever turns pettish or ill-humoured, I’ll taunt her with thatspark,’ he said, when he had recovered. ‘She’ll little think I knowabout him; and, if I manage it well, I can break her spirit by thismeans and have her under my thumb. I’m glad nobody came. Ididn’t call too loud. The audacity to enter my house, and openupon me! But I shall have a very good triumph tomorrow, andhe’ll be gnawing his fingers off: perhaps drown himself or cut histhroat! I shouldn’t wonder! That would make it quite complete,that would: quite.’
　　When he had become restored to his usual condition by theseand other comments on his approaching triumph, Arthur Grideput away his book, and, having locked the chest with greatcaution, descended into the kitchen to warn Peg Sliderskew tobed, and scold her for having afforded such ready admission to astranger.
　　The unconscious Peg, however, not being able to comprehendthe offence of which she had been guilty, he summoned her tohold the light, while he made a tour of the fastenings, and securedthe 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, ifany more rejected admirers come, they may come through thekeyhole. 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 ofhis bachelor days by imprinting a kiss on her shrivelled lips.
　　Thinking better of it, however, he gave her chin another tap, inlieu 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 oversleepthemselves, on their wedding morning. A legend there isof somebody remarkable for absence of mind, who openedhis eyes upon the day which was to give him a young wife, andforgetting all about the matter, rated his servants for providinghim with such fine clothes as had been prepared for the festival.
　　There is also a legend of a young gentleman, who, not havingbefore his eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such casesmade and provided, conceived a passion for his grandmother.
　　Both cases are of a singular and special kind and it is verydoubtful whether either can be considered as a precedent likely tobe extensively followed by succeeding generations.
　　Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his marriage garments ofbottle-green, a full hour before Mrs Sliderskew, shaking off hermore heavy slumbers, knocked at his chamber door; and he hadhobbled downstairs in full array and smacked his lips over ascanty taste of his favourite cordial, ere that delicate piece ofantiquity enlightened the kitchen with her presence.
　　‘Faugh!’ said Peg, grubbing, in the discharge of her domesticfunctions, among a scanty heap of ashes in the rusty grate.
　　‘Wedding indeed! A precious wedding! He wants somebody betterthan his old Peg to take care of him, does he? And what has hesaid to me, many and many a time, to keep me content with shortfood, small wages, and little fire? “My will, Peg! my will!” says he:
　　 “I’m a bachelor—no friends—no relations, Peg.” Lies! And nowhe’s to bring home a new mistress, a baby-faced chit of a girl! If hewanted a wife, the fool, why couldn’t he have one suitable to hisage, 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 lingeringfeelings of disappointment and personal slight, occasioned by herold master’s preference for another, was giving loose to thesegrumblings below stairs, Arthur Gride was cogitating in theparlour upon what had taken place last night.
　　‘I can’t think how he can have picked up what he knows,’ saidArthur, ‘unless I have committed myself—let something drop atBray’s, for instance—which has been overheard. Perhaps I may. Ishouldn’t be surprised if that was it. Mr Nickleby was often angryat my talking to him before we got outside the door. I mustn’t tellhim that part of the business, or he’ll put me out of sorts, andmake me nervous for the day.’
　　Ralph was universally looked up to, and recognised among hisfellows as a superior genius, but upon Arthur Gride his sternunyielding character and consummate art had made so deep animpression, that he was actually afraid of him. Cringing andcowardly to the core by nature, Arthur Gride humbled himself inthe dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when they had not thisstake in common, would have licked his shoes and crawled uponthe ground before him rather than venture to return him word forword, or retort upon him in any other spirit than one of the mostslavish and abject sycophancy.
　　To Ralph Nickleby’s, Arthur Gride now betook himselfaccording 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 theproposed nuptials. Told, in short, what Nicholas had said anddone, 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 Isuppose; 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 amind to swear he uttered threats, and demanded my life or mymoney.’
　　‘Oho!’ said Ralph, eyeing him askew. ‘Jealous too!’
　　‘Dear now, see that!’ cried Arthur, rubbing his hands andaffecting to laugh.
　　‘Why do you make those grimaces, man?’ said Ralph; ‘you arejealous—and with good cause I think.’
　　‘No, no, no; not with good cause, hey? You don’t think withgood cause, do you?’ cried Arthur, faltering. ‘Do you though, hey?’
　　‘Why, how stands the fact?’ returned Ralph. ‘Here is an old manabout to be forced in marriage upon a girl; and to this old manthere comes a handsome young fellow—you said he washandsome, didn’t you?’
　　‘No!’ snarled Arthur Gride.
　　‘Oh!’ rejoined Ralph, ‘I thought you did. Well! Handsome or nothandsome, to this old man there comes a young fellow who castsall manner of fierce defiances in his teeth—gums I should rathersay—and tells him in plain terms that his mistress hates him. Whatdoes he do that for? Philanthropy’s sake?’
　　 ‘Not for love of the lady,’ replied Gride, ‘for he said that no wordof love—his very words—had ever passed between ’em.’
　　‘He said!’ repeated Ralph, contemptuously. ‘But I like him forone thing, and that is, his giving you this fair warning to keepyour—what is it?—Tit-tit or dainty chick—which?—under lockand key. Be careful, Gride, be careful. It’s a triumph, too, to tearher away from a gallant young rival: a great triumph for an oldman! It only remains to keep her safe when you have her—that’sall.’
　　‘What a man it is!’ cried Arthur Gride, affecting, in theextremity 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, isit?’
　　‘Much!’ said Ralph, with a sneer. ‘Why, everybody knows whateasy 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 bondnow, 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 themoney, 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 slynesshe 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 forthis, or you’d have brought it with you; and there’s nobody you’dso much like to accommodate as me. I see. We trust each other inabout an equal degree. Are you ready?’
　　Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and nod, and chatter,  1000during 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 inducedhis friend to do the like. Thus accoutred, they got into a hiredcoach which Ralph had in waiting, and drove to the residence ofthe fair and most wretched bride.
　　Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradually failed him moreand more as they approached nearer and nearer to the house, wasutterly dismayed and cowed by the mournful silence whichpervaded it. The face of the poor servant girl, the only person theysaw, was disfigured with tears and want of sleep. There wasnobody to receive or welcome them; and they stole upstairs intothe usual sitting-room, more like two burglars than thebridegroom and his friend.
　　‘One would think,’ said Ralph, speaking, in spite of himself, in alow 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 andchilling. Look a little brisker, man, and not so hangdog like!’
　　‘Yes, yes, I will,’ said Gride. ‘But—but—you don’t think she’scoming just yet, do you?’
　　‘Why, I suppose she’ll not come till she is obliged,’ returnedRalph, looking at his watch, ‘and she has a good half-hour to spareyet. Curb your impatience.’
　　‘I—I—am not impatient,’ stammered Arthur. ‘I wouldn’t behard with her for the world. Oh dear, dear, not on any account. Lether take her time—her own time. Her time shall be ours by allmeans.’
　　  1001While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend a keen look, whichshowed that he perfectly understood the reason of this greatconsideration and regard, a footstep was heard upon the stairs,and Bray himself came into the room on tiptoe, and holding up hishand with a cautious gesture, as if there were some sick personnear, who must not be disturbed.
　　‘Hush!’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She was very ill last night. Ithought she would have broken her heart. She is dressed, andcrying 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 beentalking to her this morning. Here! Come a little this way.’ He drewRalph Nickleby to the further end of the room, and pointedtowards Gride, who sat huddled together in a corner, fumblingnervously with the buttons of his coat, and exhibiting a face, ofwhich every skulking and base expression was sharpened andaggravated to the utmost by his anxiety and trepidation.
　　‘Look at that man,’ whispered Bray, emphatically. ‘This seems acruel thing, after all.’
　　‘What seems a cruel thing?’ inquired Ralph, with as muchstolidity of face, as if he really were in utter ignorance of theother’s meaning.
　　‘This marriage,’ answered Bray. ‘Don’t ask me what. You knowas well as I do.’
　　Ralph shrugged his shoulders, in silent deprecation of Bray’s  1002impatience, and elevated his eyebrows, and pursed his lips, asmen do when they are prepared with a sufficient answer to someremark, but wait for a more favourable opportunity of advancingit, 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. ‘Itis a cruel thing, by all that’s bad and treacherous!’
　　When men are about to commit, or to sanction the commissionof some injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity forthe object either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feelthemselves, at the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immenselysuperior to those who express no pity at all. This is a kind ofupholding of faith above works, and is very comfortable. To doRalph Nickleby justice, he seldom practised this sort ofdissimulation; but he understood those who did, and thereforesuffered Bray to say, again and again, with great vehemence, thatthey were jointly doing a very cruel thing, before he again offeredto interpose a word.
　　‘You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old chip it is,’ returnedRalph, when the other was at length silent. ‘If he were younger, itmight be cruel, but as it is—harkee, Mr Bray, he’ll die soon, andleave her a rich young widow! Miss Madeline consults your tastesthis time; let her consult her own next.’
　　‘True, true,’ said Bray, biting his nails, and plainly very ill atease. ‘I couldn’t do anything better for her than advise her toaccept these proposals, could I? Now, I ask you, Nickleby, as aman of the world; could I?’
　　‘Surely not,’ answered Ralph. ‘I tell you what, sir; there are a  1003hundred fathers, within a circuit of five miles from this place; welloff; good, rich, substantial men; who would gladly give theirdaughters, 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 anythingwhich seemed a justification of himself. ‘And so I told her, bothlast night and today.’
　　‘You told her truth,’ said Ralph, ‘and did well to do so; though Imust say, at the same time, that if I had a daughter, and myfreedom, pleasure, nay, my very health and life, depended on hertaking a husband whom I pointed out, I should hope it would notbe necessary to advance any other arguments to induce her toconsent 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 whathad fallen from him, said:
　　‘I must go upstairs for a few minutes, to finish dressing. When Icome down, I’ll bring Madeline with me. Do you know, I had avery strange dream last night, which I have not remembered tillthis instant. I dreamt that it was this morning, and you and I hadbeen talking as we have been this minute; that I went upstairs, forthe very purpose for which I am going now; and that as I stretchedout my hand to take Madeline’s, and lead her down, the floor sunkwith me, and after falling from such an indescribable andtremendous height as the imagination scarcely conceives, exceptin dreams, I alighted in a grave.’
　　‘And you awoke, and found you were lying on your back, orwith your head hanging over the bedside, or suffering some painfrom indigestion?’ said Ralph. ‘Pshaw, Mr Bray! Do as I do (you  1004will have the opportunity, now that a constant round of pleasureand enjoyment opens upon you), and, occupying yourself a littlemore 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 verylong. You have the devil’s luck in bargains, always. If he is notbooked to make the long voyage before many months are past andgone, I wear an orange for a head!’
　　To this prophecy, so agreeable to his ears, Arthur returned noanswer than a cackle of great delight. Ralph, throwing himself intoa chair, they both sat waiting in profound silence. Ralph wasthinking, with a sneer upon his lips, on the altered manner of Braythat day, and how soon their fellowship in a bad design hadlowered his pride and established a familiarity between them,when his attentive ear caught the rustling of a female dress uponthe stairs, and the footstep of a man.
　　‘Wake up,’ he said, stamping his foot impatiently upon theground, ‘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, closeby Ralph’s side, when the door opened and there entered inhaste—not Bray and his daughter, but Nicholas and his sisterKate.
　　If some tremendous apparition from the world of shadows hadsuddenly presented itself before him, Ralph Nickleby could nothave been more thunder-stricken than he was by this surprise. Hishands fell powerless by his side, he reeled back; and with openmouth, and a face of ashy paleness, stood gazing at them in  1005speechless rage: his eyes so prominent, and his face so convulsedand changed by the passions which raged within him, that itwould 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 muchbefore. Across my every path, at every turn, go where I will, dowhat I may, he comes!’
　　The absence of all colour from the face; the dilated nostril; thequivering of the lips which, though set firmly against each other,would not be still; showed what emotions were struggling for themastery with Nicholas. But he kept them down, and gentlypressing 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 gallantbearing which became them well, a close likeness between themwas apparent, which many, had they only seen them apart, mighthave failed to remark. The air, carriage, and very look andexpression of the brother were all reflected in the sister, butsoftened and refined to the nicest limit of feminine delicacy andattraction. More striking still was some indefinable resemblance,in the face of Ralph, to both. While they had never looked morehandsome, nor he more ugly; while they had never heldthemselves more proudly, nor he shrunk half so low; there neverhad been a time when this resemblance was so perceptible, orwhen all the worst characteristics of a face rendered coarse andharsh by evil thoughts were half so manifest as now.
　　‘Away!’ was the first word he could utter as he literally gnashed  1006his teeth. ‘Away! What brings you here? Liar, scoundrel, dastard,thief!’
　　‘I come here,’ said Nicholas in a low deep voice, ‘to save yourvictim if I can. Liar and scoundrel you are, in every action of yourlife; theft is your trade; and double dastard you must be, or youwere not here today. Hard words will not move me, nor wouldhard blows. Here I stand, and will, till I have done my errand.’
　　‘Girl!’ said Ralph, ‘retire! We can use force to him, but I wouldnot 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 redblood mantling in her cheeks. ‘You will do him no hurt that he willnot repay. You may use force with me; I think you will, for I am agirl, and that would well become you. But if I have a girl’sweakness, I have a woman’s heart, and it is not you who in a causelike 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 lastmoment,’ replied Nicholas, ‘a refuge and a home. If the nearprospect of such a husband as you have provided will not prevailupon her, I hope she may be moved by the prayers and entreatiesof 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 amcommissioned, will render it an act of greater baseness, meanness,and cruelty in him if he still dares to force this marriage on. Here Iwait to see him and his daughter. For this I came and brought mysister even into your presence. Our purpose is not to see or speakwith you; therefore to you we stoop to say no more.’
　　‘Indeed!’ said Ralph. ‘You persist in remaining here, ma’am, do  1007you?’
　　His niece’s bosom heaved with the indignant excitement intowhich he had lashed her, but she gave him no reply.
　　‘Now, Gride, see here,’ said Ralph. ‘This fellow—I grieve to saymy brother’s son: a reprobate and profligate, stained with everymean and selfish crime—this fellow, coming here today to disturba solemn ceremony, and knowing that the consequence of hispresenting himself in another man’s house at such a time, andpersisting in remaining there, must be his being kicked into thestreets and dragged through them like the vagabond he is—thisfellow, mark you, brings with him his sister as a protection,thinking we would not expose a silly girl to the degradation andindignity which is no novelty to him; and, even after I have warnedher of what must ensue, he still keeps her by him, as you see, andclings to her apron-strings like a cowardly boy to his mother’s. Isnot 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 heardhim last night when he sneaked into my house, and—he! he! he!—very soon sneaked out again, when I nearly frightened him todeath. And he wanting to marry Miss Madeline too! Oh dear! Isthere anything else he’d like? Anything else we can do for him,besides giving her up? Would he like his debts paid and his housefurnished, and a few bank notes for shaving paper if he shaves atall? He! he! he!’
　　‘You will remain, girl, will you?’ said Ralph, turning upon Kateagain, ‘to be hauled downstairs like a drunken drab, as I swear youshall if you stop here? No answer! Thank your brother for whatfollows. Gride, call down Bray—and not his daughter. Let themkeep her above.’
　　  1008‘If you value your head,’ said Nicholas, taking up a positionbefore the door, and speaking in the same low voice in which hehad spoken before, and with no more outward passion than he hadbefore 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 abaffled tiger, made for the door, and, attempting to pass Kate,clasped her arm roughly with his hand. Nicholas, with his eyesdarting fire, seized him by the collar. At that moment, a heavybody fell with great violence on the floor above, and, in an instantafterwards, was heard a most appalling and terrific scream.
　　They all stood still, and gazed upon each other. Screamsucceeded scream; a heavy pattering of feet succeeded; and manyshrill voices clamouring together were heard to cry, ‘He is dead!’
　　‘Stand off!’ cried Nicholas, letting loose all the passion he hadrestrained till now; ‘if this is what I scarcely dare to hope it is, youare caught, villains, in your own toils.’
　　He burst from the room, and, darting upstairs to the quarterfrom whence the noise proceeded, forced his way through a crowdof persons who quite filled a small bed-chamber, and found Braylying 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 uneasyposition upon a chair; that he had been spoken to several times,  1009and not answering, was supposed to be asleep, until some persongoing in and shaking him by the arm, he fell heavily to the groundand 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 thelifeless mass round which they were entwined: ‘I represent thislady’s nearest friends, as her servant here knows, and mustremove her from this dreadful scene. This is my sister to whosecharge you confide her. My name and address are upon that card,and you shall receive from me all necessary directions for thearrangements 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 justoccurred, than at the excitement and impetuosity of him whospoke. Nicholas, taking the insensible girl in his arms, bore herfrom the chamber and downstairs into the room he had justquitted, followed by his sister and the faithful servant, whom hecharged to procure a coach directly, while he and Kate bent overtheir beautiful charge and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore herto 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 awfulevent which had so suddenly overthrown their schemes (it wouldnot otherwise, perhaps, have made much impression on them),and carried away by the extraordinary energy and precipitation ofNicholas, which bore down all before him, looked on at theseproceedings like men in a dream or trance. It was not until everypreparation was made for Madeline’s immediate removal that  1010Ralph broke silence by declaring she should not be taken away.
　　‘Who says so?’ cried Nicholas, rising from his knee andconfronting them, but still retaining Madeline’s lifeless hand inhis.
　　‘I!’ answered Ralph, hoarsely.
　　‘Hush, hush!’ cried the terrified Gride, catching him by the armagain. ‘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 greatdebt of nature. That the bond, due today at twelve, is now wastepaper. That your contemplated fraud shall be discovered yet. Thatyour 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 manclaims his wife, and he shall have her.’
　　‘That man claims what is not his, and he should not have her ifhe 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 rightI ask?’
　　‘By this right. That, knowing what I do, you dare not tempt mefurther,’ 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 herhence. 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  1011is 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 acurse or blessing from a man like you? I tell you, that misfortuneand discovery are thickening about your head; that the structuresyou have raised, through all your ill-spent life, are crumbling intodust; that your path is beset with spies; that this very day, tenthousand pounds of your hoarded wealth have gone in one greatcrash!’
　　‘‘Tis false!’ cried Ralph, shrinking back.
　　‘‘Tis true, and you shall find it so. I have no more words towaste. Stand from the door. Kate, do you go first. Lay not a handon her, or on that woman, or on me, or so much a brush theirgarments as they pass you by!—You let them pass, and he blocksthe door again!’
　　Arthur Gride happened to be in the doorway, but whetherintentionally or from confusion was not quite apparent. Nicholasswung him away, with such violence as to cause him to spin roundthe room until he was caught by a sharp angle of the wall, andthere knocked down; and then taking his beautiful burden in hisarms rushed out. No one cared to stop him, if any were sodisposed. Making his way through a mob of people, whom a reportof the circumstances had attracted round the house, and carryingMadeline, in his excitement, as easily as if she were an infant, hereached the coach in which Kate and the girl were alreadywaiting, and, confiding his charge to them, jumped up beside thecoachman and bade him drive away.
Chapter 55
Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments,and Sorrows.
　　Although Mrs Nickleby had been made acquainted by herson and daughter with every circumstance of MadelineBray’s history which was known to them; although theresponsible situation in which Nicholas stood had been carefullyexplained to her, and she had been prepared, even for the possiblecontingency of having to receive the young lady in her own house,improbable as such a result had appeared only a few minutesbefore it came about, still, Mrs Nickleby, from the moment whenthis confidence was first reposed in her, late on the previousevening, had remained in an unsatisfactory and profoundlymystified state, from which no explanations or arguments couldrelieve her, and which every fresh soliloquy and reflection onlyaggravated more and more.
　　‘Bless my heart, Kate!’ so the good lady argued; ‘if the MrCheerybles don’t want this young lady to be married, why don’tthey file a bill against the Lord Chancellor, make her a Chanceryward, and shut her up in the Fleet prison for safety?—I have readof such things in the newspapers a hundred times. Or, if they areso very fond of her as Nicholas says they are, why don’t they marryher themselves—one of them I mean? And even supposing theydon’t want her to be married, and don’t want to marry herthemselves, why in the name of wonder should Nicholas go aboutthe world, forbidding people’s banns?’
　　  1013‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said Kate, gently.
　　‘Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you’re very polite!’ replied MrsNickleby. ‘I have been married myself I hope, and I have seenother 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 thecircumstances in this instance. We have stated them awkwardly, Idare say.’
　　‘That I dare say you have,’ retorted her mother, briskly. ‘That’svery likely. I am not to be held accountable for that; though, at thesame time, as the circumstances speak for themselves, I shall takethe liberty, my love, of saying that I do understand them, andperfectly well too; whatever you and Nicholas may choose to thinkto the contrary. Why is such a great fuss made because this MissMagdalen 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 thatchedwhite house one story high, covered all over with ivy and creepingplants, with an exquisite little porch with twining honysuckles andall sorts of things: where the earwigs used to fall into one’s tea on asummer evening, and always fell upon their backs and kickeddreadfully, and where the frogs used to get into the rushlightshades when one stopped all night, and sit up and look throughthe little holes like Christians—Jane Dibabs, she married a manwho was a great deal older than herself, and would marry him,notwithstanding all that could be said to the contrary, and she wasso fond of him that nothing was ever equal to it. There was no fussmade about Jane Dibabs, and her husband was a most honourableand excellent man, and everybody spoke well of him. Then why  1014should there by any fuss about this Magdalen?’
　　‘Her husband is much older; he is not her own choice; hischaracter is the very reverse of that which you have just described.
　　Don’t you see a broad distinction between the two cases?’ saidKate.
　　To this, Mrs Nickleby only replied that she durst say she wasvery stupid, indeed she had no doubt she was, for her ownchildren almost as much as told her so, every day of her life; to besure she was a little older than they, and perhaps some foolishpeople might think she ought reasonably to know best. However,no doubt she was wrong; of course she was; she always was, shecouldn’t be right, she couldn’t be expected to be; so she had betternot expose herself any more; and to all Kate’s conciliations andconcessions for an hour ensuing, the good lady gave no otherreplies than Oh, certainly, why did they ask her?, her opinion wasof no consequence, it didn’t matter what she said, with many otherrejoinders of the same class.
　　In this frame of mind (expressed, when she had become tooresigned for speech, by nods of the head, upliftings of the eyes,and little beginnings of groans, converted, as they attractedattention, into short coughs), Mrs Nickleby remained untilNicholas and Kate returned with the object of their solicitude;when, having by this time asserted her own importance, andbecoming besides interested in the trials of one so young andbeautiful, she not only displayed the utmost zeal and solicitude,but took great credit to herself for recommending the course ofprocedure which her son had adopted: frequently declaring, withan expressive look, that it was very fortunate things were AS theywere: and hinting, that but for great encouragement and wisdom  1015on her own part, they never could have been brought to that pass.
　　Not to strain the question whether Mrs Nickleby had or had notany great hand in bringing matters about, it is unquestionable thatshe had strong ground for exultation. The brothers, on theirreturn, bestowed such commendations on Nicholas for the part hehad taken, and evinced so much joy at the altered state of eventsand the recovery of their young friend from trials so great anddangers so threatening, that, as she more than once informed herdaughter, she now considered the fortunes of the family ‘as goodas’ made. Mr Charles Cheeryble, indeed, Mrs Nickleby positivelyasserted, had, in the first transports of his surprise and delight, ‘asgood as’ said so. Without precisely explaining what thisqualification meant, she subsided, whenever she mentioned thesubject, into such a mysterious and important state, and had suchvisions of wealth and dignity in perspective, that (vague andclouded though they were) she was, at such times, almost as happyas if she had really been permanently provided for, on a scale ofgreat splendour.
　　The sudden and terrible shock she had received, combinedwith the great affliction and anxiety of mind which she had, for along time, endured, proved too much for Madeline’s strength.
　　Recovering from the state of stupefaction into which the suddendeath of her father happily plunged her, she only exchanged thatcondition for one of dangerous and active illness. When thedelicate physical powers which have been sustained by anunnatural strain upon the mental energies and a resolutedetermination not to yield, at last give way, their degree ofprostration is usually proportionate to the strength of the effortwhich has previously upheld them. Thus it was that the illness  1016which fell on Madeline was of no slight or temporary nature, butone which, for a time, threatened her reason, and—scarcelyworse—her life itself.
　　Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe anddangerous, could be insensible to the unremitting attentions ofsuch a nurse as gentle, tender, earnest Kate? On whom could thesweet soft voice, the light step, the delicate hand, the quiet,cheerful, noiseless discharge of those thousand little offices ofkindness and relief which we feel so deeply when we are ill, andforget so lightly when we are well—on whom could they make sodeep an impression as on a young heart stored with every pureand true affection that women cherish; almost a stranger to theendearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt themfrom itself; and rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenlysusceptible of the sympathy so long unknown and so long soughtin vain? What wonder that days became as years in knitting themtogether! What wonder, if with every hour of returning health,there came some stronger and sweeter recognition of the praiseswhich 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 hadfound a quick response in the breast of Madeline, and if, with theimage of Nicholas so constantly recurring in the features of hissister that she could scarcely separate the two, she had sometimesfound it equally difficult to assign to each the feelings they hadfirst inspired, and had imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude toNicholas, some of that warmer feeling which she had assigned toKate?
　　‘My dear,’ Mrs Nickleby would say, coming into the room with  1017an elaborate caution, calculated to discompose the nerves of aninvalid 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 havemade 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 movedstealthily 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; ‘Ideclare I never did! I had not the least idea that Nicholas was afterhis time, not the smallest. Mr Nickleby used to say—your poorpapa, I am speaking of, Kate my dear—used to say, that appetitewas the best clock in the world, but you have no appetite, my dearMiss Bray, I wish you had, and upon my word I really think youought to take something that would give you one. I am sure I don’tknow, but I have heard that two or three dozen native lobstersgive an appetite, though that comes to the same thing after all, forI suppose you must have an appetite before you can take ’em. If Isaid lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it’s all the same,though really how you came to know about Nicholas—’
　　  1018‘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 verythoughtless. You can find subjects enough to talk aboutsometimes, and when you know how important it is to keep upMiss Bray’s spirits, and interest her, and all that, it really is quiteextraordinary to me what can induce you to keep on prose, prose,prose, din, din, din, everlastingly, upon the same theme. You are avery kind nurse, Kate, and a very good one, and I know you meanvery well; but I will say this—that if it wasn’t for me, I really don’tknow what would become of Miss Bray’s spirits, and so I tell thedoctor every day. He says he wonders how I sustain my own, and Iam sure I very often wonder myself how I can contrive to keep upas I do. Of course it’s an exertion, but still, when I know how muchdepends upon me in this house, I am obliged to make it. There’snothing praiseworthy in that, but it’s necessary, and I do it.’
　　With that, Mrs Nickleby would draw up a chair, and for somethree-quarters of an hour run through a great variety ofdistracting topics in the most distracting manner possible; tearingherself away, at length, on the plea that she must now go andamuse Nicholas while he took his supper. After a preliminaryraising of his spirits with the information that she considered thepatient decidedly worse, she would further cheer him up byrelating how dull, listless, and low-spirited Miss Bray was, becauseKate foolishly talked about nothing else but him and familymatters. When she had made Nicholas thoroughly comfortablewith these and other inspiriting remarks, she would discourse atlength on the arduous duties she had performed that day; and,sometimes, be moved to tears in wondering how, if anything were  1019to happen to herself, the family would ever get on without her.
　　At other times, when Nicholas came home at night, he would beaccompanied by Mr Frank Cheeryble, who was commissioned bythe brothers to inquire how Madeline was that evening. On suchoccasions (and they were of very frequent occurrence), MrsNickleby deemed it of particular importance that she should haveher wits about her; for, from certain signs and tokens which hadattracted her attention, she shrewdly suspected that Mr Frank,interested as his uncles were in Madeline, came quite as much tosee Kate as to inquire after her; the more especially as thebrothers were in constant communication with the medical man,came backwards and forwards very frequently themselves, andreceived a full report from Nicholas every morning. These wereproud times for Mrs Nickleby; never was anybody half so discreetand sage as she, or half so mysterious withal; and never were theresuch cunning generalship, and such unfathomable designs, as shebrought to bear upon Mr Frank, with the view of ascertainingwhether her suspicions were well founded: and if so, of tantalisinghim into taking her into his confidence and throwing himself uponher merciful consideration. Extensive was the artillery, heavy andlight, which Mrs Nickleby brought into play for the furtherance ofthese great schemes; various and opposite the means which sheemployed to bring about the end she had in view. At one time, shewas all cordiality and ease; at another, all stiffness and frigidity.
　　Now, she would seem to open her whole heart to her unhappyvictim; the next time they met, she would receive him with themost distant and studious reserve, as if a new light had broken inupon her, and, guessing his intentions, she had resolved to checkthem in the bud; as if she felt it her bounden duty to act with  1020Spartan firmness, and at once and for ever to discourage hopeswhich never could be realised. At other times, when Nicholas wasnot there to overhear, and Kate was upstairs busily tending hersick friend, the worthy lady would throw out dark hints of anintention to send her daughter to France for three or four years, orto Scotland for the improvement of her health impaired by her latefatigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere that threatened along and tedious separation. Nay, she even went so far as to hint,obscurely, at an attachment entertained for her daughter by theson of an old neighbour of theirs, one Horatio Peltirogus (a younggentleman who might have been, at that time, four years old, orthereabouts), and to represent it, indeed, as almost a settled thingbetween the families—only waiting for her daughter’s finaldecision, to come off with the sanction of the church, and to theunspeakable happiness and content of all parties.
　　It was in the full pride and glory of having sprung this last mineone night with extraordinary success, that Mrs Nickleby took theopportunity of being left alone with her son before retiring to rest,to sound him on the subject which so occupied her thoughts: notdoubting that they could have but one opinion respecting it. Tothis end, she approached the question with divers laudatory andappropriate remarks touching the general amiability of Mr FrankCheeryble.
　　‘You are quite right, mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘quite right. He is afine fellow.’
　　‘Good-looking, too,’ said Mrs Nickleby.
　　‘Decidedly good-looking,’ answered Nicholas.
　　‘What may you call his nose, now, my dear?’ pursued MrsNickleby, wishing to interest Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.
　　  1021‘Call it?’ repeated Nicholas.
　　‘Ah!’ returned his mother, ‘what style of nose? What order ofarchitecture, if one may say so. I am not very learned in noses. Doyou call it a Roman or a Grecian?’
　　‘Upon my word, mother,’ said Nicholas, laughing, ‘as well as Iremember, I should call it a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. ButI have no very strong recollection on the subject. If it will affordyou any gratification, I’ll observe it more closely, and let youknow.’
　　‘I wish you would, my dear,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with an earnestlook.
　　‘Very well,’ returned Nicholas. ‘I will.’
　　Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book he had beenreading, when the dialogue had gone thus far. Mrs Nickleby, afterstopping 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 gladto hear it, and observed that his mother seemed deep in their newfriend’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 hisconfidence; highly necessary.’
　　Elated by a look of curiosity from her son, and theconsciousness of possessing a great secret, all to herself, MrsNickleby went on with great animation:
　　‘I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can have failed to noticeit, is, to me, quite extraordinary; though I don’t know why I shouldsay that, either, because, of course, as far as it goes, and to acertain extent, there is a great deal in this sort of thing, especially  1022in this early stage, which, however clear it may be to females, canscarcely be expected to be so evident to men. I don’t say that Ihave any particular penetration in such matters. I may have; thoseabout me should know best about that, and perhaps do know.
　　Upon that point I shall express no opinion, it wouldn’t become meto 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 andmelancholy resignation.
　　‘I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,’ resumed his mother, ‘totell you what I know: not only because you have a right to know ittoo, and to know everything that happens in this family, butbecause you have it in your power to promote and assist the thingvery much; and there is no doubt that the sooner one can come toa clear understanding on such subjects, it is always better, everyway. There are a great many things you might do; such as taking awalk in the garden sometimes, or sitting upstairs in your ownroom for a little while, or making believe to fall asleepoccasionally, 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 amusedat my making them of so much importance; at the same time, mydear, I can assure you (and you’ll find this out, Nicholas, foryourself one of these days, if you ever fall in love with anybody; asI trust and hope you will, provided she is respectable and wellconducted, and of course you’d never dream of falling in love withanybody who was not), I say, I can assure you that a great dealmore depends upon these little things than you would supposepossible. If your poor papa was alive, he would tell you how much  1023depended on the parties being left alone. Of course, you are not togo out of the room as if you meant it and did it on purpose, but asif it was quite an accident, and to come back again in the sameway. If you cough in the passage before you open the door, orwhistle carelessly, or hum a tune, or something of that sort, to letthem know you’re coming, it’s always better; because, of course,though it’s not only natural but perfectly correct and proper underthe circumstances, still it is very confusing if you interrupt youngpeople when they are—when they are sitting on the sofa, and—and all that sort of thing: which is very nonsensical, perhaps, butstill they will do it.’
　　The profound astonishment with which her son regarded herduring this long address, gradually increasing as it approached itsclimax in no way discomposed Mrs Nickleby, but rather exaltedher opinion of her own cleverness; therefore, merely stopping toremark, with much complacency, that she had fully expected himto be surprised, she entered on a vast quantity of circumstantialevidence of a particularly incoherent and perplexing kind; theupshot 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 itbe, if not ours; or what should I care about it, or take any interestin 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 greatconfidence. ‘Wait and see.’
　　  1024Nicholas had never, until that moment, bestowed a thoughtupon the remote possibility of such an occurrence as that whichwas now communicated to him; for, besides that he had beenmuch from home of late and closely occupied with other matters,his own jealous fears had prompted the suspicion that some secretinterest in Madeline, akin to that which he felt himself, occasionedthose visits of Frank Cheeryble which had recently become sofrequent. Even now, although he knew that the observation of ananxious mother was much more likely to be correct in such a casethan his own, and although she reminded him of many littlecircumstances which, taken together, were certainly susceptible ofthe construction she triumphantly put upon them, he was notquite convinced but that they arose from mere good-naturedthoughtless gallantry, which would have dictated the sameconduct towards any other girl who was young and pleasing. At allevents, 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 pointupon which I am not yet satisfied. During this sickness, she hasbeen constantly at Madeline’s bedside—never were two people sofond of each other as they have grown—and to tell you the truth,Nicholas, I have rather kept her away now and then, because Ithink it’s a good plan, and urges a young man on. He doesn’t gettoo sure, you know.’
　　She said this with such a mingling of high delight and self-  1025congratulation, that it was inexpressibly painful to Nicholas todash her hopes; but he felt that there was only one honourablecourse before him, and that he was bound to take it.
　　‘Dear mother,’ he said kindly, ‘don’t you see that if there werereally any serious inclination on the part of Mr Frank towardsKate, and we suffered ourselves for a moment to encourage it, weshould be acting a most dishonourable and ungrateful part? I askyou if you don’t see it, but I need not say that I know you don’t, oryou would have been more strictly on your guard. Let me explainmy meaning to you. Remember how poor we are.’
　　Mrs Nickleby shook her head, and said, through her tears, thatpoverty was not a crime.
　　‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and for that reason poverty shouldengender an honest pride, that it may not lead and tempt us tounworthy actions, and that we may preserve the self-respectwhich a hewer of wood and drawer of water may maintain, anddoes better in maintaining than a monarch in preserving his.
　　Think what we owe to these two brothers: remember what theyhave done, and what they do every day for us with a generosityand delicacy for which the devotion of our whole lives would be amost imperfect and inadequate return. What kind of return wouldthat be which would be comprised in our permitting their nephew,their only relative, whom they regard as a son, and for whom itwould be mere childishness to suppose they have not formed planssuitably adapted to the education he has had, and the fortune hewill inherit—in our permitting him to marry a portionless girl: soclosely 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  1026before yourself, mother. Now, how would you feel, if they weremarried, and the brothers, coming here on one of those kinderrands which bring them here so often, you had to break out tothem the truth? Would you be at ease, and feel that you hadplayed an open part?’
　　Poor Mrs Nickleby, crying more and more, murmured that ofcourse Mr Frank would ask the consent of his uncles first.
　　‘Why, to be sure, that would place him in a better situation withthem,’ said Nicholas, ‘but we should still be open to the samesuspicions; the distance between us would still be as great; theadvantages to be gained would still be as manifest as now. We maybe reckoning without our host in all this,’ he added morecheerfully, ‘and I trust, and almost believe we are. If it beotherwise, I have that confidence in Kate that I know she will feelas I do—and in you, dear mother, to be assured that after a littleconsideration you will do the same.’
　　After many more representations and entreaties, Nicholasobtained a promise from Mrs Nickleby that she would try all shecould to think as he did; and that if Mr Frank persevered in hisattentions she would endeavour to discourage them, or, at theleast, would render him no countenance or assistance. Hedetermined to forbear mentioning the subject to Kate until he wasquite convinced that there existed a real necessity for his doing so;and resolved to assure himself, as well as he could by closepersonal observation, of the exact position of affairs. This was avery wise resolution, but he was prevented from putting it inpractice by a new source of anxiety and uneasiness.
　　Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and exhausted that hecould scarcely move from room to room without assistance; and so  1027worn and emaciated, that it was painful to look upon him.
　　Nicholas was warned, by the same medical authority to whom hehad at first appealed, that the last chance and hope of his lifedepended on his being instantly removed from London. That partof Devonshire in which Nicholas had been himself bred wasnamed as the most favourable spot; but this advice was cautiouslycoupled with the information, that whoever accompanied himthither must be prepared for the worst; for every token of rapidconsumption had appeared, and he might never return alive.
　　The kind brothers, who were acquainted with the poorcreature’s sad history, dispatched old Tim to be present at thisconsultation. That same morning, Nicholas was summoned bybrother Charles into his private room, and thus addressed:
　　‘My dear sir, no time must be lost. This lad shall not die, if suchhuman means as we can use can save his life; neither shall he diealone, and in a strange place. Remove him tomorrow morning, seethat he has every comfort that his situation requires, and don’tleave him; don’t leave him, my dear sir, until you know that thereis no longer any immediate danger. It would be hard, indeed, topart you now. No, no, no! Tim shall wait upon you tonight, sir; Timshall wait upon you tonight with a parting word or two. BrotherNed, my dear fellow, Mr Nickleby waits to shake hands and saygoodbye; Mr Nickleby won’t be long gone; this poor chap will soonget better, very soon get better; and then he’ll find out some nicehomely country-people to leave him with, and will go backwardsand forwards sometimes—backwards and forwards you know,Ned. And there’s no cause to be downhearted, for he’ll very soonget better, very soon. Won’t he, won’t he, Ned?’
　　What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he brought with him that  1028night, needs not to be told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeblecompanion began their journey.
　　And who but one—and that one he who, but for those whocrowded round him then, had never met a look of kindness, orknown a word of pity—could tell what agony of mind, whatblighted thoughts, what unavailing sorrow, were involved in thatsad parting?
　　‘See,’ cried Nicholas eagerly, as he looked from the coachwindow, ‘they are at the corner of the lane still! And now there’sKate, poor Kate, whom you said you couldn’t bear to say goodbyeto, waving her handkerchief. Don’t go without one gesture offarewell to Kate!’
　　‘I cannot make it!’ cried his trembling companion, falling backin his seat and covering his eyes. ‘Do you see her now? Is she therestill?’
　　‘Yes, yes!’ said Nicholas earnestly. ‘There! She waves her handagain! 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 themall again.’
　　He whom he thus encouraged, raised his withered hands andclasped 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 lateDesign, hatches a Scheme of Retaliation whichAccident suggests to him, and takes into hisCounsels a tried Auxiliary.
　　The course which these adventures shape out forthemselves, and imperatively call upon the historian toobserve, now demands that they should revert to the pointthey attained previously to the commencement of the last chapter,when Ralph Nickleby and Arthur Gride were left together in thehouse where death had so suddenly reared his dark and heavybanner.
　　With clenched hands, and teeth ground together so firm andtight that no locking of the jaws could have fixed and riveted themmore securely, Ralph stood, for some minutes, in the attitude inwhich he had last addressed his nephew: breathing heavily, but asrigid and motionless in other respects as if he had been a brazenstatue. After a time, he began, by slow degrees, as a man rousinghimself from heavy slumber, to relax. For a moment he shook hisclasped fist towards the door by which Nicholas had disappeared;and then thrusting it into his breast, as if to repress by force eventhis show of passion, turned round and confronted the less hardyusurer, who had not yet risen from the ground.
　　The cowering wretch, who still shook in every limb, and whosefew grey hairs trembled and quivered on his head with abjectdismay, tottered to his feet as he met Ralph’s eye, and, shielding  1030his face with both hands, protested, while he crept towards thedoor, 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 notliving an hour longer. One hour longer would have been longenough. I blame no one else.’
　　‘N—n—no one else?’ said Gride.
　　‘Not for this mischance,’ replied Ralph. ‘I have an old score toclear with that young fellow who has carried off your mistress; butthat has nothing to do with his blustering just now, for we shouldsoon have been quit of him, but for this cursed accident.’
　　There was something so unnatural in the calmness with whichRalph Nickleby spoke, when coupled with his face, the expressionof the features, to which every nerve and muscle, as it twitchedand throbbed with a spasm whose workings no effort couldconceal, gave, every instant, some new and frightful aspect—therewas something so unnatural and ghastly in the contrast betweenhis harsh, slow, steady voice (only altered by a certain halting ofthe breath which made him pause between almost every word likea drunken man bent upon speaking plainly), and these evidencesof the most intense and violent passion, and the struggle he madeto keep them under; that if the dead body which lay above hadstood, instead of him, before the cowering Gride, it could scarcelyhave presented a spectacle which would have terrified him more.
　　‘The coach,’ said Ralph after a time, during which he hadstruggled like some strong man against a fit. ‘We came in a coach.
　　  1031Is it waiting?’
　　Gride gladly availed himself of the pretext for going to thewindow to see. Ralph, keeping his face steadily the other way, toreat his shirt with the hand which he had thrust into his breast, andmuttered in a hoarse whisper:
　　‘Ten thousand pounds! He said ten thousand! The precise sumpaid in but yesterday for the two mortgages, and which wouldhave gone out again, at heavy interest, tomorrow. If that house hasfailed, 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 ashow 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 hisusual firm and heavy tread, got into the coach. Arthur Gridefollowed. After looking doubtfully at Ralph when the man askedwhere he was to drive, and finding that he remained silent, andexpressed no wish upon the subject, Arthur mentioned his ownhouse, 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, andhis downcast eyes quite hidden by the contraction of his knottedbrows, he might have been asleep for any sign of consciousness hegave until the coach stopped, when he raised his head, andglancing through the window, inquired what place that was.
　　‘My house,’ answered the disconsolate Gride, affected perhapsby its loneliness. ‘Oh dear! my house.’
　　‘True,’ said Ralph ‘I have not observed the way we came. I  1032should like a glass of water. You have that in the house, Isuppose?’
　　‘You shall have a glass of—of anything you like,’ answeredGride, with a groan. ‘It’s no use knocking, coachman. Ring thebell!’
　　The man rang, and rang, and rang again; then, knocked untilthe street re-echoed with the sounds; then, listened at the keyholeof 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 andalarm. ‘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 acrossthe street to each other that old Gride’s housekeeper must havedropped down dead. Others collected round the coach, and gavevent to various surmises; some held that she had fallen asleep;some, that she had burnt herself to death; some, that she had gotdrunk; and one very fat man that she had seen something to eatwhich had frightened her so much (not being used to it) that shehad fallen into a fit. This last suggestion particularly delighted thebystanders, who cheered it rather uproariously, and were, withsome difficulty, deterred from dropping down the area andbreaking open the kitchen door to ascertain the fact. Nor was thisall. Rumours having gone abroad that Arthur was to be marriedthat morning, very particular inquiries were made after the bride,who was held by the majority to be disguised in the person of MrRalph Nickleby, which gave rise to much jocose indignation at thepublic appearance of a bride in boots and pantaloons, and calledforth a great many hoots and groans. At length, the two money-  1033lenders obtained shelter in a house next door, and, beingaccommodated with a ladder, clambered over the wall of the backyard—which was not a high one—and descended in safety on theother side.
　　‘I am almost afraid to go in, I declare,’ said Arthur, turning toRalph 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 thingswere more common than they are, and more easily done. You maystare and shiver. I do!’
　　He applied himself to a pump in the yard; and, having taken adeep 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 andsilent as it was wont to be, and every ghostly article of furniture inits customary place. The iron heart of the grim old clock,undisturbed by all the noise without, still beat heavily within itsdusty case; the tottering presses slunk from the sight, as usual, intheir melancholy corners; the echoes of footsteps returned thesame dreary sound; the long-legged spider paused in his nimblerun, and, scared by the sight of men in that his dull domain, hungmotionless on the wall, counterfeiting death until they should havepassed him by.
　　From cellar to garret went the two usurers, opening everycreaking door and looking into every deserted room. But no Pegwas there. At last, they sat them down in the apartment whichArthur Gride usually inhabited, to rest after their search.
　　‘The hag is out, on some preparation for your wedding  1034festivities, I suppose,’ said Ralph, preparing to depart. ‘See here! Idestroy the bond; we shall never need it now.’
　　Gride, who had been peering narrowly about the room, fell, atthat moment, upon his knees before a large chest, and uttered aterrible 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 theearth. ‘She had better have stolen money—all my money—Ihaven’t much! She had better have made me a beggar than havedone this!’
　　‘Done what?’ said Ralph. ‘Done what, you devil’s dotard?’
　　Still Gride made no answer, but tore and scratched among thepapers, and yelled and screeched like a fiend in torment.
　　‘There is something missing, you say,’ said Ralph, shaking himfuriously by the collar. ‘What is it?’
　　‘Papers, deeds. I am a ruined man. Lost, lost! I am robbed, I amruined! She saw me reading it—reading it of late—I did veryoften—She watched me, saw me put it in the box that fitted intothis, the box is gone, she has stolen it. Damnation seize her, shehas robbed me!’
　　‘Of what?’ cried Ralph, on whom a sudden light appeared tobreak, for his eyes flashed and his frame trembled with agitationas he clutched Gride by his bony arm. ‘Of what?’
　　‘She don’t know what it is; she can’t read!’ shrieked Gride, not  1035heeding the inquiry. ‘There’s only one way in which money can bemade of it, and that is by taking it to her. Somebody will read it forher, and tell her what to do. She and her accomplice will getmoney for it and be let off besides; they’ll make a merit of it—saythey found it—knew it—and be evidence against me. The onlyperson it will fall upon is me, me, me!’
　　‘Patience!’ said Ralph, clutching him still tighter and eyeinghim with a sidelong look, so fixed and eager as sufficiently todenote that he had some hidden purpose in what he was about tosay. ‘Hear reason. She can’t have been gone long. I’ll call thepolice. Do you but give information of what she has stolen, andthey’ll lay hands upon her, trust me. Here! Help!’
　　‘No, no, no!’ screamed the old man, putting his hand on Ralph’smouth. ‘I can’t, I daren’t.’
　　‘Help! help!’ cried Ralph.
　　‘No, no, no!’ shrieked the other, stamping on the ground withthe 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 aword of this; not a word must be said. I am undone. Whicheverway I turn, I am undone. I am betrayed. I shall be given up. I shalldie in Newgate!’ With frantic exclamations such as these, and withmany others in which fear, grief, and rage, were strangelyblended, the panic-stricken wretch gradually subdued his firstloud outcry, until it had softened down into a low despairingmoan, chequered now and then by a howl, as, going over suchpapers as were left in the chest, he discovered some new loss. Withvery little excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left him, and,greatly disappointing the loiterers outside the house by telling  1036them there was nothing the matter, got into the coach, and wasdriven to his own home.
　　A letter lay on his table. He let it lie there for some time, as if hehad not the courage to open it, but at length did so and turneddeadly 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 earsof 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 oneday! How many anxious years, how many pinching days andsleepless nights, before I scraped together that ten thousandpounds!—Ten thousand pounds! How many proud painted dameswould have fawned and smiled, and how many spendthriftblockheads done me lip-service to my face and cursed me in theirhearts, while I turned that ten thousand pounds into twenty!
　　While I ground, and pinched, and used these needy borrowers formy pleasure and profit, what smooth-tongued speeches, andcourteous looks, and civil letters, they would have given me! Thecant of the lying world is, that men like me compass our riches bydissimulation and treachery: by fawning, cringing, and stooping.
　　Why, how many lies, what mean and abject evasions, whathumbled behaviour from upstarts who, but for my money, wouldspurn me aside as they do their betters every day, would that tenthousand pounds have brought me in! Grant that I had doubledit—made cent. per cent.—for every sovereign told another—therewould not be one piece of money in all the heap which wouldn’trepresent ten thousand mean and paltry lies, told, not by themoney-lender, oh no! but by the money-borrowers, your liberal,  1037thoughtless, generous, dashing folks, who wouldn’t be so mean assave a sixpence for the world!’
　　Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of the bitterness of hisregrets in the bitterness of these other thoughts, Ralph continuedto pace the room. There was less and less of resolution in hismanner as his mind gradually reverted to his loss; at length,dropping into his elbow-chair and grasping its sides so firmly thatthey creaked again, he said:
　　‘The time has been when nothing could have moved me like theloss of this great sum. Nothing. For births, deaths, marriages, andall the events which are of interest to most men, have (unless theyare connected with gain or loss of money) no interest for me. Butnow, I swear, I mix up with the loss, his triumph in telling it. If hehad brought it about,—I almost feel as if he had,—I couldn’t hatehim more. Let me but retaliate upon him, by degrees, howeverslow—let me but begin to get the better of him, let me but turn thescale—and I can bear it.’
　　His meditations were long and deep. They terminated in hisdispatching a letter by Newman, addressed to Mr Squeers at theSaracen’s Head, with instructions to inquire whether he hadarrived in town, and, if so, to wait an answer. Newman broughtback the information that Mr Squeers had come by mail thatmorning, and had received the letter in bed; but that he sent hisduty, and word that he would get up and wait upon Mr Nicklebydirectly.
　　The interval between the delivery of this message, and thearrival of Mr Squeers, was very short; but, before he came, Ralphhad suppressed every sign of emotion, and once more regained thehard, immovable, inflexible manner which was habitual to him,  1038and to which, perhaps, was ascribable no small part of theinfluence which, over many men of no very strong prejudices onthe score of morality, he could exert, almost at will.
　　‘Well, Mr Squeers,’ he said, welcoming that worthy with hisaccustomed smile, of which a sharp look and a thoughtful frownwere part and parcel: ‘how do you do?’
　　‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Squeers, ‘I’m pretty well. So’s the family, andso’s the boys, except for a sort of rash as is a running through theschool, and rather puts ’em off their feed. But it’s a ill wind asblows no good to nobody; that’s what I always say when them ladshas a wisitation. A wisitation, sir, is the lot of mortality. Mortalityitself, sir, is a wisitation. The world is chock full of wisitations; andif a boy repines at a wisitation and makes you uncomfortable withhis noise, he must have his head punched. That’s going accordingto 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 twiceor 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 themfor the trouble,’ retorted Ralph. ‘Begone, sir!’
　　  1039Ralph not only issued this order in his most peremptorymanner, but, under pretence of fetching some papers from thelittle office, saw it obeyed, and, when Newman had left the house,chained the door, to prevent the possibility of his returningsecretly, by means of his latch-key.
　　‘I have reason to suspect that fellow,’ said Ralph, when hereturned to his own office. ‘Therefore, until I have thought of theshortest and least troublesome way of ruining him, I hold it best tokeep him at a distance.’
　　‘It wouldn’t take much to ruin him, I should think,’ saidSqueers, with a grin.
　　‘Perhaps not,’ answered Ralph. ‘Nor to ruin a great manypeople whom I know. You were going to say—?’
　　Ralph’s summary and matter-of-course way of holding up thisexample, and throwing out the hint that followed it, had evidentlyan effect (as doubtless it was designed to have) upon Mr Squeers,who said, after a little hesitation and in a much more subduedtone:
　　‘Why, what I was a-going to say, sir, is, that this here businessregarding of that ungrateful and hard-hearted chap, Snawleysenior, puts me out of my way, and occasions a inconveniencyquite unparalleled, besides, as I may say, making, for whole weekstogether, Mrs Squeers a perfect widder. It’s a pleasure to me to actwith 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 thantwo hundred and fifty mile to take a afferdavid, it does put a manout a good deal, letting alone the risk.’
　　  1040‘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,’ pleadedSqueers. ‘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 stillharder. ‘Why, it an’t necessary to mention. Certain subjects is bestawoided. Oh, you know what risk I mean.’
　　‘How often have I told you,’ said Ralph, ‘and how often am I totell you, that you run no risk? What have you sworn, or what areyou asked to swear, but that at such and such a time a boy was leftwith you in the name of Smike; that he was at your school for agiven number of years, was lost under such and suchcircumstances, is now found, and has been identified by you insuch 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 alie but Snawley; a man whom I have paid much less than I haveyou?’
　　‘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, butyou! Risk! What do you mean by risk? The certificates are allgenuine, Snawley had another son, he has been married twice, hisfirst wife is dead, none but her ghost could tell that she didn’twrite that letter, none but Snawley himself can tell that this is nothis son, and that his son is food for worms! The only perjury isSnawley’s, and I fancy he is pretty well used to it. Where’s your  1041risk?’
　　‘Why, you know,’ said Squeers, fidgeting in his chair, ‘if youcome to that, I might say where’s yours?’
　　‘You might say where’s mine!’ returned Ralph; ‘you may saywhere’s mine. I don’t appear in the business, neither do you. AllSnawley’s interest is to stick well to the story he has told; and allhis risk is, to depart from it in the least. Talk of your risk in theconspiracy!’
　　‘I say,’ remonstrated Squeers, looking uneasily round: ‘don’tcall 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 annoyanceagainst 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 yourvengeance on him for his share in the business, you knew that theknowledge that he was again in your power would be the bestpunishment you could inflict upon your enemy. Is that so, MrSqueers?’
　　‘Why, sir,’ returned Squeers, almost overpowered by thedetermination which Ralph displayed to make everything tellagainst him, and by his stern unyielding manner, ‘in a measure itwas.’
　　‘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 grudgeto satisfy, too.’
　　‘If I had not had,’ said Ralph, in no way abashed by thereminder, ‘do you think I should have helped you?’
　　  1042‘Why no, I don’t suppose you would,’ Squeers replied. ‘I onlywanted that point to be all square and straight between us.’
　　‘How can it ever be otherwise?’ retorted Ralph. ‘Except that theaccount is against me, for I spend money to gratify my hatred, andyou 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 thesame process, and who are, at all events, sure of money, if not ofrevenge; 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 shrugsand smiles, Ralph bade him be silent, and thankful that he was sowell off; and then, fixing his eyes steadily upon him, proceeded tosay:
　　First, that Nicholas had thwarted him in a plan he had formedfor the disposal in marriage of a certain young lady, and had, inthe confusion attendant on her father’s sudden death, secured thatlady himself, and borne her off in triumph.
　　Secondly, that by some will or settlement—certainly by someinstrument in writing, which must contain the young lady’s name,and could be, therefore, easily selected from others, if access to theplace where it was deposited were once secured—she was entitledto property which, if the existence of this deed ever became knownto her, would make her husband (and Ralph represented thatNicholas was certain to marry her) a rich and prosperous man,and most formidable enemy.
　　Thirdly, that this deed had been, with others, stolen from onewho had himself obtained or concealed it fraudulently, and whofeared to take any steps for its recovery; and that he (Ralph) knew  1043the thief.
　　To all this Mr Squeers listened, with greedy ears that devouredevery syllable, and with his one eye and his mouth wide open:
　　marvelling for what special reason he was honoured with so muchof Ralph’s confidence, and to what it all tended.
　　‘Now,’ said Ralph, leaning forward, and placing his hand onSqueers’s arm, ‘hear the design which I have conceived, andwhich I must—I say, must, if I can ripen it—have carried intoexecution. No advantage can be reaped from this deed, whatever itis, save by the girl herself, or her husband; and the possession ofthis deed by one or other of them is indispensable to anyadvantage being gained. That I have discovered beyond thepossibility of doubt. I want that deed brought here, that I may givethe man who brings it fifty pounds in gold, and burn it to ashesbefore his face.’
　　Mr Squeers, after following with his eye the action of Ralph’shand towards the fire-place as if he were at that momentconsuming 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 gotat,’ said Ralph. ‘But if anybody—you!’
　　Mr Squeers’s first tokens of consternation, and his flatrelinquishment of the task, would have staggered most men, ifthey had not immediately occasioned an utter abandonment of theproposition. On Ralph they produced not the slightest effect.
　　Resuming, when the schoolmaster had quite talked himself out ofbreath, as coolly as if he had never been interrupted, Ralphproceeded to expatiate on such features of the case as he deemedit most advisable to lay the greatest stress on.
　　  1044These were, the age, decrepitude, and weakness of MrsSliderskew; the great improbability of her having any accompliceor even acquaintance: taking into account her secluded habits,and her long residence in such a house as Gride’s; the strongreason there was to suppose that the robbery was not the result ofa concerted plan: otherwise she would have watched anopportunity of carrying off a sum of money; the difficulty shewould be placed in when she began to think on what she haddone, and found herself encumbered with documents of whosenature she was utterly ignorant; and the comparative ease withwhich somebody, with a full knowledge of her position, obtainingaccess to her, and working on her fears, if necessary, might wormhimself into her confidence and obtain, under one pretence oranother, free possession of the deed. To these were added suchconsiderations as the constant residence of Mr Squeers at a longdistance from London, which rendered his association with MrsSliderskew a mere masquerading frolic, in which nobody waslikely to recognise him, either at the time or afterwards; theimpossibility of Ralph’s undertaking the task himself, he beingalready known to her by sight; and various comments on theuncommon tact and experience of Mr Squeers: which would makehis overreaching one old woman a mere matter of child’s play andamusement. In addition to these influences and persuasions,Ralph drew, with his utmost skill and power, a vivid picture of thedefeat which Nicholas would sustain, should they succeed, inlinking himself to a beggar, where he expected to wed an heiress—glanced at the immeasurable importance it must be to a mansituated as Squeers, to preserve such a friend as himself—dwelton a long train of benefits, conferred since their first acquaintance,  1045when he had reported favourably of his treatment of a sickly boywho had died under his hands (and whose death was veryconvenient to Ralph and his clients, but this he did not say), andfinally 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 hislegs, uncrossed them, scratched his head, rubbed his eye,examined the palms of his hands, and bit his nails, and afterexhibiting many other signs of restlessness and indecision, asked‘whether one hundred pound was the highest that Mr Nicklebycould go.’ Being answered in the affirmative, he became restlessagain, and, after some thought, and an unsuccessful inquiry‘whether he couldn’t go another fifty,’ said he supposed he musttry and do the most he could for a friend: which was always hismaxim, and therefore he undertook the job.
　　‘But how are you to get at the woman?’ he said; ‘that’s what it isas puzzles me.’
　　‘I may not get at her at all,’ replied Ralph, ‘but I’ll try. I havehunted people in this city, before now, who have been better hidthan she; and I know quarters in which a guinea or two, carefullyspent, will often solve darker riddles than this. Ay, and keep themclose too, if need be! I hear my man ringing at the door. We may aswell part. You had better not come to and fro, but wait till youhear 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 oftime?’
　　‘Well,’ said Ralph, testily; ‘yes! You have nothing more to say?’
　　Squeers shaking his head, Ralph accompanied him to the  1046streetdoor, 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 amfirm and unshaken. Let me but retrieve this one small portion ofmy loss and disgrace; let me but defeat him in this one hope, dearto his heart as I know it must be; let me but do this; and it shall bethe first link in such a chain which I will wind about him, as neverman forged yet.’
Chapter 57
How Ralph Nickleby’s Auxiliary went about hisWork, and how he prospered with it.
　　It was a dark, wet, gloomy night in autumn, when in an upperroom of a mean house situated in an obscure street, or rathercourt, near Lambeth, there sat, all alone, a one-eyed mangrotesquely habited, either for lack of better garments or forpurposes of disguise, in a loose greatcoat, with arms half as longagain as his own, and a capacity of breadth and length whichwould have admitted of his winding himself in it, head and all,with the utmost ease, and without any risk of straining the old andgreasy material of which it was composed.
　　So attired, and in a place so far removed from his usual hauntsand occupations, and so very poor and wretched in its character,perhaps Mrs Squeers herself would have had some difficulty inrecognising her lord: quickened though her natural sagacitydoubtless would have been by the affectionate yearnings andimpulses of a tender wife. But Mrs Squeers’s lord it was; and in atolerably disconsolate mood Mrs Squeers’s lord appeared to be, as,helping himself from a black bottle which stood on the tablebeside him, he cast round the chamber a look, in which very slightregard for the objects within view was plainly mingled with someregretful and impatient recollection of distant scenes and persons.
　　There were, certainly, no particular attractions, either in theroom over which the glance of Mr Squeers so discontentedlywandered, or in the narrow street into which it might have  1048penetrated, if he had thought fit to approach the window. The atticchamber in which he sat was bare and mean; the bedstead, andsuch few other articles of necessary furniture as it contained, wereof the commonest description, in a most crazy state, and of a mostuninviting appearance. The street was muddy, dirty, and deserted.
　　Having but one outlet, it was traversed by few but the inhabitantsat any time; and the night being one of those on which mostpeople are glad to be within doors, it now presented no other signsof life than the dull glimmering of poor candles from the dirtywindows, and few sounds but the pattering of the rain, andoccasionally the heavy closing of some creaking door.
　　Mr Squeers continued to look disconsolately about him, and tolisten to these noises in profound silence, broken only by therustling of his large coat, as he now and then moved his arm toraise his glass to his lips. Mr Squeers continued to do this for sometime, until the increasing gloom warned him to snuff the candle.
　　Seeming to be slightly roused by this exertion, he raised his eye tothe ceiling, and fixing it upon some uncouth and fantastic figures,traced upon it by the wet and damp which had penetrated throughthe 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—afollering up this here blessed old dowager petty larcenerer,’—MrSqueers delivered himself of this epithet with great difficulty andeffort,—‘and Dotheboys Hall a-running itself regularly to seed thewhile! That’s the worst of ever being in with a owdacious chap likethat old Nickleby. You never know when he’s done with you, and ifyou’re in for a penny, you’re in for a pound.’
　　This remark, perhaps, reminded Mr Squeers that he was in for  1049a hundred pound at any rate. His countenance relaxed, and heraised his glass to his mouth with an air of greater enjoyment of itscontents than he had before evinced.
　　‘I never see,’ soliloquised Mr Squeers in continuation, ‘I neversee nor come across such a file as that old Nickleby. Never! He’sout of everybody’s depth, he is. He’s what you may call a rasper, isNickleby. To see how sly and cunning he grubbed on, day afterday, a-worming and plodding and tracing and turning and twiningof hisself about, till he found out where this precious Mrs Peg washid, and cleared the ground for me to work upon. Creeping andcrawling and gliding, like a ugly, old, bright-eyed, stagnation-blooded adder! Ah! He’d have made a good ’un in our line, but itwould have been too limited for him; his genius would have bustedall bonds, and coming over every obstacle, broke down all beforeit, till it erected itself into a monneyment of—Well, I’ll think of therest, and say it when conwenient.’
　　Making a halt in his reflections at this place, Mr Squeers againput 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 hadread it very often, and now refreshed his memory rather in theabsence of better amusement than for any specific information.
　　‘The pigs is well,’ said Mr Squeers, ‘the cows is well, and theboys is bobbish. Young Sprouter has been a-winking, has he? I’llwink him when I get back. “Cobbey would persist in sniffing whilehe was a-eating his dinner, and said that the beef was so strong itmade him.”—Very good, Cobbey, we’ll see if we can’t make yousniff a little without beef. “Pitcher was took with another fever,”—of course he was—“and being fetched by his friends, died the dayafter he got home,”—of course he did, and out of aggravation; it’s  1050part of a deep-laid system. There an’t another chap in the schoolbut 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 tothe utmost extremity. “The juniorest Palmer said he wished hewas in Heaven.” I really don’t know, I do not know what’s to bedone with that young fellow; he’s always a-wishing somethinghorrid. He said once, he wished he was a donkey, because then hewouldn’t have a father as didn’t love him! Pretty wicious that for achild of six!’
　　Mr Squeers was so much moved by the contemplation of thishardened 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 beenonly for a week or so. Still, one hundred pound is five boys, andfive boys takes a whole year to pay one hundred pounds, andthere’s their keep to be substracted, besides. There’s nothing lost,neither, by one’s being here; because the boys’ money comes injust the same as if I was at home, and Mrs Squeers she keeps themin order. There’ll be some lost time to make up, of course. There’llbe an arrear of flogging as’ll have to be gone through: still, acouple of days makes that all right, and one don’t mind a littleextra work for one hundred pound. It’s pretty nigh the time to waitupon the old woman. From what she said last night, I suspect thatif I’m to succeed at all, I shall succeed tonight; so I’ll have half aglass more, to wish myself success, and put myself in spirits. MrsSqueers, my dear, your health!’
　　Leering with his one eye as if the lady to whom he drank hadbeen actually present, Mr Squeers—in his enthusiasm, no doubt—  1051poured out a full glass, and emptied it; and as the liquor was rawspirits, and he had applied himself to the same bottle more thanonce already, it is not surprising that he found himself, by thistime, in an extremely cheerful state, and quite enough excited forhis purpose.
　　What this purpose was soon appeared; for, after a few turnsabout the room to steady himself, he took the bottle under his armand the glass in his hand, and blowing out the candle as if hepurposed being gone some time, stole out upon the staircase, andcreeping softly to a door opposite his own, tapped gently at it.
　　‘But what’s the use of tapping?’ he said, ‘She’ll never hear. Isuppose she isn’t doing anything very particular; and if she is, itdon’t much matter, that I see.’
　　With this brief preface, Mr Squeers applied his hand to thelatch of the door, and thrusting his head into a garret far moredeplorable than that he had just left, and seeing that there wasnobody there but an old woman, who was bending over awretched fire (for although the weather was still warm, theevening 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 Squeersunderstood, as a acorn, a hour; but when the h is sounded, the aonly 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’tknow any better, and if it is, I’ve done it accidentally.’
　　Delivering this reply in his accustomed tone of voice, in whichof course it was inaudible to Peg, Mr Squeers drew a stool to the  1052fire, and placing himself over against her, and the bottle and glasson 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 stronglanguage 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 eyewas upon him, and she was chuckling fearfully, as though indelight at having made a choice repartee, ‘Do you see this? This isa 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 withappropriate action, ‘I fill the glass from the bottle, and I say “Yourhealth, Slider,” and empty it; then I rinse it genteelly with a littledrop, which I’m forced to throw into the fire—hallo! we shall havethe chimbley alight next—fill it again, and hand it over to you.’
　　‘Your health,’ said Peg.
　　‘She understands that, anyways,’ muttered Squeers, watchingMrs Sliderskew as she dispatched her portion, and choked andgasped in a most awful manner after so doing. ‘Now then, let’shave a talk. How’s the rheumatics?’
　　Mrs Sliderskew, with much blinking and chuckling, and with  1053looks expressive of her strong admiration of Mr Squeers, hisperson, manners, and conversation, replied that the rheumaticswere better.
　　‘What’s the reason,’ said Mr Squeers, deriving freshfacetiousness 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 possiblybecause they couldn’t help it.
　　‘Measles, rheumatics, hooping-cough, fevers, agers, andlumbagers,’ said Mr Squeers, ‘is all philosophy together; that’swhat it is. The heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the earthlybodies 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 littlemetaphysics in it, but that’s not often. Philosophy’s the chap forme. If a parent asks a question in the classical, commercial, ormathematical line, says I, gravely, “Why, sir, in the first place, areyou 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 aserio-comic air, and keeping his eye all the time on MrsSliderskew, who was unable to hear one word, Mr Squeersconcluded by helping himself and passing the bottle: to which Pegdid becoming reverence.
　　‘That’s the time of day!’ said Mr Squeers. ‘You look twentypound ten better than you did.’
　　Again Mrs Sliderskew chuckled, but modesty forbade her  1054assenting verbally to the compliment.
　　‘Twenty pound ten better,’ repeated Mr Squeers, ‘than you didthat day when I first introduced myself. Don’t you know?’
　　‘Ah!’ said Peg, shaking her head, ‘but you frightened me thatday.’
　　‘Did I?’ said Squeers; ‘well, it was rather a startling thing for astranger to come and recommend himself by saying that he knewall about you, and what your name was, and why you were livingso quiet here, and what you had boned, and who you boned itfrom, 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’tup to entirely. I’m a sort of a lawyer, Slider, of first-rate standing,and understanding too; I’m the intimate friend and confidentialadwiser of pretty nigh every man, woman, and child that getsthemselves into difficulties by being too nimble with their fingers,I’m—’
　　Mr Squeers’s catalogue of his own merits andaccomplishments, which was partly the result of a concerted planbetween himself and Ralph Nickleby, and flowed, in part, from theblack 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 afterall?’
　　‘No,’ replied Squeers, ‘that he wasn’t!’
　　‘And a young lover come and carried off the bride, eh?’ saidPeg.
　　‘From under his very nose,’ replied Squeers; ‘and I’m told the  1055young chap cut up rough besides, and broke the winders, andforced him to swaller his wedding favour which nearly chokedhim.’
　　‘Tell me all about it again,’ cried Peg, with a malicious relish ofher old master’s defeat, which made her natural hideousnesssomething quite fearful; ‘let’s hear it all again, beginning at thebeginning now, as if you’d never told me. Let’s have it everyword—now—now—beginning at the very first, you know, when hewent to the house that morning!’
　　Mr Squeers, plying Mrs Sliderskew freely with the liquor, andsustaining himself under the exertion of speaking so loud byfrequent applications to it himself, complied with this request bydescribing the discomfiture of Arthur Gride, with suchimprovements on the truth as happened to occur to him, and theingenious invention and application of which had been veryinstrumental in recommending him to her notice in the beginningof their acquaintance. Mrs Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of delight,rolling her head about, drawing up her skinny shoulders, andwrinkling her cadaverous face into so many and such complicatedforms of ugliness, as awakened the unbounded astonishment anddisgust even of Mr Squeers.
　　‘He’s a treacherous old goat,’ said Peg, ‘and cozened me withcunning tricks and lying promises, but never mind. I’m even withhim. I’m even with him.’
　　‘More than even, Slider,’ returned Squeers; ‘you’d have beeneven with him if he’d got married; but with the disappointmentbesides, you’re a long way ahead. Out of sight, Slider, quite out ofsight. And that reminds me,’ he added, handing her the glass, ‘ifyou want me to give you my opinion of them deeds, and tell you  1056what you’d better keep and what you’d better burn, why, now’syour time, Slider.’
　　‘There an’t no hurry for that,’ said Peg, with several knowinglooks and winks.
　　‘Oh! very well!’ observed Squeers, ‘it don’t matter to me; youasked me, you know. I shouldn’t charge you nothing, being afriend. 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 asmight hang me, littering about when they might be turned intomoney—them as wasn’t useful made away with, and them as was,laid by somewheres, safe; that’s all,’ returned Squeers; ‘buteverybody’s the best judge of their own affairs. All I say is, Slider, Iwouldn’t do it.’
　　‘Come,’ said Peg, ‘then you shall see ’em.’
　　‘I don’t want to see ’em,’ replied Squeers, affecting to be out ofhumour; ‘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 ofbeing offended a little longer, if Mrs Sliderskew, in her anxiety torestore herself to her former high position in his good graces, hadnot become so extremely affectionate that he stood at some risk ofbeing smothered by her caresses. Repressing, with as good a graceas possible, these little familiarities—for which, there is reason tobelieve, the black bottle was at least as much to blame as anyconstitutional infirmity on the part of Mrs Sliderskew—heprotested that he had only been joking: and, in proof of hisunimpaired good-humour, that he was ready to examine the deeds  1057at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any satisfaction or relief ofmind to his fair friend.
　　‘And now you’re up, my Slider,’ bawled Squeers, as she rose tofetch them, ‘bolt the door.’
　　Peg trotted to the door, and after fumbling at the bolt, crept tothe other end of the room, and from beneath the coals which filledthe bottom of the cupboard, drew forth a small deal box. Havingplaced this on the floor at Squeers’s feet, she brought, from underthe pillow of her bed, a small key, with which she signed to thatgentleman to open it. Mr Squeers, who had eagerly followed herevery motion, lost no time in obeying this hint: and, throwing backthe 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; whatwe can get any money by, we’ll keep; and if there’s any we couldget him into trouble by, and fret and waste away his heart toshreds, those we’ll take particular care of; for that’s what I want todo, and what I hoped to do when I left him.’
　　‘I thought,’ said Squeers, ‘that you didn’t bear him anyparticular good-will. But, I say, why didn’t you take some moneybesides?’
　　‘Some what?’ asked Peg.
　　‘Some money,’ roared Squeers. ‘I do believe the woman hearsme, and wants to make me break a wessel, so that she may havethe pleasure of nursing me. Some money, Slider, money!’
　　‘Why, what a man you are to ask!’ cried Peg, with somecontempt. ‘If I had taken money from Arthur Gride, he’d havescoured the whole earth to find me—aye, and he’d have smelt itout, and raked it up, somehow, if I had buried it at the bottom of  1058the deepest well in England. No, no! I knew better than that. I tookwhat I thought his secrets were hid in: and them he couldn’t affordto make public, let ’em be worth ever so much money. He’s an olddog; a sly, old, cunning, thankless dog! He first starved, and thentricked me; and if I could I’d kill him.’
　　‘All right, and very laudable,’ said Squeers. ‘But, first andforemost, Slider, burn the box. You should never keep things asmay lead to discovery. Always mind that. So while you pull it topieces (which you can easily do, for it’s very old and rickety) andburn it in little bits, I’ll look over the papers and tell you what theyare.’
　　Peg, expressing her acquiescence in this arrangement, MrSqueers turned the box bottom upwards, and tumbling thecontents upon the floor, handed it to her; the destruction of thebox being an extemporary device for engaging her attention, incase it should prove desirable to distract it from his ownproceedings.
　　‘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 mesee.’ And taking the candle down beside him, Mr Squeers, withgreat 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 closebehind it: and if those two persons had been unacquainted withher infirmity, they must probably have chosen that moment eitherfor presenting themselves or taking to flight. But, knowing withwhom they had to deal, they remained quite still, and now, notonly appeared unobserved at the door—which was not bolted, for  1059the bolt had no hasp—but warily, and with noiseless footsteps,advanced into the room.
　　As they stole farther and farther in by slight and scarcelyperceptible degrees, and with such caution that they scarcelyseemed to breathe, the old hag and Squeers little dreaming of anysuch invasion, and utterly unconscious of there being any soulnear but themselves, were busily occupied with their tasks. Theold 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 fullugliness of his face, as the light of the fire did that of hiscompanion; both intently engaged, and wearing faces of exultationwhich 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, andflickering doubtful light, combined to form a scene which the mostcareless and indifferent spectator (could any have been present)could scarcely have failed to derive some interest from, and wouldnot readily have forgotten.
　　Of the stealthy comers, Frank Cheeryble was one, and NewmanNoggs the other. Newman had caught up, by the rusty nozzle, anold pair of bellows, which were just undergoing a flourish in theair preparatory to a descent upon the head of Mr Squeers, whenFrank, with an earnest gesture, stayed his arm, and, takinganother step in advance, came so close behind the schoolmasterthat, by leaning slightly forward, he could plainly distinguish thewriting which he held up to his eye.
　　Mr Squeers, not being remarkably erudite, appeared to be  1060considerably puzzled by this first prize, which was in anengrossing 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 downwith 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 mostdevilish 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 thefire.’
　　Mrs Sliderskew complied, and inquired what the next one was.
　　‘This,’ said Squeers, ‘is a bundle of overdue acceptances andrenewed 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 shewas bidden, and waited for the next.
　　‘This,’ said Squeers, ‘seems to be some deed of sale of the rightof presentation to the rectory of Purechurch, in the valley ofCashup. Take care of that, Slider, literally for God’s sake. It’ll fetchits price at the Auction Mart.’
　　‘What’s the next?’ inquired Peg.
　　‘Why, this,’ said Squeers, ‘seems, from the two letters that’swith it, to be a bond from a curate down in the country, to pay halfa year’s wages of forty pound for borrowing twenty. Take care ofthat, for if he don’t pay it, his bishop will very soon be down uponhim. We know what the camel and the needle’s eye means; no manas can’t live upon his income, whatever it is, must expect to go toheaven at any price. It’s very odd; I don’t see anything like it yet.’
　　‘What’s the matter?’ said Peg.
　　  1061‘Nothing,’ replied Squeers, ‘only I’m looking for—’
　　Newman raised the bellows again. Once more, Frank, by arapid motion of his arm, unaccompanied by any noise, checkedhim in his purpose.
　　‘Here you are,’ said Squeers, ‘bonds—take care of them.
　　Warrant of attorney—take care of that. Two cognovits—take careof 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 hecaught up for the purpose, Squeers, as she turned her head, thrustinto the breast of his large coat, the deed in which these words hadcaught his eye, and burst into a shout of triumph.
　　‘I’ve got it!’ said Squeers. ‘I’ve got it! Hurrah! The plan was agood one, though the chance was desperate, and the day’s our ownat last!’
　　Peg demanded what he laughed at, but no answer wasreturned. Newman’s arm could no longer be restrained; thebellows, descending heavily and with unerring aim on the verycentre of Mr Squeers’s head, felled him to the floor, and stretchedhim 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 thathis charge might sustain the less exhaustion and fatiguefrom travelling so far, Nicholas, at the end of the secondday from their leaving home, found himself within a very few milesof the spot where the happiest years of his life had been passed,and which, while it filled his mind with pleasant and peacefulthoughts, brought back many painful and vivid recollections of thecircumstances in which he and his had wandered forth from theirold home, cast upon the rough world and the mercy of strangers.
　　It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of olddays, and wanderings among scenes where our childhood hasbeen passed, usually awaken in the most insensible minds, tosoften the heart of Nicholas, and render him more than usuallymindful of his drooping friend. By night and day, at all times andseasons: always watchful, attentive, and solicitous, and nevervarying in the discharge of his self-imposed duty to one sofriendless and helpless as he whose sands of life were now fastrunning out and dwindling rapidly away: he was ever at his side.
　　He never left him. To encourage and animate him, administer tohis wants, support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, wasnow his constant and unceasing occupation.
　　They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse,surrounded by meadows where Nicholas had often revelled whena child with a troop of merry schoolfellows; and here they took up  1063their rest.
　　At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for shortdistances at a time, with no other support or aid than that whichNicholas could afford him. At this time, nothing appeared tointerest him so much as visiting those places which had been mostfamiliar to his friend in bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, andpleased to find that its indulgence beguiled the sick boy of manytedious hours, and never failed to afford him matter for thoughtand conversation afterwards, Nicholas made such spots the scenesof their daily rambles: driving him from place to place in a littlepony-chair, and supporting him on his arm while they walkedslowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the sunlight to takelong parting looks of those which were most quiet and beautiful.
　　It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almostunconsciously to the interest of old associations, would point outsome tree that he had climbed, a hundred times, to peep at theyoung birds in their nest; and the branch from which he used toshout to little Kate, who stood below terrified at the height he hadgained, and yet urging him higher still by the intensity of heradmiration. There was the old house too, which they would passevery day, looking up at the tiny window through which the sunused to stream in and wake him on the summer mornings—theywere all summer mornings then—and climbing up the garden-walland looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose-bush which hadcome, a present to Kate, from some little lover, and she hadplanted with her own hands. There were the hedgerows where thebrother and sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, andthe green fields and shady paths where they had so often strayed.
　　There was not a lane, or brook, or copse, or cottage near, with  1064which some childish event was not entwined, and back it cameupon the mind—as events of childhood do—nothing in itself:
　　perhaps a word, a laugh, a look, some slight distress, a passingthought or fear: and yet more strongly and distinctly marked, andbetter remembered, than the hardest trials or severest sorrows ofa year ago.
　　One of these expeditions led them through the churchyardwhere was his father’s grave. ‘Even here,’ said Nicholas softly, ‘weused to loiter before we knew what death was, and when we littlethought whose ashes would rest beneath; and, wondering at thesilence, sit down to rest and speak below our breath. Once, Katewas lost, and after an hour of fruitless search, they found her, fastasleep, under that tree which shades my father’s grave. He wasvery fond of her, and said when he took her up in his arms, stillsleeping, that whenever he died he would wish to be buried wherehis dear little child had laid her head. You see his wish was notforgotten.’
　　Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas satbeside his bed, Smike started from what had seemed to be aslumber, and laying his hand in his, prayed, as the tears courseddown his face, that he would make him one solemn promise.
　　‘What is that?’ said Nicholas, kindly. ‘If I can redeem it, or hopeto 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 thetree we saw today.’
　　Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, butthey were solemn and earnest. His poor friend kept his hand inhis, and turned as if to sleep. But there were stifled sobs; and the  1065hand was pressed more than once, or twice, or thrice, before hesank to rest, and slowly loosed his hold.
　　In a fortnight’s time, he became too ill to move about. Once ortwice, Nicholas drove him out, propped up with pillows; but themotion of the chaise was painful to him, and brought on fits offainting, which, in his weakened state, were dangerous. There wasan old couch in the house, which was his favourite resting-place byday; and when the sun shone, and the weather was warm,Nicholas had this wheeled into a little orchard which was close athand, 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 meredelusion of an imagination affected by disease; but which he had,afterwards, too good reason to know was of real and actualoccurrence.
　　He had brought Smike out in his arms—poor fellow! a childmight have carried him then—to see the sunset, and, havingarranged his couch, had taken his seat beside it. He had beenwatching the whole of the night before, and being greatly fatiguedboth in mind and body, gradually fell asleep.
　　He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he wasawakened by a scream, and starting up in that kind of terrorwhich affects a person suddenly roused, saw, to his greatastonishment, that his charge had struggled into a sitting posture,and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, cold dewstanding on his forehead, and in a fit of trembling which quiteconvulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.
　　‘Good Heaven, what is this?’ said Nicholas, bending over him.
　　  1066‘Be calm; you have been dreaming.’
　　‘No, no, no!’ cried Smike, clinging to him. ‘Hold me tight. Don’tlet me go. There, there. Behind the tree!’
　　Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to somedistance 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 tocompose 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 aninstant!’
　　‘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 glancingfearfully round, ‘do you remember my telling you of the man whofirst took me to the school?’
　　‘Yes, surely.’
　　‘I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree—that one with thethick trunk—and there, with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!’
　　‘Only reflect for one moment,’ said Nicholas; ‘granting, for aninstant, that it’s likely he is alive and wandering about a lonelyplace like this, so far removed from the public road, do you thinkthat at this distance of time you could possibly know that managain?’
　　‘Anywhere—in any dress,’ returned Smike; ‘but, just now, hestood leaning upon his stick and looking at me, exactly as I toldyou I remembered him. He was dusty with walking, and poorlydressed—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,  1067and the people that were there, all seemed to come back together.
　　When he knew I saw him, he looked frightened; for he started, andshrunk away. I have thought of him by day, and dreamt of him bynight. He looked in my sleep, when I was quite a little child, andhas looked in my sleep ever since, as he did just now.’
　　Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument hecould think of, to convince the terrified creature that hisimagination had deceived him, and that this close resemblancebetween the creation of his dreams and the man he supposed hehad seen was but a proof of it; but all in vain. When he couldpersuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the care of thepeople to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict inquirywhether any stranger had been seen, and searched himself behindthe tree, and through the orchard, and upon the land immediatelyadjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a manto lie concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in hisoriginal conjecture, he applied himself to calming the fears ofSmike, which, after some time, he partially succeeded in doing,though not in removing the impression upon his mind; for he stilldeclared, again and again, in the most solemn and fervid manner,that he had positively seen what he had described, and thatnothing 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 betterfortune, the world was closing fast. There was little pain, littleuneasiness, but there was no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life.
　　He was worn and wasted to the last degree; his voice had sunk solow, that he could scarce be heard to speak. Nature wasthoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die.
　　  1068On 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 quietroom, and not a sound was heard but the gentle rustling of theleaves: Nicholas sat in his old place by the bedside, and knew thatthe time was nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now andthen, he bent down his ear to listen for the breathing of him wholay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was still there, and thathe had not fallen into that deep slumber from which on earththere is no waking.
　　While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and onthe 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. ‘Suchpleasant, happy dreams!’
　　‘Of what?’ said Nicholas.
　　The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm abouthis 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 almostthink that if I could rise from this bed quite well I would not wishto do so, now. You have so often told me we shall meet again—sovery often lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly—thatI can even bear to part from you.’
　　The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of thearm which accompanied these latter words, showed how theyfilled the speaker’s heart; nor were there wanting indications ofhow deeply they had touched the heart of him to whom they wereaddressed.
　　‘You say well,’ returned Nicholas at length, ‘and comfort me  1069very much, dear fellow. Let me hear you say you are happy, if youcan.’
　　‘I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret fromyou. 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 mightmake you happier, if I could.’
　　‘I know. I felt that, at the time.’ He drew his friend closer tohim. ‘You will forgive me; I could not help it, but though I wouldhave died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see—I know heloves her dearly—Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?’
　　The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, andbroken by long pauses; but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for thefirst time, that the dying boy, with all the ardour of a natureconcentrated on one absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved hissister 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 buthis might see it, and that when he was laid in his coffin and aboutto 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 promisedagain that he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. Theyembraced, 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,  1070spoke of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out beforehim, and were filled with figures of men, women, and manychildren, all with light upon their faces; then, whispered that itwas Eden—and so died.
Chapter 59
The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers todisturb the Plotter.
　　Ralph sat alone, in the solitary room where he wasaccustomed to take his meals, and to sit of nights when noprofitable occupation called him abroad. Before him wasan untasted breakfast, and near to where his fingers beatrestlessly upon the table, lay his watch. It was long past the time atwhich, for many years, he had put it in his pocket and gone withmeasured steps downstairs to the business of the day, but he tookas little heed of its monotonous warning, as of the meat and drinkbefore him, and remained with his head resting on one hand, andhis eyes fixed moodily on the ground.
　　This departure from his regular and constant habit, in one soregular and unvarying in all that appertained to the daily pursuitof riches, would almost of itself have told that the usurer was notwell. 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 hollowlanguid eyes: which he raised at last with a start and a hastyglance around him, as one who suddenly awakes from sleep, andcannot immediately recognise the place in which he finds himself.
　　‘What is this,’ he said, ‘that hangs over me, and I cannot shakeoff? I have never pampered myself, and should not be ill. I havenever moped, and pined, and yielded to fancies; but what can aman do without rest?’
　　  1072He 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 thesame detested faces crowding round me—of the same detestedpeople, in every variety of action, mingling with all I say and do,and always to my defeat? Waking, what rest have I, constantlyhaunted by this heavy shadow of—I know not what—which is itsworst character? I must have rest. One night’s unbroken rest, andI should be a man again.’
　　Pushing the table from him while he spoke, as though heloathed the sight of food, he encountered the watch: the hands ofwhich were almost upon noon.
　　‘This is strange!’ he said; ‘noon, and Noggs not here! Whatdrunken brawl keeps him away? I would give something now—something in money even after that dreadful loss—if he hadstabbed a man in a tavern scuffle, or broken into a house, orpicked a pocket, or done anything that would send him abroadwith an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of him. Better still, if Icould throw temptation in his way, and lure him on to rob me. Heshould be welcome to what he took, so I brought the law uponhim; for he is a traitor, I swear! How, or when, or where, I don’tknow, though I suspect.’
　　After waiting for another half-hour, he dispatched the womanwho 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 thathe had not been home all night, and that no one could tell heranything about him.
　　‘But there is a gentleman, sir,’ she said, ‘below, who wasstanding at the door when I came in, and he says—’
　　  1073‘What says he?’ demanded Ralph, turning angrily upon her. ‘Itold you I would see nobody.’
　　‘He says,’ replied the woman, abashed by his harshness, ‘thathe 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 andspeculate on people’s business with me, do you?’
　　‘Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious, and thought it might beabout 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 shehad said her master was engaged, but she would take the message.
　　‘Well,’ said Ralph, ‘I’ll see him. Go you to your kitchen, andkeep there. Do you mind me?’
　　Glad to be released, the woman quickly disappeared. Collectinghimself, and assuming as much of his accustomed manner as hisutmost resolution could summon, Ralph descended the stairs.
　　After pausing for a few moments, with his hand upon the lock, heentered Newman’s room, and confronted Mr Charles Cheeryble.
　　Of all men alive, this was one of the last he would have wishedto meet at any time; but, now that he recognised in him only thepatron and protector of Nicholas, he would rather have seen aspectre. One beneficial effect, however, the encounter had uponhim. It instantly roused all his dormant energies; rekindled in hisbreast the passions that, for many years, had found an improvinghome there; called up all his wrath, hatred, and malice; restoredthe sneer to his lip, and the scowl to his brow; and made himagain, in all outward appearance, the same Ralph Nickleby whom  1074so many had bitter cause to remember.
　　‘Humph!’ said Ralph, pausing at the door. ‘This is anunexpected favour, sir.’
　　‘And an unwelcome one,’ said brother Charles; ‘an unwelcomeone, I know.’
　　‘Men say you are truth itself, sir,’ replied Ralph. ‘You speaktruth now, at all events, and I’ll not contradict you. The favour is,at least, as unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can scarcely saymore.’
　　‘Plainly, sir—’ began brother Charles.
　　‘Plainly, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, ‘I wish this conference to be ashort one, and to end where it begins. I guess the subject uponwhich you are about to speak, and I’ll not hear you. You likeplainness, I believe; there it is. Here is the door as you see. Ourway lies in very different directions. Take yours, I beg of you, andleave me to pursue mine in quiet.’
　　‘In quiet!’ repeated brother Charles mildly, and looking at himwith more of pity than reproach. ‘To pursue his way in quiet!’
　　‘You will scarcely remain in my house, I presume, sir, againstmy will,’ said Ralph; ‘or you can scarcely hope to make animpression 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 thanbefore, but firmly too: ‘I come here against my will, sorely andgrievously 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, andhave no wish ever to be here again. You do not guess the subjecton which I come to speak to you; you do not indeed. I am sure ofthat, or your manner would be a very different one.’
　　  1075Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear eye and opencountenance of the honest old merchant underwent no change ofexpression, and met his look without reserve.
　　‘Shall I go on?’ said Mr Cheeryble.
　　‘Oh, by all means, if you please,’ returned Ralph drily. ‘Here arewalls to speak to, sir, a desk, and two stools: most attentiveauditors, and certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg; make myhouse yours, and perhaps by the time I return from my walk, youwill have finished what you have to say, and will yield me uppossession again.’
　　So saying, he buttoned his coat, and turning into the passage,took down his hat. The old gentleman followed, and was about tospeak, when Ralph waved him off impatiently, and said:
　　‘Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word. Virtuous as you are, youare not an angel yet, to appear in men’s houses whether they willor no, and pour your speech into unwilling ears. Preach to thewalls 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 theangels, blessed opportunities of exercising, if they will; mercy. It isan errand of mercy that brings me here. Pray let me discharge it.’
　　‘I show no mercy,’ retorted Ralph with a triumphant smile, ‘andI ask none. Seek no mercy from me, sir, in behalf of the fellow whohas imposed upon your childish credulity, but let him expect theworst that I can do.’
　　‘He ask mercy at your hands!’ exclaimed the old merchantwarmly; ‘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  1076would say, and take measures to prevent our ever meeting again.
　　Your nephew is a noble lad, sir, an honest, noble lad. What youare, 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 beenrecently engaged, and find it difficult of pursuing, come to me andmy brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater, sir, and we’ll explain it foryou—and come soon, or it may be too late, and you may have itexplained with a little more roughness, and a little less delicacy—and never forget, sir, that I came here this morning, in mercy toyou, 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 RalphNickleby without any other remark, trotted nimbly into the street.
　　Ralph looked after him, but neither moved nor spoke for sometime: when he broke what almost seemed the silence ofstupefaction, by a scornful laugh.
　　‘This,’ he said, ‘from its wildness, should be another of thosedreams 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 andcontemptuous manner, it was plain that, the more Ralphpondered, the more ill at ease he became, and the more helaboured under some vague anxiety and alarm, which increased asthe time passed on and no tidings of Newman Noggs arrived. Afterwaiting until late in the afternoon, tortured by variousapprehensions and misgivings, and the recollection of the warningwhich his nephew had given him when they last met: the furtherconfirmation of which now presented itself in one shape ofprobability, now in another, and haunted him perpetually: he left  1077home, and, scarcely knowing why, save that he was in a suspiciousand agitated mood, betook himself to Snawley’s house. His wifepresented herself; and, of her, Ralph inquired whether herhusband was at home.
　　‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘he is not indeed, and I don’t think he willbe 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 hedoes too, and sorry am I that I should have to say it.’
　　‘Tell him that I saw him through the window-blind above, as Icrossed the road just now, and that I would speak to him onbusiness,’ said Ralph. ‘Do you hear?’
　　‘I hear,’ rejoined Mrs Snawley, taking no further notice of therequest.
　　‘I knew this woman was a hypocrite, in the way of psalms andScripture phrases,’ said Ralph, passing quietly by, ‘but I neverknew 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 yourschemes would come to. It was either you or the schoolmaster—one of you, or the two between you—that got the forged letterdone; remember that! That wasn’t his doing, so don’t lay it at hisdoor.’
　　‘Hold your tongue, you Jezebel,’ said Ralph, looking fearfullyround.
　　‘Ah, I know when to hold my tongue, and when to speak, MrNickleby,’ retorted the dame. ‘Take care that other people know  1078when to hold theirs.’
　　‘You jade,’ said Ralph, ‘if your husband has been idiot enoughto trust you with his secrets, keep them; keep them, she-devil thatyou are!’
　　‘Not so much his secrets as other people’s secrets, perhaps,’
　　retorted the woman; ‘not so much his secrets as yours. None ofyour black looks at me! You’ll want ’em all, perhaps, for anothertime. You had better keep ’em.’
　　‘Will you,’ said Ralph, suppressing his passion as well as hecould, and clutching her tightly by the wrist; ‘will you go to yourhusband and tell him that I know he is at home, and that I mustsee him? And will you tell me what it is that you and he mean bythis new style of behaviour?’
　　‘No,’ replied the woman, violently disengaging herself, ‘I’ll doneither.’
　　‘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 wereabout to strike her; but, checking himself, and nodding his headand muttering as though to assure her he would not forget this,walked away.
　　Thence, he went straight to the inn which Mr Squeersfrequented, and inquired when he had been there last; in thevague hope that, successful or unsuccessful, he might, by thistime, have returned from his mission and be able to assure himthat 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 lefthis luggage and his bill.
　　Disturbed by a thousand fears and surmises, and bent upon  1079ascertaining whether Squeers had any suspicion of Snawley, orwas, in any way, a party to this altered behaviour, Ralphdetermined to hazard the extreme step of inquiring for him at theLambeth lodging, and having an interview with him even there.
　　Bent upon this purpose, and in that mood in which delay isinsupportable, he repaired at once to the place; and being, bydescription, 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 toconvince Ralph, against his wish, that there was nobody inside. Hereasoned that he might be asleep; and, listening, almost persuadedhimself that he could hear him breathe. Even when he wassatisfied that he could not be there, he sat patiently on a brokenstair and waited; arguing, that he had gone out upon some slighterrand, and must soon return.
　　Many feet came up the creaking stairs; and the step of someseemed to his listening ear so like that of the man for whom hewaited, that Ralph often stood up to be ready to address him whenhe reached the top; but, one by one, each person turned off intosome room short of the place where he was stationed: and at everysuch disappointment he felt quite chilled and lonely.
　　At length he felt it was hopeless to remain, and goingdownstairs again, inquired of one of the lodgers if he knewanything of Mr Squeers’s movements—mentioning that worthy byan assumed name which had been agreed upon between them. Bythis lodger he was referred to another, and by him to someoneelse, from whom he learnt, that, late on the previous night, he hadgone out hastily with two men, who had shortly afterwardsreturned for the old woman who lived on the same floor; and that,  1080although the circumstance had attracted the attention of theinformant, he had not spoken to them at the time, nor made anyinquiry afterwards.
　　This possessed him with the idea that, perhaps, Peg Sliderskewhad been apprehended for the robbery, and that Mr Squeers,being with her at the time, had been apprehended also, onsuspicion of being a confederate. If this were so, the fact must beknown to Gride; and to Gride’s house he directed his steps; nowthoroughly 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, anddeserted. But this was its usual aspect. He knocked—gently atfirst—then loud and vigorously. Nobody came. He wrote a fewwords in pencil on a card, and having thrust it under the door wasgoing away, when a noise above, as though a window-sash werestealthily raised, caught his ear, and looking up he could justdiscern the face of Gride himself, cautiously peering over thehouse parapet from the window of the garret. Seeing who wasbelow, he drew it in again; not so quickly, however, but that Ralphlet him know he was observed, and called to him to come down.
　　The call being repeated, Gride looked out again, so cautiouslythat no part of the old man’s body was visible. The sharp featuresand white hair appearing alone, above the parapet, looked like asevered 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 ofecstasy of impatience. ‘Don’t speak to me, don’t knock, don’t call  1081attention to the house, but go away.’
　　‘I’ll knock, I swear, till I have your neighbours up in arms,’ saidRalph, ‘if you don’t tell me what you mean by lurking there, youwhining cur.’
　　‘I can’t hear what you say—don’t talk to me—it isn’t safe—goaway—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, leftstanding in the street, could hear the sash closed, as gently andcarefully as it had been opened.
　　‘How is this,’ said he, ‘that they all fall from me, and shun melike 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’llknow what it means! I will, at any cost. I am firmer and moremyself, 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 shouldimpel him to open it, he turned his face towards the city, andworking his way steadily through the crowd which was pouringfrom it (it was by this time between five and six o’clock in theafternoon) went straight to the house of business of the brothersCheeryble, and putting his head into the glass case, found TimLinkinwater 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.’
　　  1082‘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 hishead once, in a curt manner which seemed to say there was a littlemore 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,’ saidRalph, pointing out with his finger the man whom he addressed.
　　‘I have no secrets from my brother Ned, or from TimLinkinwater,’ observed brother Charles quietly.
　　‘I have,’ said Ralph.
　　‘Mr Nickleby, sir,’ said brother Ned, ‘the matter upon which mybrother Charles called upon you this morning is one which isalready 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 ofdelicacy and consideration. We feel, now, that further delicacy andconsideration would be misplaced; and, if we confer together, itmust be as we are or not at all.’
　　‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Ralph with a curl of the lip, ‘talking inriddles would seem to be the peculiar forte of you two, and Isuppose your clerk, like a prudent man, has studied the art alsowith a view to your good graces. Talk in company, gentlemen, inGod’s name. I’ll humour you.’
　　‘Humour!’ cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly growing very redin 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’llhumour Cheeryble Brothers?’
　　  1083‘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 theadditional 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’lltake 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 haveassumed, and that underhand interference in my affairs which, Ihave reason to suppose, you have been practising. I tell youplainly, 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 andmalice. Whether you suffer yourselves to be imposed upon tooeasily, or wilfully make yourselves parties to it, the result to me isthe same. In either case, you can’t expect from a plain man likemyself much consideration or forbearance.’
　　So coolly and deliberately was this said, that nine men out often, ignorant of the circumstances, would have supposed Ralph tobe really an injured man. There he sat, with folded arms; palerthan usual, certainly, and sufficiently ill-favoured, but quitecollected—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 shouldremain silent, if he can, till we have said what we have to say. I  1084wish 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, lookinground, Ralph’s eyes met those of Newman Noggs. From thatmoment, his heart began to fail him.
　　‘This is a good beginning,’ he said bitterly. ‘Oh! this is a goodbeginning. You are candid, honest, open-hearted, fair-dealingmen! I always knew the real worth of such characters as yours! Totamper with a fellow like this, who would sell his soul (if he hadone) for drink, and whose every word is a lie. What men are safe ifthis is done? Oh, it’s a good beginning!’
　　‘I will speak,’ cried Newman, standing on tiptoe to look overTim’s head, who had interposed to prevent him. ‘Hallo, you sir—old Nickleby!—what do you mean when you talk of “a fellow likethis”? Who made me “a fellow like this”? If I would sell my soulfor drink, why wasn’t I a thief, swindler, housebreaker, area sneak,robber of pence out of the trays of blind men’s dogs, rather thanyour drudge and packhorse? If my every word was a lie, whywasn’t I a pet and favourite of yours? Lie! When did I ever cringeand fawn to you. Tell me that! I served you faithfully. I did morework, because I was poor, and took more hard words from youbecause I despised you and them, than any man you could havegot from the parish workhouse. I did. I served you because I wasproud; because I was a lonely man with you, and there were noother drudges to see my degradation; and because nobody knew,better than you, that I was a ruined man: that I hadn’t always beenwhat I am: and that I might have been better off, if I hadn’t been afool and fallen into the hands of you and others who were knaves.
　　  1085Do you deny that?’
　　‘Gently,’ reasoned Tim; ‘you said you wouldn’t.’
　　‘I said I wouldn’t!’ cried Newman, thrusting him aside, andmoving 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, justnow. Who tampered with Yorkshire schoolmasters, and, whilethey sent the drudge out, that he shouldn’t overhear, forgot thatsuch great caution might render him suspicious, and that he mightwatch his master out at nights, and might set other eyes to watchthe schoolmaster? Who tampered with a selfish father, urging himto sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and tampered with Gridetoo, and did so in the little office, with a closet in the room?’
　　Ralph had put a great command upon himself; but he could nothave suppressed a slight start, if he had been certain to bebeheaded for it next moment.
　　‘Aha!’ cried Newman, ‘you mind me now, do you? What first setthis fag to be jealous of his master’s actions, and to feel that, if hehadn’t crossed him when he might, he would have been as bad ashe, or worse? That master’s cruel treatment of his own flesh andblood, and vile designs upon a young girl who interested even hisbroken-down, drunken, miserable hack, and made him linger inhis service, in the hope of doing her some good (as, thank God, hehad done others once or twice before), when he would, otherwise,have relieved his feelings by pummelling his master soundly, andthen going to the Devil. He would—mark that; and mark this—thatI’m here now, because these gentlemen thought it best. When Isought them out (as I did; there was no tampering with me), I toldthem I wanted help to find you out, to trace you down, to go  1086through with what I had begun, to help the right; and that when Ihad 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 letanybody else say theirs, and fire away!’
　　With this concluding sentiment, Newman Noggs, who had beenperpetually sitting down and getting up again all through hisspeech, which he had delivered in a series of jerks; and who was,from the violent exercise and the excitement combined, in a stateof most intense and fiery heat; became, without passing throughany intermediate stage, stiff, upright, and motionless, and soremained, 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 ina choking voice:
　　‘Go on, gentlemen, go on! I’m patient, you see. There’s law to behad, there’s law. I shall call you to an account for this. Take carewhat you say; I shall make you prove it.’
　　‘The proof is ready,’ returned brother Charles, ‘quite ready toour hands. The man Snawley, last night, made a confession.’
　　‘Who may “the man Snawley” be,’ returned Ralph, ‘and whatmay his “confession” have to do with my affairs?’
　　To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexibility of manner, theold gentleman returned no answer, but went on to say, that toshow him how much they were in earnest, it would be necessary totell him, not only what accusations were made against him, butwhat proof of them they had, and how that proof had beenacquired. This laying open of the whole question brought upbrother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and Newman Noggs, all three atonce; who, after a vast deal of talking together, and a scene of  1087great confusion, laid before Ralph, in distinct terms, the followingstatement.
　　That, Newman, having been solemnly assured by one not thenproducible that Smike was not the son of Snawley, and this personhaving offered to make oath to that effect, if necessary, they hadby 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 ofdisproving. That, once suspecting the existence of a conspiracy,they had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to the malice ofRalph, and the vindictiveness and avarice of Squeers. That,suspicion and proof being two very different things, they had beenadvised by a lawyer, eminent for his sagacity and acuteness insuch practice, to resist the proceedings taken on the other side forthe recovery of the youth as slowly and artfully as possible, andmeanwhile to beset Snawley (with whom it was clear the mainfalsehood must rest); to lead him, if possible, into contradictoryand conflicting statements; to harass him by all available means;and so to practise on his fears, and regard for his own safety, as toinduce him to divulge the whole scheme, and to give up hisemployer and whomsoever else he could implicate. That, all thishad been skilfully done; but that Snawley, who was well practisedin the arts of low cunning and intrigue, had successfully baffled alltheir attempts, until an unexpected circumstance had broughthim, last night, upon his knees.
　　It thus arose. When Newman Noggs reported that Squeers wasagain in town, and that an interview of such secrecy had takenplace between him and Ralph that he had been sent out of thehouse, plainly lest he should overhear a word, a watch was set  1088upon the schoolmaster, in the hope that something might bediscovered which would throw some light upon the suspected plot.
　　It being found, however, that he held no further communicationwith Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived quite alone, theywere completely at fault; the watch was withdrawn, and theywould have observed his motions no longer, if it had not happenedthat, one night, Newman stumbled unobserved on him and Ralphin the street together. Following them, he discovered, to hissurprise, that they repaired to various low lodging-houses, andtaverns kept by broken gamblers, to more than one of whomRalph was known, and that they were in pursuit—so he found byinquiries when they had left—of an old woman, whose descriptionexactly tallied with that of deaf Mrs Sliderskew. Affairs nowappearing to assume a more serious complexion, the watch wasrenewed with increased vigilance; an officer was procured, whotook up his abode in the same tavern with Squeers: and by himand Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of the unconsciousschoolmaster were dogged, until he was safely housed in thelodging at Lambeth. Mr Squeers having shifted his lodging, theofficer shifted his, and lying concealed in the same street, and,indeed, in the opposite house, soon found that Mr Squeers andMrs Sliderskew were in constant communication.
　　In this state of things, Arthur Gride was appealed to. Therobbery, partly owing to the inquisitiveness of the neighbours, andpartly to his own grief and rage, had, long ago, become known; buthe positively refused to give his sanction or yield any assistance tothe old woman’s capture, and was seized with such a panic at theidea of being called upon to give evidence against her, that he shuthimself up close in his house, and refused to hold communication  1089with anybody. Upon this, the pursuers took counsel together, and,coming so near the truth as to arrive at the conclusion that Grideand Ralph, with Squeers for their instrument, were negotiating forthe recovery of some of the stolen papers which would not bearthe light, and might possibly explain the hints relative to Madelinewhich Newman had overheard, resolved that Mrs Sliderskewshould 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, andthe time arrived when, as had been previously ascertained, heusually visited Mrs Sliderskew. This done, Frank Cheeryble andNewman stole upstairs to listen to their discourse, and to give thesignal to the officer at the most favourable time. At what anopportune moment they arrived, how they listened, and what theyheard, is already known to the reader. Mr Squeers, still halfstunned, was hurried off with a stolen deed in his possession, andMrs Sliderskew was apprehended likewise. The information beingpromptly carried to Snawley that Squeers was in custody—he wasnot told for what—that worthy, first extorting a promise that heshould be kept harmless, declared the whole tale concerningSmike to be a fiction and forgery, and implicated Ralph Nicklebyto the fullest extent. As to Mr Squeers, he had, that morning,undergone a private examination before a magistrate; and, beingunable to account satisfactorily for his possession of the deed orhis 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  1090produced, he suffered no sign of emotion to escape him, but satperfectly still, not raising his frowning eyes from the ground, andcovering his mouth with his hand. When the narrative wasconcluded; he raised his head hastily, as if about to speak, but onbrother Charles resuming, fell into his old attitude again.
　　‘I told you this morning,’ said the old gentleman, laying hishand upon his brother’s shoulder, ‘that I came to you in mercy.
　　How far you may be implicated in this last transaction, or how farthe person who is now in custody may criminate you, you bestknow. But, justice must take its course against the partiesimplicated in the plot against this poor, unoffending, injured lad. Itis not in my power, or in the power of my brother Ned, to save youfrom the consequences. The utmost we can do is, to warn you intime, and to give you an opportunity of escaping them. We wouldnot have an old man like you disgraced and punished by your nearrelation; nor would we have him forget, like you, all ties of bloodand nature. We entreat you—brother Ned, you join me, I know, inthis entreaty, and so, Tim Linkinwater, do you, although youpretend to be an obstinate dog, sir, and sit there frowning as if youdidn’t—we entreat you to retire from London, to take shelter insome place where you will be safe from the consequences of thesewicked designs, and where you may have time, sir, to atone forthem, 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 hundredfalse curs at my heels, or a hundred canting speeches full of oilywords, will move me? I thank you for disclosing your schemes,which I am now prepared for. You have not the man to deal with  1091that you think; try me! and remember that I spit upon your fairwords and false dealings, and dare you—provoke you—tauntyou—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 streetcabriolet he could find, and, directing the driver towards thepolice-office of the district in which Mr Squeers’s misfortuneshad occurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, dischargingthe man, went the rest of his way thither on foot. Inquiring for theobject of his solicitude, he learnt that he had timed his visit well;for Mr Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for a hackneycoach he had ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding to hisweek’s retirement, like a gentleman.
　　Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into akind of waiting-room in which, by reason of his scholasticprofession and superior respectability, Mr Squeers had beenpermitted to pass the day. Here, by the light of a guttering andblackened candle, he could barely discern the schoolmaster, fastasleep on a bench in a remote corner. An empty glass stood on atable before him, which, with his somnolent condition and a verystrong smell of brandy and water, forewarned the visitor that MrSqueers had been seeking, in creature comforts, a temporaryforgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.
　　It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic andheavy were his slumbers. Regaining his faculties by slow and faintglimmerings, he at length sat upright; and, displaying a veryyellow face, a very red nose, and a very bristly beard: the jointeffect of which was considerably heightened by a dirty white  1093handkerchief, spotted with blood, drawn over the crown of hishead 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 andbroke 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 cometill 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 ofprivate life, and the pride and ornament of a doting willage—here’s a shock for my family! The coat-of-arms of the Squeerses istore, and their sun is gone down into the ocean wave!’
　　‘You have been drinking,’ said Ralph, ‘and have not yet sleptyourself sober.’
　　‘I haven’t been drinking your health, my codger,’ replied MrSqueers; ‘so you have nothing to do with that.’
　　Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster’saltered and insolent manner awakened, and asked again why hehad not sent to him.
　　‘What should I get by sending to you?’ returned Squeers. ‘To beknown to be in with you wouldn’t do me a deal of good, and theywon’t take bail till they know something more of the case, so heream I hard and fast: and there are you, loose and comfortable.’
　　‘And so must you be in a few days,’ retorted Ralph, withaffected good-humour. ‘They can’t hurt you, man.’
　　  1094‘Why, I suppose they can’t do much to me, if I explain how itwas that I got into the good company of that there cadaverous oldSlider,’ replied Squeers viciously, ‘who I wish was dead andburied, and resurrected and dissected, and hung upon wires in aanatomical museum, before ever I’d had anything to do with her.
　　This is what him with the powdered head says this morning, in somany words: “Prisoner! As you have been found in company withthis 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 remandyou for a week, in order that inquiries may be made, and evidencegot. And meanwhile I can’t take any bail for your appearance.”
　　Well then, what I say now is, that I can give a satisfactory accountof myself; I can hand in the card of my establishment and say, “Iam the Wackford Squeers as is therein named, sir. I am the manas is guaranteed, by unimpeachable references, to be a out-andouter in morals and uprightness of principle. Whatever is wrong inthis business is no fault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I wasnot aware that anything was wrong. I was merely employed by afriend, my friend Mr Ralph Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send forhim, 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, forthe moment, the point just raised.
　　‘What document? Why, the document,’ replied Squeers. ‘TheMadeline What’s-her-name one. It was a will; that’s what it was.’
　　‘Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, towhat extent?’ asked Ralph hurriedly.
　　‘A will in her favour; that’s all I know,’ rejoined Squeers, ‘andthat’s more than you’d have known, if you’d had them bellows on  1095your head. It’s all owing to your precious caution that they gothold of it. If you had let me burn it, and taken my word that it wasgone, it would have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, instead ofbeing whole and sound, inside of my great-coat.’
　　‘Beaten at every point!’ muttered Ralph.
　　‘Ah!’ sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water andhis broken head, wandered strangely, ‘at the delightful village ofDotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, youth are boarded,clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, providedwith 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-qu-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 opportunityof recovering his presence of mind, which at once suggested tohim the necessity of removing, as far as possible, theschoolmaster’s misgivings, and leading him to believe that hissafety and best policy lay in the preservation of a rigid silence.
　　‘I tell you, once again,’ he said, ‘they can’t hurt you. You shallhave an action for false imprisonment, and make a profit of this,yet. We will devise a story for you that should carry you throughtwenty times such a trivial scrape as this; and if they want securityin a thousand pounds for your reappearance in case you should becalled upon, you shall have it. All you have to do is, to keep backthe truth. You’re a little fuddled tonight, and may not be able tosee this as clearly as you would at another time; but this is whatyou must do, and you’ll need all your senses about you; for a slip  1096might be awkward.’
　　‘Oh!’ said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with hishead stuck on one side, like an old raven. ‘That’s what I’m to do, isit? Now then, just you hear a word or two from me. I an’t a-goingto 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 yourshare, and I’ll take care you do. You never said anything aboutdanger. I never bargained for being brought into such a plight asthis, and I don’t mean to take it as quiet as you think. I let you leadme on, from one thing to another, because we had been mixed uptogether 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 youliked 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 justsay and do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advicefrom nobody. My moral influence with them lads,’ added MrSqueers, with deeper gravity, ‘is a tottering to its basis. Theimages of Mrs Squeers, my daughter, and my son Wackford, allshort of vittles, is perpetually before me; every other considerationmelts away and vanishes, in front of these; the only number in allarithmetic that I know of, as a husband and a father, is numberone, under this here most fatal go!’
　　How long Mr Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy adiscussion his declamation might have led to, nobody knows.
　　Being interrupted, at this point, by the arrival of the coach and anattendant who was to bear him company, he perched his hat withgreat dignity on the top of the handkerchief that bound his head;and, thrusting one hand in his pocket, and taking the attendant’s  1097arm with the other, suffered himself to be led forth.
　　‘As I supposed from his not sending!’ thought Ralph. ‘Thisfellow, I plainly see through all his tipsy fooling, has made up hismind to turn upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in, that they arenot only all struck with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, havetheir fling at me now, though time was, and no longer ago thanyesterday too, when they were all civility and compliance. But theyshall not move me. I’ll not give way. I will not budge one inch!’
　　He went home, and was glad to find his housekeepercomplaining of illness, that he might have an excuse for beingalone and sending her away to where she lived: which was hardby. Then, he sat down by the light of a single candle, and began tothink, for the first time, on all that had taken place that day.
　　He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, inaddition to the anxiety of mind he had undergone, had beentravelling about, from place to place almost incessantly, for manyhours. He felt sick and exhausted, but could taste nothing save aglass of water, and continued to sit with his head upon his hand;not resting nor thinking, but laboriously trying to do both, andfeeling that every sense but one of weariness and desolation, wasfor 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 histhoughts to bear upon that. It had been often repeated, and hehad, several times, heard a voice outside, saying there was a lightin the window (meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before hecould rouse himself and go downstairs.
　　‘Mr Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent tobeg you will come with me directly,’ said a voice he seemed to  1098recognise. He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking out, sawTim Linkinwater on the steps.
　　‘Come where?’ demanded Ralph.
　　‘To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coachhere.’
　　‘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 thoughhe would shut the door.
　　‘No, no!’ cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking mostearnestly; ‘it is only that you may hear something that hasoccurred: something very dreadful, Mr Nickleby, which concernsyou nearly. Do you think I would tell you so or come to you likethis, if it were not the case?’
　　Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeedgreatly excited, he faltered, and could not tell what to say or think.
　　‘You had better hear this now, than at any other time,’ saidTim; ‘it may have some influence with you. For Heaven’s sakecome!’
　　Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph’s obstinacy and dislike wouldhave been proof against any appeal from such a quarter, howeveremphatically urged; but now, after a moment’s hesitation, he wentinto the hall for his hat, and returning, got into the coach withoutspeaking a word.
　　Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as RalphNickleby went into the house for this purpose, he saw him, by thelight of the candle which he had set down upon a chair, reel andstagger like a drunken man. He well remembered, too, that whenhe had placed his foot upon the coach-steps, he turned round and  1099looked upon him with a face so ashy pale and so very wild andvacant that it made him shudder, and for the moment almostafraid to follow. People were fond of saying that he had some darkpresentiment upon him then, but his emotion might, perhaps, withgreater show of reason, be referred to what he had undergone thatday.
　　A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived attheir place of destination, Ralph followed his conductor into thehouse, and into a room where the two brothers were. He was soastounded, not to say awed, by something of a mute compassionfor himself which was visible in their manner and in that of the oldclerk, that he could scarcely speak.
　　Having taken a seat, however, he contrived to say, though inbroken words, ‘What—what have you to say to me—more than hasbeen said already?’
　　The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, andterminated in a bay window, about which hung some heavydrapery. Casting his eyes in this direction as he spoke, he thoughthe made out the dusky figure of a man. He was confirmed in thisimpression by seeing that the object moved, as if uneasy under hisscrutiny.
　　‘Who’s that yonder?’ he said.
　　‘One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, theintelligence which caused our sending to you,’ replied brotherCharles. ‘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 avertit from the window; but, before either of them could speak, he hadlooked round again. It was evident that he was rendered restless  1100and uncomfortable by the presence of the unseen person; for herepeated this action several times, and at length, as if in a nervousstate which rendered him positively unable to turn away from theplace, sat so as to have it opposite him, muttering as an excusethat he could not bear the light.
　　The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their mannershowing that they were agitated. Ralph glanced at them twice orthrice, and ultimately said, with a great effort to recover his self-possession, ‘Now, what is this? If I am brought from home at thistime of night, let it be for something. What have you got to tellme?’ After a short pause, he added, ‘Is my niece dead?’
　　He had struck upon a key which rendered the task ofcommencement an easier one. Brother Charles turned, and saidthat it was a death of which they had to tell him, but that his niecewas 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, ifyou told me so. It would be too welcome news to be true.’
　　‘Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural man,’ cried theother brother, warmly. ‘Prepare yourself for intelligence which, ifyou have any human feeling in your breast, will make even youshrink and tremble. What if we tell you that a poor unfortunateboy: a child in everything but never having known one of thosetender endearments, or one of those lightsome hours which makeour childhood a time to be remembered like a happy dreamthrough all our after life: a warm-hearted, harmless, affectionatecreature, who never offended you, or did you wrong, but on whomyou have vented the malice and hatred you have conceived foryour nephew, and whom you have made an instrument for  1101wreaking your bad passions upon him: what if we tell you that,sinking under your persecution, sir, and the misery and ill-usageof a life short in years but long in suffering, this poor creature hasgone to tell his sad tale where, for your part in it, you must surelyanswer?’
　　‘If you tell me,’ said Ralph; ‘if you tell me that he is dead, Iforgive you all else. If you tell me that he is dead, I am in your debtand bound to you for life. He is! I see it in your faces. Whotriumphs now? Is this your dreadful news; this your terribleintelligence? You see how it moves me. You did well to send. Iwould 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 seein the faces of the two brothers, mingling with their look of disgustand horror, something of that indefinable compassion for himselfwhich 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 byit! Ha, ha, ha! But I tell him that I’ll be a sharp thorn in his side formany a long day to come; and I tell you two, again, that you don’tknow him yet; and that you’ll rue the day you took compassion onthe vagabond.’
　　‘You take me for your nephew,’ said a hollow voice; ‘it would bebetter for you, and for me too, if I were he indeed.’
　　The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowlydown. He started back, for he found that he confronted—notNicholas, as he had supposed, but Brooker.
　　Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had  1102never feared him before; but the pallor which had been observedin his face when he issued forth that night, came upon him again.
　　He was seen to tremble, and his voice changed as he said, keepinghis eyes upon him,‘What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, afelon, a common thief?’
　　‘Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr Nickleby, hear what hehas to tell you, be he what he may!’ cried the brothers, with suchemphatic earnestness, that Ralph turned to them in wonder. Theypointed to Brooker. Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemedmechanically.
　　‘That boy,’ said the man, ‘that these gentlemen have beentalking of—’
　　‘That boy,’ repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
　　‘Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who isnow in his grave—’
　　‘Who is now in his grave,’ echoed Ralph, like one who talks inhis sleep.
　　The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnlytogether:
　　‘—Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!’
　　In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his twohands upon his temples. He removed them, after a minute, andnever was there seen, part of a living man undisfigured by anywound, such a ghastly face as he then disclosed. He looked atBrooker, who was by this time standing at a short distance fromhim; but did not say one word, or make the slightest sound orgesture.
　　‘Gentlemen,’ said the man, ‘I offer no excuses for myself. I am  1103long past that. If, in telling you how this has happened, I tell youthat 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 shieldmyself. I am a guilty man.’
　　He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking away from Ralph, andaddressing himself to the brothers, proceeded in a subdued andhumble 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, whohad run through his own fortune, and wanted to squander awaythat of his sister: they were both orphans, and she lived with himand managed his house. I don’t know whether it was, originally, toback his influence and try to over-persuade the young woman ornot, but he,’ pointing, to Ralph, ‘used to go down to the house inLeicestershire pretty often, and stop there many days at a time.
　　They had had a great many dealings together, and he may havegone on some of those, or to patch up his client’s affairs, whichwere in a ruinous state; of course he went for profit. Thegentlewoman was not a girl, but she was, I have heard say,handsome, and entitled to a pretty large property. In course oftime, he married her. The same love of gain which led him tocontract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly private; for aclause in her father’s will declared that if she married without herbrother’s consent, the property, in which she had only some lifeinterest while she remained single, should pass away altogether toanother branch of the family. The brother would give no consentthat the sister didn’t buy, and pay for handsomely; Mr Nicklebywould consent to no such sacrifice; and so they went on, keeping  1104their marriage secret, and waiting for him to break his neck or dieof a fever. He did neither, and meanwhile the result of this privatemarriage 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 whichseemed to come almost within his grasp now, for his brother-inlaw was very ill, and breaking more and more every day—neverwent near him, to avoid raising any suspicion. The brotherlingered on; Mr Nickleby’s wife constantly urged him to avow theirmarriage; he peremptorily refused. She remained alone in a dullcountry house: seeing little or no company but riotous, drunkensportsmen. He lived in London and clung to his business. Angryquarrels and recriminations took place, and when they had beenmarried nearly seven years, and were within a few weeks of thetime when the brother’s death would have adjusted all, she elopedwith a younger man, and left him.’
　　Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signedto him to proceed.
　　‘It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstancesfrom his own lips. They were no secrets then; for the brother, andothers, knew them; but they were communicated to me, not onthis account, but because I was wanted. He followed the fugitives.
　　Some said to make money of his wife’s shame, but, I believe, totake some violent revenge, for that was as much his character asthe other; perhaps more. He didn’t find them, and she died notlong after. I don’t know whether he began to think he might likethe child, or whether he wished to make sure that it should neverfall into its mother’s hands; but, before he went, he intrusted mewith the charge of bringing it home. And I did so.’
　　  1105He went on, from this point, in a still more humble tone, andspoke in a very low voice; pointing to Ralph as he resumed.
　　‘He had used me ill—cruelly—I reminded him in what, not longago when I met him in the street—and I hated him. I brought thechild 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 adoctor, who said he must be removed for change of air, or hewould die. I think that first put it in my head. I did it then. He wasgone six weeks, and when he came back, I told him—with everycircumstance well planned and proved; nobody could havesuspected me—that the child was dead and buried. He might havebeen disappointed in some intention he had formed, or he mighthave had some natural affection, but he was grieved at that, and Iwas confirmed in my design of opening up the secret one day, andmaking it a means of getting money from him. I had heard, likemost other men, of Yorkshire schools. I took the child to one keptby a man named Squeers, and left it there. I gave him the name ofSmike. Year by year, I paid twenty pounds a-year for him for sixyears; never breathing the secret all the time; for I had left hisfather’s service after more hard usage, and quarrelled with himagain. I was sent away from this country. I have been away nearlyeight years. Directly I came home again, I travelled down intoYorkshire, and, skulking in the village of an evening-time, madeinquiries about the boys at the school, and found that this one,whom I had placed there, had run away with a young man bearingthe name of his own father. I sought his father out in London, andhinting at what I could tell him, tried for a little money to supportlife; 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  1106good reasons for communicating with me, learnt what was goingon; and it was I who told him that the boy was no son of the manwho claimed to be his father. All this time I had never seen theboy. At length, I heard from this same source that he was very ill,and where he was. I travelled down there, that I might recallmyself, if possible, to his recollection and confirm my story. I cameupon him unexpectedly; but before I could speak he knew me—hehad good cause to remember me, poor lad!—and I would havesworn to him if I had met him in the Indies. I knew the piteousface I had seen in the little child. After a few days’ indecision, Iapplied to the young gentleman in whose care he was, and I foundthat 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 Ihave spoken of, and in his father’s house to this day. This is mystory. 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 thatit’s too true, and that I have this guilt upon my soul.’
　　‘Unhappy man!’ said the brothers. ‘What reparation can youmake for this?’
　　‘None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing tohope now. I am old in years, and older still in misery and care.
　　This confession can bring nothing upon me but new suffering andpunishment; but I make it, and will abide by it whatever comes. Ihave been made the instrument of working out this dreadfulretribution upon the head of a man who, in the hot pursuit of hisbad ends, has persecuted and hunted down his own child to death.
　　It must descend upon me too. I know it must fall. My reparationcomes too late; and, neither in this world nor in the next, can I  1107have hope again!’
　　He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon thetable close to where Ralph was seated, and which was the only onein the room, was thrown to the ground, and left them in darkness.
　　There was some trifling confusion in obtaining another light; theinterval was a mere nothing; but when the light appeared, RalphNickleby was gone.
　　The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time indiscussing the probability of his return; and, when it becameapparent that he would not come back, they hesitated whether orno to send after him. At length, remembering how strangely andsilently he had sat in one immovable position during the interview,and thinking he might possibly be ill, they determined, although itwas now very late, to send to his house on some pretence. Findingan excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom they knew not how todispose of without consulting his wishes, they concluded to actupon this resolution before going to bed.
Chapter 61
Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the goodOpinion of all worldly and prudent People.
　　O n the next morning after Brooker’s disclosure had beenmade, Nicholas returned home. The meeting between himand those whom he had left there was not without strongemotion on both sides; for they had been informed by his letters ofwhat had occurred: and, besides that his griefs were theirs, theymourned with him the death of one whose forlorn and helplessstate had first established a claim upon their compassion, andwhose 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 sobbingbitterly, ‘I have lost the best, the most zealous, and most attentivecreature that has ever been a companion to me in my life—puttingyou, my dear Nicholas, and Kate, and your poor papa, and thatwell-behaved nurse who ran away with the linen and the twelvesmall forks, out of the question, of course. Of all the tractable,equal-tempered, attached, and faithful beings that ever lived, Ibelieve 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 itfilled with so many of those little contrivances for our comfort thathe was so fond of making, and made so well, and so little thoughthe 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  1109good you always were to him—so it will be to me, to think whatexcellent terms we were always upon, and how fond he always wasof me, poor fellow! It was very natural you should have beenattached to him, my dear—very—and of course you were, and arevery much cut up by this. I am sure it’s only necessary to look atyou and see how changed you are, to see that; but nobody knowswhat my feelings are—nobody can—it’s quite impossible!’
　　While Mrs Nickleby, with the utmost sincerity, gave vent to hersorrows after her own peculiar fashion of considering herselfforemost, she was not the only one who indulged such feelings.
　　Kate, although well accustomed to forget herself when others wereto be considered, could not repress her grief; Madeline wasscarcely less moved than she; and poor, hearty, honest little MissLa Creevy, who had come upon one of her visits while Nicholaswas away, and had done nothing, since the sad news arrived, butconsole and cheer them all, no sooner beheld him coming in at thedoor, than she sat herself down upon the stairs, and bursting intoa flood of tears, refused for a long time to be comforted.
　　‘It hurts me so,’ cried the poor body, ‘to see him come backalone. I can’t help thinking what he must have suffered himself. Iwouldn’t mind so much if he gave way a little more; but he bears itso manfully.’
　　‘Why, so I should,’ said Nicholas, ‘should I not?’
　　‘Yes, yes,’ replied the little woman, ‘and bless you for a goodcreature! but this does seem at first to a simple soul like me—Iknow it’s wrong to say so, and I shall be sorry for it presently—thisdoes 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,  1110and the recollection that I was his constant companion, and wasnot 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 anungrateful, impious, wicked little fool, I know.’
　　With that, the good soul fell to crying afresh, and, endeavouringto recover herself, tried to laugh. The laugh and the cry, meetingeach other thus abruptly, had a struggle for the mastery; the resultwas, that it was a drawn battle, and Miss La Creevy went intohysterics.
　　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 foundKate sitting by his bedside, who, seeing that he had opened hiseyes, 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, ‘mamaand I, and—and Madeline.’
　　‘You said in your last letter that she was quite well,’ saidNicholas, rather hastily, and colouring as he spoke. ‘Has nothingbeen said, since I have been away, about any future arrangementsthat the brothers have in contemplation for her?’
　　‘Oh, not a word,’ replied Kate. ‘I can’t think of parting from herwithout sorrow; and surely, Nicholas, you don’t wish it!’
　　Nicholas coloured again, and, sitting down beside his sister on alittle couch near the window, said:
　　‘No, Kate, no, I do not. I might strive to disguise my real  1111feelings from anybody but you; but I will tell you that—briefly andplainly, 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 tryto 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 mustelapse before it comes, and when it does come (if ever) I shall be sounlike what I am now, and shall have so outlived my days of youthand romance—though not, I am sure, of love for her—that even Ifeel how visionary all such hopes must be, and try to crush themrudely myself, and have the pain over, rather than suffer time towither them, and keep the disappointment in store. No, Kate!
　　Since I have been absent, I have had, in that poor fellow who isgone, perpetually before my eyes, another instance of themunificent liberality of these noble brothers. As far as in me lies, Iwill deserve it, and if I have wavered in my bounden duty to thembefore, I am now determined to discharge it rigidly, and to putfurther 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 onpurpose, but I had not the courage. What you say now, gives menew heart.’ She faltered, and burst into tears.
　　There was that in her manner which prepared Nicholas forwhat was coming. Kate tried to speak, but her tears prevented her.
　　‘Come, you foolish girl,’ said Nicholas; ‘why, Kate, Kate, be awoman! I think I know what you would tell me. It concerns Mr  1112Frank, 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 beenaway,’ 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 sincefound you told mama; and while I could not conceal from him, andcannot from you, that—that it was a pang and a great trial, I did sofirmly, and begged him not to see me any more.’
　　‘That’s my own brave Kate!’ said Nicholas, pressing her to hisbreast. ‘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 unclesof the step he had taken, but would communicate it to you also,directly you returned. I am afraid,’ she added, her momentarycomposure forsaking her, ‘I am afraid I may not have said,strongly enough, how deeply I felt such disinterested love, andhow earnestly I prayed for his future happiness. If you do talktogether, I should—I should like him to know that.’
　　‘And did you suppose, Kate, when you had made this sacrificeto what you knew was right and honourable, that I should shrinkfrom 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 thenear relation of our benefactors, but she is closely bound to themby ties as dear; and I was first intrusted with her history, speciallybecause they reposed unbounded confidence in me, and believed  1113that I was as true as steel. How base would it be of me to takeadvantage of the circumstances which placed her here, or of theslight service I was happily able to render her, and to seek toengage her affections when the result must be, if I succeeded, thatthe brothers would be disappointed in their darling wish ofestablishing her as their own child, and that I must seem to hopeto build my fortunes on their compassion for the young creaturewhom I had so meanly and unworthily entrapped: turning hervery gratitude and warmth of heart to my own purpose andaccount, and trading in her misfortunes! I, too, whose duty, andpride, and pleasure, Kate, it is to have other claims upon me whichI will never forget; and who have the means of a comfortable andhappy life already, and have no right to look beyond it! I havedetermined to remove this weight from my mind. I doubt whetherI have not done wrong, even now; and today I will, without reserveor equivocation, disclose my real reasons to Mr Cherryble, andimplore him to take immediate measures for removing this younglady 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 toreflect, and has awakened me to a more anxious and careful senseof duty, why should I wait until the impression has cooled? Youwould 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 shallever be the same to each other, and in that our comfort lies. Whatif we have but one home? It can never be a solitary one to you and  1114me. What if we were to remain so true to these first impressions asto form no others? It is but one more link to the strong chain thatbinds 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 ourchildish days: and recollecting with a melancholy pleasure that thetime was, when they could move us. Perhaps then, when we arequaint old folks and talk of the times when our step was lighterand our hair not grey, we may be even thankful for the trials thatso endeared us to each other, and turned our lives into thatcurrent, down which we shall have glided so peacefully andcalmly. And having caught some inkling of our story, the youngpeople about us—as young as you and I are now, Kate—may cometo us for sympathy, and pour distresses which hope andinexperience could scarcely feel enough for, into thecompassionate ears of the old bachelor brother and his maidensister.’
　　Kate smiled through her tears as Nicholas drew this picture;but they were not tears of sorrow, although they continued to fallwhen 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 Iam that I have acted as you would have had me.’
　　‘You don’t regret?’
　　‘N-n-no,’ said Kate timidly, tracing some pattern upon theground with her little foot. ‘I don’t regret having done what washonourable and right, of course; but I do regret that this shouldhave ever happened—at least sometimes I regret it, andsometimes I—I don’t know what I say; I am but a weak girl,  1115Nicholas, and it has agitated me very much.’
　　It is no vaunt to affirm that if Nicholas had had ten thousandpounds at the minute, he would, in his generous affection for theowner of the blushing cheek and downcast eye, have bestowed itsutmost farthing, in perfect forgetfulness of himself, to secure herhappiness. But all he could do was to comfort and console her bykind words; and words they were of such love and kindness, andcheerful encouragement, that poor Kate threw her arms about hisneck, and declared she would weep no more.
　　‘What man,’ thought Nicholas proudly, while on his way, soonafterwards, to the brothers’ house, ‘would not be sufficientlyrewarded for any sacrifice of fortune by the possession of such aheart as Kate’s, which, but that hearts weigh light, and gold andsilver heavy, is beyond all praise? Frank has money, and wants nomore. Where would it buy him such a treasure as Kate? And yet,in unequal marriages, the rich party is always supposed to make agreat sacrifice, and the other to get a good bargain! But I amthinking like a lover, or like an ass: which I suppose is prettynearly the same.’
　　Checking thoughts so little adapted to the business on which hewas bound, by such self-reproofs as this and many others no lesssturdy, he proceeded on his way and presented himself before TimLinkinwater.
　　‘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 atyou. Hark! there he is, d’ye hear him? That was Dick, theblackbird. He hasn’t been himself since you’ve been gone. He’d  1116never get on without you, now; he takes as naturally to you as hedoes to me.’
　　‘Dick is a far less sagacious fellow than I supposed him, if hethinks I am half so well worthy of his notice as you,’ repliedNicholas.
　　‘Why, I’ll tell you what, sir,’ said Tim, standing in his favouriteattitude and pointing to the cage with the feather of his pen, ‘it’s avery extraordinary thing about that bird, that the only people heever takes the smallest notice of, are Mr Charles, and Mr Ned, andyou, and me.’
　　Here, Tim stopped and glanced anxiously at Nicholas; thenunexpectedly catching his eye repeated, ‘And you and me, sir, andyou and me.’ And then he glanced at Nicholas again, and,squeezing his hand, said, ‘I am a bad one at putting off anything Iam interested in. I didn’t mean to ask you, but I should like to heara few particulars about that poor boy. Did he mention CheerybleBrothers at all?’
　　‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘many and many a time.’
　　‘That was right of him,’ returned Tim, wiping his eyes; ‘that wasvery 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. ‘Poorfellow! I wish we could have had him buried in town. There isn’tsuch a burying-ground in all London as that little one on the otherside of the square—there are counting-houses all round it, and ifyou go in there, on a fine day, you can see the books and safesthrough the open windows. And he sent his love to me, did he? Ididn’t expect he would have thought of me. Poor fellow, poor  1117fellow! His love too!’
　　Tim was so completely overcome by this little mark ofrecollection, that he was quite unequal to any more conversationat the moment. Nicholas therefore slipped quietly out, and went tobrother Charles’s room.
　　If he had previously sustained his firmness and fortitude, it hadbeen by an effort which had cost him no little pain; but the warmwelcome, the hearty manner, the homely unaffectedcommiseration, of the good old man, went to his heart, and noinward struggle could prevent his showing it.
　　‘Come, come, my dear sir,’ said the benevolent merchant; ‘wemust not be cast down; no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune,and we must remember that there are many sources ofconsolation even in death. Every day that this poor lad had lived,he must have been less and less qualified for the world, and moreand more unhappy in is own deficiencies. It is better as it is, mydear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it’s better as it is.’
　　‘I have thought of all that, sir,’ replied Nicholas, clearing histhroat. ‘I feel it, I assure you.’
　　‘Yes, that’s well,’ replied Mr Cheeryble, who, in the midst of allhis 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 unfortunateman into the hospital, and sending a nurse to his children,’ saidTim.
　　‘My brother Ned is a fine fellow, a great fellow!’ exclaimedbrother Charles as he shut the door and returned to Nicholas. ‘Hewill be overjoyed to see you, my dear sir. We have been speaking  1118of you every day.’
　　‘To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find you alone,’ saidNicholas, with some natural hesitation; ‘for I am anxious to saysomething to you. Can you spare me a very few minutes?’
　　‘Surely, surely,’ returned brother Charles, looking at him withan anxious countenance. ‘Say on, my dear sir, say on.’
　　‘I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,’ said Nicholas. ‘If everone mortal had reason to be penetrated with love and reverencefor another: with such attachment as would make the hardestservice in his behalf a pleasure and delight: with such gratefulrecollections as must rouse the utmost zeal and fidelity of hisnature: those are the feelings which I should entertain for you, anddo, from my heart and soul, believe me!’
　　‘I do believe you,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘and I am happy inthe belief. I have never doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I nevershall.’
　　‘Your telling me that so kindly,’ said Nicholas, ’emboldens meto proceed. When you first took me into your confidence, anddispatched me on those missions to Miss Bray, I should have toldyou that I had seen her long before; that her beauty had made animpression upon me which I could not efface; and that I hadfruitlessly endeavoured to trace her, and become acquainted withher history. I did not tell you so, because I vainly thought I couldconquer my weaker feelings, and render every considerationsubservient to my duty to you.’
　　‘Mr Nickleby,’ said brother Charles, ‘you did not violate theconfidence I placed in you, or take an unworthy advantage of it. Iam sure you did not.’
　　‘I did not,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Although I found that the  1119necessity for self-command and restraint became every day moreimperious, and the difficulty greater, I never, for one instant,spoke or looked but as I would have done had you been by. Inever, for one moment, deserted my trust, nor have I to thisinstant. But I find that constant association and companionshipwith this sweet girl is fatal to my peace of mind, and may provedestructive to the resolutions I made in the beginning, and up tothis time have faithfully kept. In short, sir, I cannot trust myself,and I implore and beseech you to remove this young lady fromunder the charge of my mother and sister without delay. I knowthat to anyone but myself—to you, who consider theimmeasurable distance between me and this young lady, who isnow your ward, and the object of your peculiar care—my lovingher, even in thought, must appear the height of rashness andpresumption. 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 noexcuse but that; and as I cannot fly from this temptation, andcannot repress this passion, with its object constantly before me,what can I do but pray and beseech you to remove it, and to leaveme to forget her?’
　　‘Mr Nickleby,’ said the old man, after a short silence, ‘you cando no more. I was wrong to expose a young man like you to thistrial. 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 toremember me with esteem, by never revealing to her thisconfession—’
　　‘I will take care,’ said Mr Cheeryble. ‘And now, is this all youhave to tell me?’
　　  1120‘No!’ returned Nicholas, meeting his eye, ‘it is not.’
　　‘I know the rest,’ said Mr Cheeryble, apparently very muchrelieved by this prompt reply. ‘When did it come to yourknowledge?’
　　‘When I reached home this morning.’
　　‘You felt it your duty immediately to come to me, and tell mewhat your sister no doubt acquainted you with?’
　　‘I did,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I could have wished to havespoken to Mr Frank first.’
　　‘Frank was with me last night,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Youhave done well, Mr Nickleby—very well, sir—and I thank youagain.’
　　Upon this head, Nicholas requested permission to add a fewwords. He ventured to hope that nothing he had said would lead tothe estrangement of Kate and Madeline, who had formed anattachment for each other, any interruption of which would, heknew, be attended with great pain to them, and, most of all, withremorse and pain to him, as its unhappy cause. When these thingswere all forgotten, he hoped that Frank and he might still be warmfriends, and that no word or thought of his humble home, or of herwho was well contented to remain there and share his quietfortunes, would ever again disturb the harmony between them. Herecounted, as nearly as he could, what had passed betweenhimself and Kate that morning: speaking of her with such warmthof pride and affection, and dwelling so cheerfully upon theconfidence they had of overcoming any selfish regrets and livingcontented and happy in each other’s love, that few could haveheard him unmoved. More moved himself than he had been yet,he expressed in a few hurried words—as expressive, perhaps, as  1121the most eloquent phrases—his devotion to the brothers, and hishope that he might live and die in their service.
　　To all this, brother Charles listened in profound silence, andwith his chair so turned from Nicholas that his face could not beseen. He had not spoken either, in his accustomed manner, butwith a certain stiffness and embarrassment very foreign to it.
　　Nicholas feared he had offended him. He said, ‘No, no, he haddone quite right,’ but that was all.
　　‘Frank is a heedless, foolish fellow,’ he said, after Nicholas hadpaused for some time; ‘a very heedless, foolish fellow. I will takecare that this is brought to a close without delay. Let us say nomore upon the subject; it’s a very painful one to me. Come to mein half an hour; I have strange things to tell you, my dear sir, andyour uncle has appointed this afternoon for your waiting upon himwith me.’
　　‘Waiting upon him! With you, sir!’ cried Nicholas.
　　‘Ay, with me,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Return to me in halfan hour, and I’ll tell you more.’
　　Nicholas waited upon him at the time mentioned, and thenlearnt all that had taken place on the previous day, and all thatwas known of the appointment Ralph had made with the brothers;which was for that night; and for the better understanding ofwhich it will be requisite to return and follow his own footstepsfrom the house of the twin brothers. Therefore, we leave Nicholassomewhat reassured by the restored kindness of their mannertowards him, and yet sensible that it was different from what ithad been (though he scarcely knew in what respect): so he was fullof uneasiness, uncertainty, and disquiet.
Chapter 62
Ralph makes one last Appointment—and keeps it.
　　C reeping from the house, and slinking off like a thief;groping with his hands, when first he got into the street, asif he were a blind man; and looking often over his shoulderwhile he hurried away, as though he were followed in imaginationor reality by someone anxious to question or detain him; RalphNickleby left the city behind him, and took the road to his ownhome.
　　The night was dark, and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds,furiously and fast, before it. There was one black, gloomy massthat seemed to follow him: not hurrying in the wild chase with theothers, but lingering sullenly behind, and gliding darkly andstealthily on. He often looked back at this, and, more than once,stopped to let it pass over; but, somehow, when he went forwardagain, 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 bya low parapet-wall and an iron railing; a rank, unwholesome,rotten spot, where the very grass and weeds seemed, in theirfrowsy growth, to tell that they had sprung from paupers’ bodies,and had struck their roots in the graves of men, sodden, whilealive, in steaming courts and drunken hungry dens. And here, intruth, they lay, parted from the living by a little earth and a boardor two—lay thick and close—corrupting in body as they had in  1123mind—a dense and squalid crowd. Here they lay, cheek by jowlwith life: no deeper down than the feet of the throng that passedthere every day, and piled high as their throats. Here they lay, agrisly family, all these dear departed brothers and sisters of theruddy clergyman who did his task so speedily when they werehidden in the ground!
　　As he passed here, Ralph called to mind that he had been one ofa 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 hecame to recollect it now, when he had so often passed and neverthought about him, or how it was that he felt an interest in thecircumstance; but he did both; and stopping, and clasping the ironrailings with his hands, looked eagerly in, wondering which mightbe his grave.
　　While he was thus engaged, there came towards him, with noiseof shouts and singing, some fellows full of drink, followed byothers, who were remonstrating with them and urging them to gohome in quiet. They were in high good-humour; and one of them,a little, weazen, hump-backed man, began to dance. He was agrotesque, fantastic figure, and the few bystanders laughed. Ralphhimself was moved to mirth, and echoed the laugh of one whostood near and who looked round in his face. When they hadpassed on, and he was left alone again, he resumed his speculationwith a new kind of interest; for he recollected that the last personwho had seen the suicide alive, had left him very merry, and heremembered how strange he and the other jurors had thought thatat 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  1124how he looked, and what had led him to do it; all of which herecalled with ease. By dint of dwelling upon this theme, he carriedthe impression with him when he went away; as he remembered,when a child, to have had frequently before him the figure of somegoblin he had once seen chalked upon a door. But as he drewnearer and nearer home he forgot it again, and began to think howvery dull and solitary the house would be inside.
　　This feeling became so strong at last, that when he reached hisown door, he could hardly make up his mind to turn the key andopen it. When he had done that, and gone into the passage, he feltas though to shut it again would be to shut out the world. But helet it go, and it closed with a loud noise. There was no light. Howvery dreary, cold, and still it was!
　　Shivering from head to foot, he made his way upstairs into theroom where he had been last disturbed. He had made a kind ofcompact with himself that he would not think of what hadhappened until he got home. He was at home now, and sufferedhimself to consider it.
　　His own child, his own child! He never doubted the tale; he feltit was true; knew it as well, now, as if he had been privy to it allalong. His own child! And dead too. Dying beside Nicholas, lovinghim, and looking upon him as something like an angel. That wasthe worst!
　　They had all turned from him and deserted him in his very firstneed. Even money could not buy them now; everything must comeout, and everybody must know all. Here was the young lord dead,his companion abroad and beyond his reach, ten thousand poundsgone at one blow, his plot with Gride overset at the very momentof triumph, his after-schemes discovered, himself in danger, the  1125object of his persecution and Nicholas’s love, his own wretchedboy; everything crumbled and fallen upon him, and he beatendown beneath the ruins and grovelling in the dust.
　　If he had known his child to be alive; if no deceit had been everpractised, and he had grown up beneath his eye; he might havebeen a careless, indifferent, rough, harsh father—like enough—hefelt that; but the thought would come that he might have beenotherwise, and that his son might have been a comfort to him, andthey two happy together. He began to think now, that hissupposed death and his wife’s flight had had some share inmaking him the morose, hard man he was. He seemed toremember a time when he was not quite so rough and obdurate;and almost thought that he had first hated Nicholas because hewas young and gallant, and perhaps like the stripling who hadbrought dishonour and loss of fortune on his head.
　　But one tender thought, or one of natural regret, in hiswhirlwind of passion and remorse, was as a drop of calm water ina stormy maddened sea. His hatred of Nicholas had been fed uponhis own defeat, nourished on his interference with his schemes,fattened upon his old defiance and success. There were reasonsfor its increase; it had grown and strengthened gradually. Now itattained a height which was sheer wild lunacy. That his, of allothers, should have been the hands to rescue his miserable child;that he should have been his protector and faithful friend; that heshould have shown him that love and tenderness which, from thewretched moment of his birth, he had never known; that he shouldhave taught him to hate his own parent and execrate his veryname; that he should now know and feel all this, and triumph inthe recollection; was gall and madness to the usurer’s heart. The  1126dead boy’s love for Nicholas, and the attachment of Nicholas tohim, was insupportable agony. The picture of his deathbed, withNicholas at his side, tending and supporting him, and he breathingout his thanks, and expiring in his arms, when he would have hadthem mortal enemies and hating each other to the last, drove himfrantic. He gnashed his teeth and smote the air, and looking wildlyround, with eyes which gleamed through the darkness, criedaloud:
　　‘I am trampled down and ruined. The wretch told me true. Thenight has come! Is there no way to rob them of further triumph,and spurn their mercy and compassion? Is there no devil to helpme?’
　　Swiftly, there glided again into his brain the figure he hadraised that night. It seemed to lie before him. The head wascovered now. So it was when he first saw it. The rigid, upturned,marble feet too, he remembered well. Then came before him thepale and trembling relatives who had told their tale upon theinquest—the shrieks of women—the silent dread of men—theconsternation and disquiet—the victory achieved by that heap ofclay, which, with one motion of its hand, had let out the life andmade this stir among them—He spoke no more; but, after a pause, softly groped his way outof the room, and up the echoing stairs—up to the top—to the frontgarret—where he closed the door behind him, and remained.
　　It was a mere lumber-room now, but it yet contained an olddismantled bedstead; the one on which his son had slept; for noother had ever been there. He avoided it hastily, and sat down asfar from it as he could.
　　The weakened glare of the lights in the street below, shining  1127through the window which had no blind or curtain to intercept it,was enough to show the character of the room, though notsufficient fully to reveal the various articles of lumber, old cordedtrunks and broken furniture, which were scattered about. It had ashelving roof; high in one part, and at another descending almostto the floor. It was towards the highest part that Ralph directed hiseyes; and upon it he kept them fixed steadily for some minutes,when he rose, and dragging thither an old chest upon which hehad been seated, mounted on it, and felt along the wall above hishead 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 thedoor below. After a little hesitation he opened the window, anddemanded 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 knowwhether the man whom he had seen that night was to be detained;and that although it was now midnight they had sent, in theiranxiety to do right.
　　‘Yes,’ cried Ralph, ‘detain him till tomorrow; then let thembring him here—him and my nephew—and come themselves, andbe sure that I will be ready to receive them.’
　　‘At what hour?’ asked the voice.
　　‘At any hour,’ replied Ralph fiercely. ‘In the afternoon, tellthem. At any hour, at any minute. All times will be alike to me.’
　　He listened to the man’s retreating footsteps until the sound  1128had passed, and then, gazing up into the sky, saw, or thought hesaw, 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, forhow 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 merrilyfor births that make expectants writhe, and marriages that aremade in hell, and toll ruefully for the dead whose shoes are wornalready! Call men to prayers who are godly because not found out,and ring chimes for the coming in of every year that brings thiscursed world nearer to its end. No bell or book for me! Throw meon a dunghill, and let me rot there, to infect the air!’
　　With a wild look around, in which frenzy, hatred, and despairwere horribly mingled, he shook his clenched hand at the skyabove him, which was still dark and threatening, and closed thewindow.
　　The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneysquaked and rocked; the crazy casement rattled with the wind, asthough 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 makeanybody hear, and have been trying these two hours.’
　　‘And yet he came home last night,’ said another; ‘for he spoke to  1129somebody out of that window upstairs.’
　　They were a little knot of men, and, the window beingmentioned, went out into the road to look up at it. This occasionedtheir observing that the house was still close shut, as thehousekeeper had said she had left it on the previous night, and ledto a great many suggestions: which terminated in two or three ofthe boldest getting round to the back, and so entering by awindow, while the others remained outside, in impatientexpectation.
　　They looked into all the rooms below: opening the shutters asthey went, to admit the fading light: and still finding nobody, andeverything quiet and in its place, doubted whether they should gofarther. One man, however, remarking that they had not yet beeninto the garret, and that it was there he had been last seen, theyagreed to look there too, and went up softly; for the mystery andsilence made them timid.
　　After they had stood for an instant, on the landing, eyeing eachother, he who had proposed their carrying the search so far,turned the handle of the door, and, pushing it open, lookedthrough 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 theothers aside with a loud exclamation, drew a clasp-knife from hispocket, and dashing into the room, cut down the body.
　　He had torn a rope from one of the old trunks, and hunghimself on an iron hook immediately below the trap-door in theceiling—in the very place to which the eyes of his son, a lonely,desolate, little creature, had so often been directed in childish  1130terror, fourteen years before.
Chapter 63
The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarationsfor themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makesa Declaration for himself.
　　S ome weeks had passed, and the first shock of these eventshad subsided. Madeline had been removed; Frank hadbeen absent; and Nicholas and Kate had begun to try ingood earnest to stifle their own regrets, and to live for each otherand for their mother—who, poor lady, could in nowise bereconciled to this dull and altered state of affairs—when therecame one evening, per favour of Mr Linkinwater, an invitationfrom the brothers to dinner on the next day but one:
　　comprehending, not only Mrs Nickleby, Kate, and Nicholas, butlittle Miss La Creevy, who was most particularly mentioned.
　　‘Now, my dears,’ said Mrs Nickleby, when they had renderedbecoming honour to the bidding, and Tim had taken hisdeparture, ‘what does this mean?’
　　‘What do you mean, mother?’ asked Nicholas, smiling.
　　‘I say, my dear,’ rejoined that lady, with a face of unfathomablemystery, ‘what does this invitation to dinner mean? What is itsintention and object?’
　　‘I conclude it means, that on such a day we are to eat and drinkin their house, and that its intent and object is to confer pleasureupon us,’ said Nicholas.
　　‘And that’s all you conclude it is, my dear?’
　　‘I have not yet arrived at anything deeper, mother.’
　　  1132‘Then I’ll just tell you one thing,’ said Mrs Nickleby, you’ll findyourself a little surprised; that’s all. You may depend upon it thatthis means something besides dinner.’
　　‘Tea and supper, perhaps,’ suggested Nicholas.
　　‘I wouldn’t be absurd, my dear, if I were you,’ replied MrsNickleby, in a lofty manner, ‘because it’s not by any meansbecoming, and doesn’t suit you at all. What I mean to say is, thatthe Mr Cheerybles don’t ask us to dinner with all this ceremonyfor nothing. Never mind; wait and see. You won’t believe anythingI say, of course. It’s much better to wait; a great deal better; it’ssatisfactory to all parties, and there can be no disputing. All I sayis, remember what I say now, and when I say I said so, don’t say Ididn’t.’
　　With this stipulation, Mrs Nickleby, who was troubled, nightand day, with a vision of a hot messenger tearing up to the door toannounce that Nicholas had been taken into partnership, quittedthat branch of the subject, and entered upon a new one.
　　‘It’s a very extraordinary thing,’ she said, ‘a most extraordinarything, that they should have invited Miss La Creevy. It quiteastonishes me, upon my word it does. Of course it’s very pleasantthat she should be invited, very pleasant, and I have no doubt thatshe’ll conduct herself extremely well; she always does. It’s verygratifying to think that we should have been the means ofintroducing her into such society, and I’m quite glad of it—quiterejoiced—for she certainly is an exceedingly well-behaved andgood-natured little person. I could wish that some friend wouldmention to her how very badly she has her cap trimmed, and whatvery 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  1133perfect right to do so. We never see ourselves—never do, andnever did—and I suppose we never shall.’
　　This moral reflection reminding her of the necessity of beingpeculiarly smart on the occasion, so as to counterbalance Miss LaCreevy, and be herself an effectual set-off and atonement, led MrsNickleby into a consultation with her daughter relative to certainribbons, gloves, and trimmings: which, being a complicatedquestion, and one of paramount importance, soon routed theprevious one, and put it to flight.
　　The great day arriving, the good lady put herself under Kate’shands an hour or so after breakfast, and, dressing by easy stages,completed her toilette in sufficient time to allow of her daughter’smaking hers, which was very simple, and not very long, though sosatisfactory that she had never appeared more charming or lookedmore 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 itwas fit for service. At last, everybody was dressed, includingNicholas, who had come home to fetch them, and they went awayin a coach sent by the brothers for the purpose: Mrs Nicklebywondering very much what they would have for dinner, and cross-examining Nicholas as to the extent of his discoveries in themorning; whether he had smelt anything cooking at all like turtle,and if not, what he had smelt; and diversifying the conversationwith reminiscences of dinners to which she had gone some twentyyears ago, concerning which she particularised not only the dishesbut the guests, in whom her hearers did not feel a very absorbinginterest, as not one of them had ever chanced to hear their names  1134before.
　　The old butler received them with profound respect and manysmiles, and ushered them into the drawing-room, where they werereceived by the brothers with so much cordiality and kindnessthat Mrs Nickleby was quite in a flutter, and had scarcely presenceof mind enough, even to patronise Miss La Creevy. Kate was stillmore affected by the reception: for, knowing that the brotherswere acquainted with all that had passed between her and Frank,she felt her position a most delicate and trying one, and wastrembling on the arm of Nicholas, when Mr Charles took her inhis, and led her to another part of the room.
　　‘Have you seen Madeline, my dear,’ he said, ‘since she left yourhouse?’
　　‘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 shewould not have forgotten me quite so soon.’
　　‘Ah,’ said the old man, patting her on the head, and speaking asaffectionately as if she had been his favourite child. ‘Poor dear!
　　what do you think of this, brother Ned? Madeline has only writtento her once, only once, Ned, and she didn’t think she would haveforgotten her quite so soon, Ned.’
　　‘Oh! sad, sad; very sad!’ said Ned.
　　The brothers interchanged a glance, and looking at Kate for alittle time without speaking, shook hands, and nodded as if theywere 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. Ithink there’s one upon the table. You needn’t hurry back, my love,  1135if 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, havingfollowed 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 youmention what we agreed upon? Mr Nickleby, sir, have thegoodness to follow me.’
　　Without any further explanation, Mrs Nickleby, Miss LaCreevy, and brother Ned, were left alone together, and Nicholasfollowed brother Charles into his private room; where, to his greatastonishment, he encountered Frank, whom he supposed to beabroad.
　　‘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 youngfellows could scarcely stand side by side than those on whom helooked with so much pleasure. Suffering his eyes to rest uponthem, for a short time in silence, he said, while he seated himselfat his desk:
　　‘I wish to see you friends—close and firm friends—and if Ithought 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  1136grandfather, bequeathing her the sum of twelve thousand pounds,payable either upon her coming of age or marrying. It wouldappear that this gentleman, angry with her (his only relation)because she would not put herself under his protection, anddetach herself from the society of her father, in compliance withhis repeated overtures, made a will leaving this property (whichwas all he possessed) to a charitable institution. He would seem tohave repented this determination, however, for three weeksafterwards, and in the same month, he executed this. By somefraud, it was abstracted immediately after his decease, and theother—the only will found—was proved and administered.
　　Friendly negotiations, which have only just now terminated, havebeen proceeding since this instrument came into our hands, and,as there is no doubt of its authenticity, and the witnesses havebeen discovered (after some trouble), the money has beenrefunded. Madeline has therefore obtained her right, and is, or willbe, when either of the contingencies which I have mentioned hasarisen, mistress of this fortune. You understand me?’
　　Frank replied in the affirmative. Nicholas, who could not trusthimself to speak lest his voice should be heard to falter, bowed hishead.
　　‘Now, Frank,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you were the immediatemeans of recovering this deed. The fortune is but a small one; butwe love Madeline; and such as it is, we would rather see you alliedto her with that, than to any other girl we know who has threetimes 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 athousand times the claims upon her gratitude, and, if I mistake  1137not, upon her heart, that I or any other man can ever urge. In thisit seems I judged hastily.’
　　‘As you always, do, sir,’ cried brother Charles, utterly forgettinghis 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 hadfor love? How dared you, Frank, go and make love to MrNickleby’s sister without telling us first what you meant to do, andletting us speak for you?’
　　‘I hardly dared to hope—’
　　‘You hardly dared to hope! Then, so much the greater reasonfor having our assistance! Mr Nickleby, sir, Frank, although hejudged hastily, judged, for once, correctly. Madeline’s heart isoccupied. Give me your hand, sir; it is occupied by you, andworthily and naturally. This fortune is destined to be yours, butyou have a greater fortune in her, sir, than you would have inmoney were it forty times told. She chooses you, Mr Nickleby. Shechooses as we, her dearest friends, would have her choose. Frankchooses as we would have him choose. He should have yoursister’s little hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times; ay, heshould, and he shall! You acted nobly, not knowing oursentiments, but now you know them, sir, you must do as you arebid. What! You are the children of a worthy gentleman! The timewas, 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 circumstancessince that time? No, God forbid! Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, what a happyday this is for you and me! If our poor mother had only lived to seeus now, Ned, how proud it would have made her dear heart at  1138last!’
　　Thus apostrophised, brother Ned, who had entered with MrsNickleby, 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 rightto do so now; I was very near it when she first came; I have oftenbeen very near it. Ah! Did you find the letter, my bird? Did youfind Madeline herself, waiting for you and expecting you? Did youfind that she had not quite forgotten her friend and nurse andsweet companion? Why, this is almost the best of all!’
　　‘Come, come,’ said Ned, ‘Frank will be jealous, and we shallhave 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 ’emout, Ned, every one!’
　　Brother Charles began the clearance by leading the blushinggirl to the door, and dismissing her with a kiss. Frank was not veryslow to follow, and Nicholas had disappeared first of all. So thereonly remained Mrs Nickleby and Miss La Creevy, who were bothsobbing heartily; the two brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who nowcame in to shake hands with everybody: his round face all radiantand beaming with smiles.
　　‘Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,’ said brother Charles, who wasalways 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 Frankwere to have been in your room for I don’t know how long; and I  1139don’t know what you weren’t to have told them before you cameout with the truth.’
　　‘Now, did you ever know such a villain as this, Ned?’ said theold gentleman; ‘did you ever know such a villain as TimLinkinwater? He accusing me of being impatient, and he the veryman who has been wearying us morning, noon, and night, andtorturing us for leave to go and tell ’em what was in store, beforeour plans were half complete, or we had arranged a single thing. Atreacherous dog!’
　　‘So he is, brother Charles,’ returned Ned; ‘Tim is a treacherousdog. Tim is not to be trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow. He wantsgravity and steadiness; he must sow his wild oats, and thenperhaps he’ll become in time a respectable member of society.’
　　This being one of the standing jokes between the old fellowsand Tim, they all three laughed very heartily, and might havelaughed much longer, but that the brothers, seeing that MrsNickleby was labouring to express her feelings, and was reallyoverwhelmed by the happiness of the time, took her betweenthem, and led her from the room under pretence of having toconsult her on some most important arrangements.
　　Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very often, and hadalways been very chatty and pleasant together—had always beengreat friends—and consequently it was the most natural thing inthe world that Tim, finding that she still sobbed, should endeavourto console her. As Miss La Creevy sat on a large old-fashionedwindow-seat, where there was ample room for two, it was alsonatural that Tim should sit down beside her; and as to Tim’s beingunusually spruce and particular in his attire that day, why it was ahigh festival and a great occasion, and that was the most natural  1140thing of all.
　　Tim sat down beside Miss La Creevy, and, crossing one leg overthe other so that his foot—he had very comely feet and happenedto be wearing the neatest shoes and black silk stockings possible—should come easily within the range of her eye, said in a soothingway:
　　‘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 impossibleto conjecture, but he knocked his elbow against that part of thewindow which was quite on the other side of Miss La Creevy; andit 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 Ishould like to do as you do.’
　　Surely, there never was a man who fidgeted as Tim must havedone then; for he knocked the window again—almost in the sameplace—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,’ returnedMiss La Creevy. ‘Nothing could have delighted me half so much.’
　　Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwaterhave said all this in a whisper? It was no secret. And why shouldTim Linkinwater have looked so hard at Miss La Creevy, and whyshould Miss La Creevy have looked so hard at the ground?
　　  1141‘It’s a pleasant thing,’ said Tim, ‘to people like us, who havepassed all our lives in the world alone, to see young folks that weare fond of, brought together with so many years of happinessbefore them.’
　　‘Ah!’ cried the little woman with all her heart, ‘that it is!’
　　‘Although,’ pursued Tim ‘although it makes one feel quitesolitary and cast away. Now don’t it?’
　　Miss La Creevy said she didn’t know. And why should she sayshe didn’t know? Because she must have known whether it did ornot.
　　‘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 tooold.’
　　‘Not a bit,’ said Tim; ‘we are too old to be single. Why shouldn’twe both be married, instead of sitting through the long winterevenings by our solitary firesides? Why shouldn’t we make onefireside 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 Iknow, and we’ll laugh too. Why, what hearty laughs we have hadsince we’ve known each other!’
　　‘So we have,’ cried’ Miss La Creevy—giving way a little, as Timthought.
　　‘It has been the happiest time in all my life; at least, away fromthe counting-house and Cheeryble Brothers,’ said Tim. ‘Do, my  1142dear! Now say you will.’
　　‘No, no, we mustn’t think of it,’ returned Miss La Creevy. ‘Whatwould the brothers say?’
　　‘Why, God bless your soul!’ cried Tim, innocently, ‘you don’tsuppose 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 LaCreevy, faintly.
　　‘Come,’ said Tim, ‘let’s be a comfortable couple. We shall live inthe old house here, where I have been for four-and-forty year; weshall go to the old church, where I’ve been, every Sundaymorning, all through that time; we shall have all my old friendsabout us—Dick, the archway, the pump, the flower-pots, and MrFrank’s children, and Mr Nickleby’s children, that we shall seemlike grandfather and grandmother to. Let’s be a comfortablecouple, and take care of each other! And if we should get deaf, orlame, or blind, or bed-ridden, how glad we shall be that we havesomebody we are fond of, always to talk to and sit with! Let’s be acomfortable couple. Now, do, my dear!’
　　Five minutes after this honest and straightforward speech, littleMiss La Creevy and Tim were talking as pleasantly as if they hadbeen married for a score of years, and had never once quarrelledall the time; and five minutes after that, when Miss La Creevy hadbustled 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 allLondon! I know there an’t!’
　　By this time, the apoplectic butler was nearly in fits, inconsequence of the unheard-of postponement of dinner. Nicholas,  1143who had been engaged in a manner in which every reader mayimagine for himself or herself, was hurrying downstairs inobedience to his angry summons, when he encountered a newsurprise.
　　On his way down, he overtook, in one of the passages, astranger genteelly dressed in black, who was also moving towardsthe 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 andcaught him by both hands.
　　‘Newman Noggs!’ cried Nicholas joyfully‘Ah! Newman, your own Newman, your own old faithfulNewman! My dear boy, my dear Nick, I give you joy—health,happiness, every blessing! I can’t bear it—it’s too much, my dearboy—it makes a child of me!’
　　‘Where have you been?’ said Nicholas. ‘What have you beendoing? How often have I inquired for you, and been told that Ishould hear before long!’
　　‘I know, I know!’ returned Newman. ‘They wanted all thehappiness to come together. I’ve been helping ’em. I—I—look atme, Nick, look at me!’
　　‘You would never let me do that,’ said Nicholas in a tone ofgentle reproach.
　　‘I didn’t mind what I was, then. I shouldn’t have had the heartto put on gentleman’s clothes. They would have reminded me ofold 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 thinkthe worse of me for these tears. You don’t know what I feel today;you can’t, and never will!’
　　  1144They walked in to dinner arm-in-arm, and sat down side byside.
　　Never was such a dinner as that, since the world began. Therewas the superannuated bank clerk, Tim Linkinwater’s friend; andthere was the chubby old lady, Tim Linkinwater’s sister; and therewas so much attention from Tim Linkinwater’s sister to Miss LaCreevy, and there were so many jokes from the superannuatedbank clerk, and Tim Linkinwater himself was in such tiptopspirits, and little Miss La Creevy was in such a comical state, thatof themselves they would have composed the pleasantest partyconceivable. Then, there was Mrs Nickleby, so grand andcomplacent; Madeline and Kate, so blushing and beautiful;Nicholas and Frank, so devoted and proud; and all four so silentlyand tremblingly happy; there was Newman so subdued yet sooverjoyed, and there were the twin brothers so delighted andinterchanging such looks, that the old servant stood transfixedbehind his master’s chair, and felt his eyes grow dim as theywandered round the table.
　　When the first novelty of the meeting had worn off, and theybegan truly to feel how happy they were, the conversation becamemore general, and the harmony and pleasure if possible increased.
　　The brothers were in a perfect ecstasy; and their insisting onsaluting the ladies all round, before they would permit them toretire, gave occasion to the superannuated bank clerk to say somany good things, that he quite outshone himself, and was lookedupon 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 thatthis is actually true about Miss La Creevy and Mr Linkinwater?’
　　  1145‘Indeed it is, mama.’
　　‘Why, I never heard such a thing in my life!’ exclaimed MrsNickleby.
　　‘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 saysanything against him, except that I think he is the weakest andmost foolish man I ever knew. It’s her age I speak of. That heshould 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 toaccept him! It don’t signify, Kate; I’m disgusted with her!’
　　Shaking her head very emphatically indeed, Mrs Nicklebyswept away; and all the evening, in the midst of the merrimentand enjoyment that ensued, and in which with that exception shefreely participated, conducted herself towards Miss La Creevy in astately and distant manner, designed to mark her sense of theimpropriety of her conduct, and to signify her extreme and cuttingdisapprobation of the misdemeanour she had so flagrantlycommitted.
Chapter 64
An old Acquaintance is recognised undermelancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hallbreaks up for ever.
　　Nicholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless itis shared by the friends of adverse and less fortunatedays. Surrounded by every fascination of love and hope,his warm heart yearned towards plain John Browdie. Heremembered their first meeting with a smile, and their secondwith a tear; saw poor Smike once again with the bundle on hisshoulder trudging patiently by his side; and heard the honestYorkshireman’s rough words of encouragement as he left them ontheir road to London.
　　Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to producea letter which should acquaint John at full length with his alteredfortunes, and assure him of his friendship and gratitude. It sohappened, however, that the letter could never be written.
　　Although they applied themselves to it with the best intentions inthe world, it chanced that they always fell to talking aboutsomething else, and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he found itimpossible to write one-half of what he wished to say, or to penanything, indeed, which on reperusal did not appear cold andunsatisfactory compared with what he had in his mind. At last,after going on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself moreand more, he resolved (the more readily as Madeline stronglyurged him) to make a hasty trip into Yorkshire, and present  1147himself 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’scoach. They had to go westward, to procure some little necessariesfor his journey, and, as it was a fine night, they agreed to walkthere, 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 somany anecdotes of Frank, and each was so interested in what theother said, and both were so happy and confiding, and had somuch to talk about, that it was not until they had plunged for a fullhalf-hour into that labyrinth of streets which lies between SevenDials and Soho, without emerging into any large thoroughfare,that Nicholas began to think it just possible they might have losttheir way.
　　The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, onlooking about, and walking first to one end of the street and thento the other, he could find no landmark he could recognise, andwas fain to turn back again in quest of some place at which hecould seek a direction.
　　It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the fewwretched shops they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of lightwhich streamed across the pavement from a cellar, Nicholas wasabout to descend two or three steps so as to render himself visibleto those below and make his inquiry, when he was arrested by aloud noise of scolding in a woman’s voice.
　　‘Oh come away!’ said Kate, ‘they are quarrelling. You’ll behurt.’
　　  1148‘Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there’s anything thematter,’ returned her brother. ‘Hush!’
　　‘You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,’ cried thewoman, 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 alwaysturning. I am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in ademnition mill. My life is one demd horrid grind!’
　　‘Then why don’t you go and list for a soldier?’ retorted thewoman; ‘you’re welcome to.’
　　‘For a soldier!’ cried the man. ‘For a soldier! Would his joy andgladness see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would shehear of his being slapped and beat by drummers demnebly?
　　Would she have him fire off real guns, and have his hair cut, andhis whiskers shaved, and his eyes turned right and left, and histrousers 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 andlooked into a small boarded cellar. There, amidst clothes-basketsand clothes, stripped up to his shirt-sleeves, but wearing still anold patched pair of pantaloons of superlative make, a once brilliantwaistcoat, and moustache and whiskers as of yore, but lackingtheir lustrous dye—there, endeavouring to mollify the wrath of abuxom female—not the lawful Madame Mantalini, but theproprietress of the concern—and grinding meanwhile as if for verylife at the mangle, whose creaking noise, mingled with her shrilltones, appeared almost to deafen him—there was the graceful,  1149elegant, fascinating, and once dashing Mantalini.
　　‘Oh you false traitor!’ cried the lady, threatening personalviolence 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 wereout all day yesterday, and gallivanting somewhere I know. Youknow you were! Isn’t it enough that I paid two pound fourteen foryou, and took you out of prison and let you live here like agentleman, but must you go on like this: breaking, my heartbesides?’
　　‘I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never doso any more; I will never be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,’
　　said Mr Mantalini, dropping the handle of the mangle, and foldinghis palms together; ‘it is all up with its handsome friend! He hasgone to the demnition bow-wows. It will have pity? It will notscratch and claw, but pet and comfort? Oh, demmit!’
　　Very little affected, to judge from her action, by this tenderappeal, 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, withoutanother word, leapt at one bound into a bed which stood behindthe door, and drew the counterpane over his face: kickingmeanwhile 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,  1150dem, dem, dem!’
　　The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr Mantalini,as if uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; butMr Mantalini happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from underthe bedclothes, in his anxiety to ascertain whether the visitorswere gone, she suddenly, and with a dexterity which could onlyhave been acquired by long practice, flung a pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so good an aim that he kicked more violentlythan before, though without venturing to make any effort todisengage his head, which was quite extinguished. Thinking this afavourable opportunity for departing before any of the torrent ofher wrath discharged itself upon him, Nicholas hurried Kate off,and left the unfortunate subject of this unexpected recognition toexplain his conduct as he best could.
　　The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winterweather: forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstanceshe had first travelled that road, and how many vicissitudes andchanges he had since undergone. He was alone inside the greaterpart of the way, and sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze,and, rousing himself, looked out of the window, and recognisedsome place which he well remembered as having passed, either onhis journey down, or in the long walk back with poor Smike, hecould hardly believe but that all which had since happened hadbeen a dream, and that they were still plodding wearily on towardsLondon, with the world before them.
　　To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snowas night set in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, andby the little alehouse where he had heard the story of the boldBaron of Grogzwig, everything looked as if he had seen it but  1151yesterday, and not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs hadmelted away. Encouraging the train of ideas which flocked uponhim, he could almost persuade himself that he sat again outsidethe coach, with Squeers and the boys; that he heard their voices inthe air; and that he felt again, but with a mingled sensation of painand pleasure now, that old sinking of the heart, and longing afterhome. While he was yet yielding himself up to these fancies he fellasleep, 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 themarket town, and inquired for John Browdie’s house. John livedin the outskirts, now he was a family man; and as everbody knewhim, Nicholas had no difficulty in finding a boy who undertook toguide him to his residence.
　　Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not evenstopping to admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either,Nicholas made his way to the kitchen door, and knocked lustilywith his stick.
　　‘Halloa!’ cried a voice inside. ‘Wa’et be the matther noo? Be thetoon a-fire? Ding, but thou mak’st noise eneaf!’
　　With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, andopening his eyes too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped hishands together, and burst into a hearty roar:
　　‘Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here beMisther Nickleby. Gi’ us thee hond, mun. Coom awa’, coom awa’.
　　In wi ’un, doon beside the fire; tak’ a soop o’ thot. Dinnot say aword till thou’st droonk it a’! Oop wi’ it, mun. Ding! but I’m reeghtglod to see thee.’
　　Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the  1152kitchen, forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire,poured out from an enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint ofspirits, thrust it into his hand, opened his mouth and threw backhis head as a sign to him to drink it instantly, and stood with abroad grin of welcome overspreading his great red face like a jollygiant.
　　‘I might ha’ knowa’d,’ said John,;’ that nobody but thou wouldha’ coom wi’ sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa’ thou knockedat schoolmeasther’s door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say; wa’at be a’ thisaboot schoolmeasther?’
　　‘You know it then?’ said Nicholas.
　　‘They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,’ repliedJohn, ‘but neane on ’em seemed quite to un’erstan’ it, loike.’
　　‘After various shiftings and delays,’ said Nicholas, ‘he has beensentenced to be transported for seven years, for being in theunlawful possession of a stolen will; and, after that, he has to sufferthe consequence of a conspiracy.’
　　‘Whew!’ cried John, ‘a conspiracy! Soom’at in the pooder-plotwa’? Eh? Soom’at in the Guy Faux line?’
　　‘No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I’ll explainit 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 thebottom o’ a’ explanations, for she says thot’s the mutualconfidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod, it’s a room start, is the mutualconfidence!’
　　The entrance of Mrs Browdie, with a smart cap on, and verymany apologies for their having been detected in the act ofbreakfasting in the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion of this  1153grave subject, and hastened the breakfast: which, being composedof vast mounds of toast, new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie,and other cold substantials (of which heavy relays were constantlyappearing from another kitchen under the direction of a veryplump servant), was admirably adapted to the cold bleak morning,and received the utmost justice from all parties. At last, it came toa close; and the fire which had been lighted in the best parlourhaving by this time burnt up, they adjourned thither, to hear whatNicholas had to tell.
　　Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story whichawakened so many emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners.
　　At one time, honest John groaned in sympathy, and at anotherroared with joy; at one time he vowed to go up to London onpurpose 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. WhenNicholas began to describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth wideopen, nudging Mrs Browdie from time to time, and exclaimingunder his breath that she must be ‘raa’ther a tidy sart,’ and whenhe heard at last that his young friend had come down purposely tocommunicate his good fortune, and to convey to him all thoseassurances of friendship which he could not state with sufficientwarmth in writing—that the only object of his journey was toshare his happiness with them, and to tell them that when he wasmarried they must come up to see him, and that Madeline insistedon it as well as he—John could hold out no longer, but afterlooking indignantly at his wife, and demanding to know what shewas whimpering for, drew his coat sleeve over his eyes andblubbered outright.
　　  1154‘Tell’ee wa’at though,’ said John seriously, when a great dealhad been said on both sides, ‘to return to schoolmeasther. If thisnews aboot ’un has reached school today, the old ‘ooman wean’thave a whole boan in her boddy, nor Fanny neither.’
　　‘Oh, John!’ cried Mrs Browdie.
　　‘Ah! and Oh, John agean,’ replied the Yorkshireman. ‘I dinnotknow what they lads mightn’t do. When it first got aboot thatschoolmeasther was in trouble, some feythers and moothers sentand took their young chaps awa’. If them as is left, should knowwaat’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 hedetermined to ride over to the school without delay, and invitedNicholas to accompany him, which, however, he declined,pleading that his presence might perhaps aggravate the bitternessof 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 dinewith you today, and if Mrs Browdie can give me a bed—’
　　‘Bed!’ cried John, ‘I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds atonce. Ecod, thou shouldst have ’em a’. Bide till I coom back; on’ybide till I coom back, and ecod we’ll make a day of it.’
　　Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less heartyshake of the hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leavingMrs Browdie to apply herself to hospitable preparations, and hisyoung friend to stroll about the neighbourhood, and revisit spotswhich were rendered familiar to him by many a miserableassociation.
　　John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his  1155horse to a gate and made his way to the schoolroom door, whichhe found locked on the inside. A tremendous noise and riot arosefrom within, and, applying his eye to a convenient crevice in thewall, 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 recentlybecome known to the young gentlemen; for the rebellion had justbroken out.
　　It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle mornings, and MrsSqueers had entered school according to custom with the largebowl and spoon, followed by Miss Squeers and the amiableWackford: who, during his father’s absence, had taken upon himsuch minor branches of the executive as kicking the pupils withhis 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 hismother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or asimultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While onedetachment rushed to the door and locked it, and anothermounted on the desks and forms, the stoutest (and consequentlythe newest) boy seized the cane, and confronting Mrs Squeerswith 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 takea dose directly. Before that estimable lady could recover herself, oroffer the slightest retaliation, she was forced into a kneelingposture by a crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled toswallow a spoonful of the odious mixture, rendered more thanusually savoury by the immersion in the bowl of Master  1156Wackford’s head, whose ducking was intrusted to another rebel.
　　The success of this first achievement prompted the maliciouscrowd, whose faces were clustered together in every variety oflank and half-starved ugliness, to further acts of outrage. Theleader was insisting upon Mrs Squeers repeating her dose, MasterSqueers was undergoing another dip in the treacle, and a violentassault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when JohnBrowdie, bursting open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed tothe rescue. The shouts, screams, groans, hoots, and clapping ofhands, suddenly ceased, and a dead silence ensued.
　　‘Ye be noice chaps,’ said John, looking steadily round. ‘What’sto do here, thou yoong dogs?’
　　‘Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!’ cried ascore of shrill voices. ‘We won’t stop, we won’t stop!’
　　‘Weel then, dinnot stop,’ replied John; ‘who waants thee tostop? 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. Noothen, 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 agood ’un!’
　　‘Hurrah!’
　　‘Noo then,’ said John, ‘let’s have yan more to end wi’, and thencoot off as quick as you loike. Tak’a good breath noo—Squeers bein jail—the school’s brokken oop—it’s a’ ower—past and gane—think o’ thot, and let it be a hearty ’un! Hurrah!’
　　  1157Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had neverechoed before, and were destined never to respond to again. Whenthe sound had died away, the school was empty; and of the busynoisy crowd which had peopled it but five minutes before, not oneremained.
　　‘Very well, Mr Browdie!’ said Miss Squeers, hot and flushedfrom the recent encounter, but vixenish to the last; ‘you’ve beenand excited our boys to run away. Now see if we don’t pay you outfor that, sir! If my pa is unfortunate and trod down by henemies,we’re not going to be basely crowed and conquered over by youand ’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 auldman has been caught out at last—dom’d glod—but ye’ll sooffereneaf wi’out any crowin’ fra’ me, and I be not the mun to crow, norbe Tilly the lass, so I tell ’ee flat. More than thot, I tell ’ee noo, thatif thou need’st friends to help thee awa’ from this place—dinnotturn 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 whenI say thot, dinnot think I be asheamed of waa’t I’ve deane, for I sayagain, 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 thehorse’s hoofs rang a merry accompaniment, sped back to hispretty wife and to Nicholas.
　　For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country wasoverrun with boys, who, the report went, had been secretlyfurnished by Mr and Mrs Browdie, not only with a hearty meal of  1158bread and meat, but with sundry shillings and sixpences to helpthem on their way. To this rumour John always returned a stoutdenial, which he accompanied, however, with a lurking grin, thatrendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed all previousbelievers.
　　There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as theyhad been, and many as were the tears they had shed in thewretched school, still knew no other home, and had formed for it asort of attachment, which made them weep when the bolderspirits fled, and cling to it as a refuge. Of these, some were foundcrying under hedges and in such places, frightened at the solitude.
　　One had a dead bird in a little cage; he had wandered nearlytwenty miles, and when his poor favourite died, lost courage, andlay down beside him. Another was discovered in a yard hard bythe school, sleeping with a dog, who bit at those who came toremove him, and licked the sleeping child’s pale face.
　　They were taken back, and some other stragglers wererecovered, but by degrees they were claimed, or lost again; and, incourse of time, Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking-up began tobe forgotten by the neighbours, or to be only spoken of as amongthe things that had been.
Chapter 65
ConclusionWhen her term of mourning had expired, Madeline gaveher hand and fortune to Nicholas; and, on the same dayand at the same time, Kate became Mrs FrankCheeryble. It was expected that Tim Linkinwater and Miss LaCreevy would have made a third couple on the occasion, but theydeclined, and two or three weeks afterwards went out togetherone 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 heinvested in the firm of Cheeryble Brothers, in which Frank hadbecome a partner. Before many years elapsed, the business beganto be carried on in the names of ‘Cheeryble and Nickleby,’ so thatMrs Nickleby’s prophetic anticipations were realised at last.
　　The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be told that they werehappy? They were surrounded by happiness of their own creation,and lived but to increase it.
　　Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much entreaty and browbeating, to accept a share in the house; but he could never beprevailed upon to suffer the publication of his name as a partner,and always persisted in the punctual and regular discharge of hisclerkly duties.
　　He and his wife lived in the old house, and occupied the verybedchamber in which he had slept for four-and-forty years. As hiswife grew older, she became even a more cheerful and light-  1160hearted little creature; and it was a common saying among theirfriends, that it was impossible to say which looked the happier,Tim as he sat calmly smiling in his elbow-chair on one side of thefire, or his brisk little wife chatting and laughing, and constantlybustling in and out of hers, on the other.
　　Dick, the blackbird, was removed from the counting-house andpromoted to a warm corner in the common sitting-room. Beneathhis cage hung two miniatures, of Mrs Linkinwater’s execution; onerepresenting herself, and the other Tim; and both smiling veryhard at all beholders. Tim’s head being powdered like a twelfthcake, and his spectacles copied with great nicety, strangersdetected a close resemblance to him at the first glance, and thisleading them to suspect that the other must be his wife, andemboldening them to say so without scruple, Mrs Linkinwatergrew very proud of these achievements in time, and consideredthem among the most successful likenesses she had ever painted.
　　Tim had the profoundest faith in them, likewise; for on this, as onall other subjects, they held but one opinion; and if ever therewere a ‘comfortable couple’ in the world, it was Mr and MrsLinkinwater.
　　Ralph, having died intestate, and having no relations but thosewith whom he had lived in such enmity, they would have becomein legal course his heirs. But they could not bear the thought ofgrowing rich on money so acquired, and felt as though they couldnever hope to prosper with it. They made no claim to his wealth;and the riches for which he had toiled all his days, and burdenedhis soul with so many evil deeds, were swept at last into the coffersof the state, and no man was the better or the happier for them.
　　Arthur Gride was tried for the unlawful possession of the will,  1161which he had either procured to be stolen, or had dishonestlyacquired and retained by other means as bad. By dint of aningenious counsel, and a legal flaw, he escaped; but only toundergo a worse punishment; for, some years afterwards, hishouse was broken open in the night by robbers, tempted by therumours of his great wealth, and he was found murdered in hisbed.
　　Mrs Sliderskew went beyond the seas at nearly the same timeas Mr Squeers, and in the course of nature never returned.
　　Brooker died penitent. Sir Mulberry Hawk lived abroad for someyears, courted and caressed, and in high repute as a fine dashingfellow. Ultimately, returning to this country, he was thrown intojail for debt, and there perished miserably, as such high spiritsgenerally do.
　　The first act of Nicholas, when he became a rich andprosperous merchant, was to buy his father’s old house. As timecrept on, and there came gradually about him a group of lovelychildren, it was altered and enlarged; but none of the old roomswere ever pulled down, no old tree was ever rooted up, nothingwith which there was any association of bygone times was everremoved or changed.
　　Within a stone’s throw was another retreat, enlivened bychildren’s pleasant voices too; and here was Kate, with many newcares and occupations, and many new faces courting her sweetsmile (and one so like her own, that to her mother she seemed achild 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, andsometimes with her son, accompanying one or other of them to  1162London at those periods when the cares of business obliged bothfamilies to reside there, and always preserving a great appearanceof dignity, and relating her experiences (especially on pointsconnected with the management and bringing-up of children) withmuch solemnity and importance. It was a very long time beforeshe could be induced to receive Mrs Linkinwater into favour, andit 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’shouse, and, when he was not there, assumed the superintendenceof affairs. His chief pleasure and delight was in the children, withwhom he was a child himself, and master of the revels. The littlepeople could do nothing without dear Newman Noggs.
　　The grass was green above the dead boy’s grave, and troddenby feet so small and light, that not a daisy drooped its headbeneath their pressure. Through all the spring and summertime,garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, rested on thestone; and, when the children came to change them lest theyshould wither and be pleasant to him no longer, their eyes filledwith tears, and they spoke low and softly of their poor dead cousin.
　　The End