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Nicholas Nickleby
Dickens, Charles
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T
HE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, containing a
Faithful Account of the Fortunes, Misfortunes, Uprisings, Downfallings and Complete
Career of the Nickelby Family
by Charles Dickens
Nicholas Nickleby
2
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
T
his story was begun, within a few months after the publication of the completed
«Pickwick Papers.» There were, then, a good many cheap Yorkshire schools in existence.
There are very few now.
Of the monstrous neglect of education in England, and the disregard of it by the State as
a means of forming good or bad citizens, and miserable or happy men, private schools long
afforded a notable example. Although any man who had proved his unfitness for any other
occupation in life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a school
anywhere; although preparation for the functions he undertook, was required in the surgeon
who assisted to bring a boy into the world, or might one day assist, perhaps, to send him out
of it; in the chemist, the attorney, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; the whole
round of crafts and trades, the schoolmaster excepted; and although schoolmasters, as a race,
were the blockheads and impostors who might naturally be expected to spring from such a
state of things, and to flourish in it; these Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most
rotten round in the whole ladder. Traders in the avarice, indifference, or imbecility of
parents, and the helplessness of children; ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few
considerate persons would have entrusted the board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they
formed the worthy cornerstone of a structure, which, for absurdity and a magnificent
high−minded LAISSEZ−ALLER neglect, has rarely been exceeded in the world.
We hear sometimes of an action for damages against the unqualified medical
practitioner, who has deformed a broken limb in pretending to heal it. But, what of the
hundreds of thousands of minds that have been deformed for ever by the incapable
pettifoggers who have pretended to form them!
I make mention of the race, as of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, in the past tense. Though
it has not yet finally disappeared, it is dwindling daily. A long day's work remains to be done
about us in the way of education, Heaven knows; but great improvements and facilities
towards the attainment of a good one, have been furnished, of late years.
I cannot call to mind, now, how I came to hear about Yorkshire schools when I was a
not very robust child, sitting in bye−places near Rochester Castle, with a head full of
PARTRIDGE, STRAP, TOM PIPES, and SANCHO PANZA; but I know that my first
impressions of them were picked up at that time, and that they were somehow or other
connected with a suppurated abscess that some boy had come home with, in consequence of
his Yorkshire guide, philosopher, and friend, having ripped it open with an inky pen−knife.
The impression made upon me, however made, never left me. I was always curious about
Yorkshire schools – fell, long afterwards and at sundry times, into the way of hearing more
Nicholas Nickleby
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 3
about them – at last, having an audience, resolved to write about them.
With that intent I went down into Yorkshire before I began this book, in very severe
winter time which is pretty faithfully described herein. As I wanted to see a schoolmaster or
two, and was forewarned that those gentlemen might, in their modesty, be shy of receiving a
visit from the author of the «Pickwick Papers,» I consulted with a professional friend who
had a Yorkshire connexion, and with whom I concerted a pious fraud. He gave me some
letters of introduction, in the name, I think, of my travelling companion; they bore reference
to a supposititious little boy who had been left with a widowed mother who didn't know
what to do with him; the poor lady had thought, as a means of thawing the tardy compassion
of her relations in his behalf, of sending him to a Yorkshire school; I was the poor lady's
friend, travelling that way; and if the recipient of the letter could inform me of a school in
his neighbourhood, the writer would be very much obliged.
I went to several places in that part of the country where I understood the schools to be
most plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to deliver a letter until I came to a certain
town which shall be nameless. The person to whom it was addressed, was not at home; but
he came down at night, through the snow, to the inn where I was staying. It was after dinner;
and he needed little persuasion to sit down by the fire in a warrn corner, and take his share
of the wine that was on the table.
I am afraid he is dead now. I recollect he was a jovial, ruddy, broad−faced man; that we
got acquainted directly; and that we talked on all kinds of subjects, except the school, which
he showed a great anxiety to avoid. «Was there any large school near?» I asked him, in
reference to the letter. «Oh yes,» he said; «there was a pratty big 'un.» «Was it a good one?»
I asked. «Ey!» he said, «it was as good as anoother; that was a' a matther of opinion»; and
fell to looking at the fire, staring round the room, and whistling a little. On my reverting to
some other topic that we had been discussing, he recovered immediately; but, though I tried
him again and again, I never approached the question of the school, even if he were in the
middle of a laugh, without observing that his countenance fell, and that he became
uncomfortable. At last, when we had passed a couple of hours or so, very agreeably, he
suddenly took up his hat, and leaning over the table and looking me full in the face, said, in
a low voice: «Weel, Misther, we've been vara pleasant toogather, and ar'll spak' my moind
tiv'ee. Dinnot let the weedur send her lattle boy to yan o' our school−measthers, while there's
a harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in. Ar wouldn't mak' ill words
amang my neeburs, and ar speak tiv'ee quiet loike. But I'm dom'd if ar can gang to bed and
not tellee, for weedur's sak', to keep the lattle boy from a' sike scoondrels while there's a
harse to hoold in a' Lunnun, or a gootther to lie asleep in!» Repeating these words with great
heartiness, and with a solemnity on his jolly face that made it look twice as large as before,
he shook hands and went away. I never saw him afterwards, but I sometimes imagine that I
descry a faint reflection of him in John Browdie.
Nicholas Nickleby
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 4
In reference to these gentry, I may here quote a few words from the original preface to
this book.
"It has afforded the Author great amusement and satisfaction, during the progress of this
work, to learn, from country friends and from a variety of ludicrous statements concerning
himself in provincial newspapers, that more than one Yorkshire schoolmaster lays claim to
being the original of Mr. Squeers. One worthy, he has reason to believe, has actually
consulted authorities learned in the law, as to his having good grounds on which to rest an
action for libel; another, has meditated a journey to London, for the express purpose of
committing an assault and battery on his traducer; a third, perfectly remembers being waited
on, last January twelve−month, by two gentlemen, one of whom held him in conversation
while the other took his likeness; and, although Mr. Squeers has but one eye, and he has two,
and the published sketch does not resemble him (whoever he may be) in any other respect,
still he and all his friends and neighbours know at once for whom it is meant, because – the
character is SO like him.
"While the Author cannot but feel the full force of the compliment thus conveyed to
him, he ventures to suggest that these contentions may arise from the fact, that Mr. Squeers
is the representative of a class, and not of an individual. Where imposture, ignorance, and
brutal cupidity, are the stock in trade of a small body of men, and one is described by these
characteristics, all his fellows will recognise something belonging to themselves, and each
will have a misgiving that the portrait is his own.
'The Author's object in calling public attention to the system would be very imperfectly
fulfilled, if he did not state now, in his own person, emphatically and earnestly, that Mr.
Squeers and his school are faint and feeble pictures of an existing reality, purposely subdued
and kept down lest they should be deemed impossible. That there are, upon record, trials at
law in which damages have been sought as a poor recompense for lasting agonies and
disfigurements inflicted upon children by the treatment of the master in these places,
involving such offensive and foul details of neglect, cruelty, and disease, as no writer of
fiction would have the boldness to imagine. And that, since he has been engaged upon these
Adventures, he has received, from private quarters far beyond the reach of suspicion or
distrust, accounts of atrocities, in the perpetration of which upon neglected or repudiated
children, these schools have been the main instruments, very far exceeding any that appear
in these pages."
This comprises all I need say on the subject; except that if I had seen occasion, I had
resolved to reprint a few of these details of legal proceedings, from certain old newspapers.
One other quotation from the same Preface may serve to introduce a fact that my
readers may think curious.
Nicholas Nickleby
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 5
«To turn to a more pleasant subject, it may be right to say, that there ARE two
characters in this book which are drawn from life. It is remarkable that what we call the
world, which is so very credulous in what professes to be true, is most incredulous in what
professes to be imaginary; and that, while, every day in real life, it will allow in one man no
blemishes, and in another no virtues, it will seldom admit a very strongly−marked character,
either good or bad, in a fictitious narrative, to be within the limits of probability. But those
who take an interest in this tale, will be glad to learn that the BROTHERS
CHEERYBLE live; that their liberal charity, their singleness of heart, their noble nature,
and their unbounded benevolence, are no creations of the Author's brain; but are prompting
every day (and oftenest by stealth) some munificent and generous deed in that town of
which they are the pride and honour.»
If I were to attempt to sum up the thousands of letters, from all sorts of people in all
sorts of latitudes and climates, which this unlucky paragraph brought down upon me, I
should get into an arithmetical difficulty from which I could not easily extricate myself.
Suffice it to say, that I believe the applications for loans, gifts, and offices of profit that I
have been requested to forward to the originals of the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE (with
whom I never interchanged any communication in my life) would have exhausted the
combined patronage of all the Lord Chancellors since the accession of the House of
Brunswick, and would have broken the Rest of the Bank of England.
The Brothers are now dead.
There is only one other point, on which I would desire to offer a remark. If Nicholas be
not always found to be blameless or agreeable, he is not always intended to appear so. He is
a young man of an impetuous temper and of little or no experience; and I saw no reason why
such a hero should be lifted out of nature.
Nicholas Nickleby
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 6
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest
T
here once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr Godfrey
Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get
married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of
fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for
the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit
down to a quiet game for love.
Some ill−conditioned persons who sneer at the life−matrimonial, may perhaps suggest,
in this place, that the good couple would be better likened to two principals in a sparring
match, who, when fortune is low and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere
pleasure of the buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold good; for, as
the adventurous pair of the Fives' Court will afterwards send round a hat, and trust to the
bounty of the lookers−on for the means of regaling themselves, so Mr Godfrey Nickleby and
HIS partner, the honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying in no
inconsiderable degree upon chance for the improvement of their means. Mr Nickleby's
income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated between sixty and eighty pounds PER
ANNUM.
There are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and even in London (where Mr
Nickleby dwelt in those days) but few complaints prevail, of the population being scanty. It
is extraordinary how long a man may look among the crowd without discovering the face of
a friend, but it is no less true. Mr Nickleby looked, and looked, till his eyes became sore as
his heart, but no friend appeared; and when, growing tired of the search, he turned his eyes
homeward, he saw very little there to relieve his weary vision. A painter who has gazed too
long upon some glaring colour, refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and
more sombre tint; but everything that met Mr Nickleby's gaze wore so black and gloomy a
hue, that he would have been beyond description refreshed by the very reverse of the
contrast.
At length, after five years, when Mrs Nickleby had presented her husband with a couple
of sons, and that embarassed gentleman, impressed with the necessity of making some
provision for his family, was seriously revolving in his mind a little commercial speculation
of insuring his life next quarter−day, and then falling from the top of the Monument by
accident, there came, one morning, by the general post, a black−bordered letter to inform
him how his uncle, Mr Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and had left him the bulk of his little
property, amounting in all to five thousand pounds sterling.
As the deceased had taken no further notice of his nephew in his lifetime, than sending
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest 7
to his eldest boy (who had been christened after him, on desperate speculation) a silver
spoon in a morocco case, which, as he had not too much to eat with it, seemed a kind of
satire upon his having been born without that useful article of plate in his mouth, Mr
Godfrey Nickleby could, at first, scarcely believe the tidings thus conveyed to him. On
examination, however, they turned out to be strictly correct. The amiable old gentleman, it
seemed, had intended to leave the whole to the Royal Humane Society, and had indeed
executed a will to that effect; but the Institution, having been unfortunate enough, a few
months before, to save the life of a poor relation to whom he paid a weekly allowance of
three shillings and sixpence, he had, in a fit of very natural exasperation, revoked the
bequest in a codicil, and left it all to Mr Godfrey Nickleby; with a special mention of his
indignation, not only against the society for saving the poor relation's life, but against the
poor relation also, for allowing himself to be saved.
With a portion of this property Mr Godfrey Nickleby purchased a small farm, near
Dawlish in Devonshire, whither he retired with his wife and two children, to live upon the
best interest he could get for the rest of his money, and the little produce he could raise from
his land. The two prospered so well together that, when he died, some fifteen years after this
period, and some five after his wife, he was enabled to leave, to his eldest son, Ralph, three
thousand pounds in cash, and to his youngest son, Nicholas, one thousand and the farm,
which was as small a landed estate as one would desire to see.
These two brothers had been brought up together in a school at Exeter; and, being
accustomed to go home once a week, had often heard, from their mother's lips, long
accounts of their father's sufferings in his days of poverty, and of their deceased uncle's
importance in his days of affluence: which recitals produced a very different impression on
the two: for, while the younger, who was of a timid and retiring disposition, gleaned from
thence nothing but forewarnings to shun the great world and attach himself to the quiet
routine of a country life, Ralph, the elder, deduced from the often− repeated tale the two
great morals that riches are the only true source of happiness and power, and that it is lawful
and just to compass their acquisition by all means short of felony. 'And,' reasoned Ralph
with himself, 'if no good came of my uncle's money when he was alive, a great deal of good
came of it after he was dead, inasmuch as my father has got it now, and is saving it up for
me, which is a highly virtuous purpose; and, going back to the old gentleman, good DID
come of it to him too, for he had the pleasure of thinking of it all his life long, and of being
envied and courted by all his family besides.' And Ralph always wound up these mental
soliloquies by arriving at the conclusion, that there was nothing like money.
Not confining himself to theory, or permitting his faculties to rust, even at that early
age, in mere abstract speculations, this promising lad commenced usurer on a limited scale
at school; putting out at good interest a small capital of slate−pencil and marbles, and
gradually extending his operations until they aspired to the copper coinage of this realm, in
which he speculated to considerable advantage. Nor did he trouble his borrowers with
abstract calculations of figures, or references to ready−reckoners; his simple rule of interest
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest 8
being all comprised in the one golden sentence, 'two−pence for every half−penny,' which
greatly simplified the accounts, and which, as a familiar precept, more easily acquired and
retained in the memory than any known rule of arithmetic, cannot be too strongly
recommended to the notice of capitalists, both large and small, and more especially of
money−brokers and bill− discounters. Indeed, to do these gentlemen justice, many of them
are to this day in the frequent habit of adopting it, with eminent success.
In like manner, did young Ralph Nickleby avoid all those minute and intricate
calculations of odd days, which nobody who has worked sums in simple−interest can fail to
have found most embarrassing, by establishing the one general rule that all sums of principal
and interest should be paid on pocket−money day, that is to say, on Saturday: and that
whether a loan were contracted on the Monday, or on the Friday, the amount of interest
should be, in both cases, the same. Indeed he argued, and with great show of reason, that it
ought to be rather more for one day than for five, inasmuch as the borrower might in the
former case be very fairly presumed to be in great extremity, otherwise he would not borrow
at all with such odds against him. This fact is interesting, as illustrating the secret connection
and sympathy which always exist between great minds. Though Master Ralph Nickleby was
not at that time aware of it, the class of gentlemen before alluded to, proceed on just the
same principle in all their transactions.
From what we have said of this young gentleman, and the natural admiration the reader
will immediately conceive of his character, it may perhaps be inferred that he is to be the
hero of the work which we shall presently begin. To set this point at rest, for once and for
ever, we hasten to undeceive them, and stride to its commencement.
On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, who had been some time before placed in a
mercantile house in London, applied himself passionately to his old pursuit of
money−getting, in which he speedily became so buried and absorbed, that he quite forgot his
brother for many years; and if, at times, a recollection of his old playfellow broke upon him
through the haze in which he lived – for gold conjures up a mist about a man, more
destructive of all his old senses and lulling to his feelings than the fumes of charcoal – it
brought along with it a companion thought, that if they were intimate he would want to
borrow money of him. So, Mr Ralph Nickleby shrugged his shoulders, and said things were
better as they were.
As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estate until he grew tired of
living alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman with a
dower of one thousand pounds. This good lady bore him two children, a son and a daughter,
and when the son was about nineteen, and the daughter fourteen, as near as we can guess –
impartial records of young ladies' ages being, before the passing of the new act, nowhere
preserved in the registries of this country – Mr Nickleby looked about him for the means of
repairing his capital, now sadly reduced by this increase in his family, and the expenses of
their education.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest 9
'Speculate with it,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'Spec – u – late, my dear?' said Mr Nickleby, as though in doubt.
'Why not?' asked Mrs Nickleby.
'Because, my dear, if we SHOULD lose it,' rejoined Mr Nickleby, who was a slow and
time−taking speaker, 'if we SHOULD lose it, we shall no longer be able to live, my dear.'
'Fiddle,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,' said Mr Nickleby.
'There's Nicholas,' pursued the lady, 'quite a young man – it's time he was in the way of
doing something for himself; and Kate too, poor girl, without a penny in the world. Think of
your brother! Would he be what he is, if he hadn't speculated?'
'That's true,' replied Mr Nickleby. 'Very good, my dear. Yes. I WILL speculate, my
dear.'
Speculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing of their cards at first
starting; gains MAY be great – and so may losses. The run of luck went against Mr
Nickleby. A mania prevailed, a bubble burst, four stock−brokers took villa residences at
Florence, four hundred nobodies were ruined, and among them Mr Nickleby.
'The very house I live in,' sighed the poor gentleman, 'may be taken from me tomorrow.
Not an article of my old furniture, but will be sold to strangers!'
The last reflection hurt him so much, that he took at once to his bed; apparently
resolved to keep that, at all events.
'Cheer up, sir!' said the apothecary.
'You mustn't let yourself be cast down, sir,' said the nurse.
'Such things happen every day,' remarked the lawyer.
'And it is very sinful to rebel against them,' whispered the clergyman.
'And what no man with a family ought to do,' added the neighbours.
Mr Nickleby shook his head, and motioning them all out of the room, embraced his
wife and children, and having pressed them by turns to his languidly beating heart, sunk
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest 10
exhausted on his pillow. They were concerned to find that his reason went astray after this;
for he babbled, for a long time, about the generosity and goodness of his brother, and the
merry old times when they were at school together. This fit of wandering past, he solemnly
commended them to One who never deserted the widow or her fatherless children, and,
smiling gently on them, turned upon his face, and observed, that he thought he could fall
asleep.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest 11
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby,
a
nd his Establishments, and his Undertakings, and of a great Joint Stock Company of
vast national Importance
Mr Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what you would call a merchant, neither
was he a banker, nor an attorney, nor a special pleader, nor a notary. He was certainly not a
tradesman, and still less could he lay any claim to the title of a professional gentleman; for it
would have been impossible to mention any recognised profession to which he belonged.
Nevertheless, as he lived in a spacious house in Golden Square, which, in addition to a brass
plate upon the street−door, had another brass plate two sizes and a half smaller upon the left
hand door−post, surrounding a brass model of an infant's fist grasping a fragment of a
skewer, and displaying the word 'Office,' it was clear that Mr Ralph Nickleby did, or
pretended to do, business of some kind; and the fact, if it required any further circumstantial
evidence, was abundantly demonstrated by the diurnal attendance, between the hours of
half− past nine and five, of a sallow−faced man in rusty brown, who sat upon an
uncommonly hard stool in a species of butler's pantry at the end of the passage, and always
had a pen behind his ear when he answered the bell.
Although a few members of the graver professions live about Golden Square, it is not
exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere. It is one of the squares that have been; a
quarter of the town that has gone down in the world, and taken to letting lodgings. Many of
its first and second floors are let, furnished, to single gentlemen; and it takes boarders
besides. It is a great resort of foreigners. The dark−complexioned men who wear large rings,
and heavy watch−guards, and bushy whiskers, and who congregate under the Opera
Colonnade, and about the box−office in the season, between four and five in the afternoon,
when they give away the orders, – all live in Golden Square, or within a street of it. Two or
three violins and a wind instrument from the Opera band reside within its precincts. Its
boarding−houses are musical, and the notes of pianos and harps float in the evening time
round the head of the mournful statue, the guardian genius of a little wilderness of shrubs, in
the centre of the square. On a summer's night, windows are thrown open, and groups of
swarthy moustached men are seen by the passer−by, lounging at the casements, and smoking
fearfully. Sounds of gruff voices practising vocal music invade the evening's silence; and the
fumes of choice tobacco scent the air. There, snuff and cigars, and German pipes and flutes,
and violins and violoncellos, divide the supremacy between them. It is the region of song
and smoke. Street bands are on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerant glee− singers
quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices within its boundaries.
This would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transaction of business; but Mr
Ralph Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding, for many years, and uttered no complaint
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 12
on that score. He knew nobody round about, and nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the
reputation of being immensely rich. The tradesmen held that he was a sort of lawyer, and the
other neighbours opined that he was a kind of general agent; both of which guesses were as
correct and definite as guesses about other people's affairs usually are, or need to be.
Mr Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, ready dressed to walk abroad.
He wore a bottle−green spencer over a blue coat; a white waistcoat, grey mixture
pantaloons, and Wellington boots drawn over them. The corner of a small−plaited shirt−frill
struggled out, as if insisting to show itself, from between his chin and the top button of his
spencer; and the latter garment was not made low enough to conceal a long gold
watch−chain, composed of a series of plain rings, which had its beginning at the handle of a
gold repeater in Mr Nickleby's pocket, and its termination in two little keys: one belonging
to the watch itself, and the other to some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling of powder
upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but if that were his purpose, he would
perhaps have done better to powder his countenance also, for there was something in its very
wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye, which seemed to tell of cunning that would announce
itself in spite of him. However this might be, there he was; and as he was all alone, neither
the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the eyes, had the smallest effect, good or bad, upon
anybody just then, and are consequently no business of ours just now.
Mr Nickleby closed an account−book which lay on his desk, and, throwing himself
back in his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction through the dirty window. Some London
houses have a melancholy little plot of ground behind them, usually fenced in by four high
whitewashed walls, and frowned upon by stacks of chimneys: in which there withers on,
from year to year, a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few leaves late in
autumn when other trees shed theirs, and, drooping in the effort, lingers on, all crackled and
smoke−dried, till the following season, when it repeats the same process, and perhaps, if the
weather be particularly genial, even tempts some rheumatic sparrow to chirrup in its
branches. People sometimes call these dark yards 'gardens'; it is not supposed that they were
ever planted, but rather that they are pieces of unreclaimed land, with the withered
vegetation of the original brick−field. No man thinks of walking in this desolate place, or of
turning it to any account. A few hampers, half−a−dozen broken bottles, and such−like
rubbish, may be thrown there, when the tenant first moves in, but nothing more; and there
they remain until he goes away again: the damp straw taking just as long to moulder as it
thinks proper: and mingling with the scanty box, and stunted everbrowns, and broken
flower−pots, that are scattered mournfully about – a prey to 'blacks' and dirt.
It was into a place of this kind that Mr Ralph Nickleby gazed, as he sat with his hands in
his pockets looking out of the window. He had fixed his eyes upon a distorted fir tree,
planted by some former tenant in a tub that had once been green, and left there, years before,
to rot away piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in the object, but Mr Nickleby was
wrapt in a brown study, and sat contemplating it with far greater attention than, in a more
conscious mood, he would have deigned to bestow upon the rarest exotic. At length, his eyes
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 13
wandered to a little dirty window on the left, through which the face of the clerk was dimly
visible; that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned him to attend.
In obedience to this summons the clerk got off the high stool (to which he had
communicated a high polish by countless gettings off and on), and presented himself in Mr
Nickleby's room. He was a tall man of middle age, with two goggle eyes whereof one was a
fixture, a rubicund nose, a cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (if the term be allowable
when they suited him not at all) much the worse for wear, very much too small, and placed
upon such a short allowance of buttons that it was marvellous how he contrived to keep
them on.
'Was that half−past twelve, Noggs?' said Mr Nickleby, in a sharp and grating voice.
'Not more than five−and−twenty minutes by the – ' Noggs was going to add
public−house clock, but recollecting himself, substituted 'regular time.'
'My watch has stopped,' said Mr Nickleby; 'I don't know from what cause.'
'Not wound up,' said Noggs.
'Yes it is,' said Mr Nickleby.
'Over−wound then,' rejoined Noggs.
'That can't very well be,' observed Mr Nickleby.
'Must be,' said Noggs.
'Well!' said Mr Nickleby, putting the repeater back in his pocket; 'perhaps it is.'
Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of all disputes with his
master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and (as he rarely spoke to anybody unless
somebody spoke to him) fell into a grim silence, and rubbed his hands slowly over each
other: cracking the joints of his fingers, and squeezing them into all possible distortions. The
incessant performance of this routine on every occasion, and the communication of a fixed
and rigid look to his unaffected eye, so as to make it uniform with the other, and to render it
impossible for anybody to determine where or at what he was looking, were two among the
numerous peculiarities of Mr Noggs, which struck an inexperienced observer at first sight.
'I am going to the London Tavern this morning,' said Mr Nickleby.
'Public meeting?' inquired Noggs.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 14
Mr Nickleby nodded. 'I expect a letter from the solicitor respecting that mortgage of
Ruddle's. If it comes at all, it will be here by the two o'clock delivery. I shall leave the city
about that time and walk to Charing Cross on the left−hand side of the way; if there are any
letters, come and meet me, and bring them with you.'
Noggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at the office bell. The master looked
up from his papers, and the clerk calmly remained in a stationary position.
'The bell,' said Noggs, as though in explanation. 'At home?'
'Yes.'
'To anybody?'
'Yes.'
'To the tax−gatherer?'
'No! Let him call again.'
Noggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much as to say 'I thought so!' and, the ring being
repeated, went to the door, whence he presently returned, ushering in, by the name of Mr
Bonney, a pale gentleman in a violent hurry, who, with his hair standing up in great disorder
all over his head, and a very narrow white cravat tied loosely round his throat, looked as if
he had been knocked up in the night and had not dressed himself since.
'My dear Nickleby,' said the gentleman, taking off a white hat which was so full of
papers that it would scarcely stick upon his head, 'there's not a moment to lose; I have a cab
at the door. Sir Matthew Pupker takes the chair, and three members of Parliament are
positively coming. I have seen two of them safely out of bed. The third, who was at
Crockford's all night, has just gone home to put a clean shirt on, and take a bottle or two of
soda water, and will certainly be with us, in time to address the meeting. He is a little excited
by last night, but never mind that; he always speaks the stronger for it.'
'It seems to promise pretty well,' said Mr Ralph Nickleby, whose deliberate manner was
strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other man of business.
'Pretty well!' echoed Mr Bonney. 'It's the finest idea that was ever started. «United
Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
Capital, five millions, in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each.» Why the very
name will get the shares up to a premium in ten days.'
'And when they ARE at a premium,' said Mr Ralph Nickleby, smiling.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 15
'When they are, you know what to do with them as well as any man alive, and how to
back quietly out at the right time,' said Mr Bonney, slapping the capitalist familiarly on the
shoulder. 'By− the−bye, what a VERY remarkable man that clerk of yours is.'
'Yes, poor devil!' replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. 'Though Newman Noggs kept
his horses and hounds once.'
'Ay, ay?' said the other carelessly.
'Yes,' continued Ralph, 'and not many years ago either; but he squandered his money,
invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and in short made first a thorough fool of himself,
and then a beggar. He took to drinking, and had a touch of paralysis, and then came here to
borrow a pound, as in his better days I had – '
'Done business with him,' said Mr Bonney with a meaning look.
'Just so,' replied Ralph; 'I couldn't lend it, you know.'
'Oh, of course not.'
'But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open the door and so forth, I took him out of
charity, and he has remained with me ever since. He is a little mad, I think,' said Mr
Nickleby, calling up a charitable look, 'but he is useful enough, poor creature – useful
enough.'
The kind−hearted gentleman omitted to add that Newman Noggs, being utterly
destitute, served him for rather less than the usual wages of a boy of thirteen; and likewise
failed to mention in his hasty chronicle, that his eccentric taciturnity rendered him an
especially valuable person in a place where much business was done, of which it was
desirable no mention should be made out of doors. The other gentleman was plainly
impatient to be gone, however, and as they hurried into the hackney cabriolet immediately
afterwards, perhaps Mr Nickleby forgot to mention circumstances so unimportant.
There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as they drew up, and (it being a
windy day) half−a−dozen men were tacking across the road under a press of paper, bearing
gigantic announcements that a Public Meeting would be holden at one o'clock precisely, to
take into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour of the United
Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company,
capital five millions, in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each; which sums were
duly set forth in fat black figures of considerable size. Mr Bonney elbowed his way briskly
upstairs, receiving in his progress many low bows from the waiters who stood on the
landings to show the way; and, followed by Mr Nickleby, dived into a suite of apartments
behind the great public room: in the second of which was a business−looking table, and
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 16
several business−looking people.
'Hear!' cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr Bonney presented himself. 'Chair,
gentlemen, chair!'
The new−comers were received with universal approbation, and Mr Bonney bustled up
to the top of the table, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and knocked a
hackney−coachman's knock on the table with a little hammer: whereat several gentlemen
cried 'Hear!' and nodded slightly to each other, as much as to say what spirited conduct that
was. Just at this moment, a waiter, feverish with agitation, tore into the room, and throwing
the door open with a crash, shouted 'Sir Matthew Pupker!'
The committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, and while they were clapping
them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by two live members of Parliament, one Irish
and one Scotch, all smiling and bowing, and looking so pleasant that it seemed a perfect
marvel how any man could have the heart to vote against them. Sir Matthew Pupker
especially, who had a little round head with a flaxen wig on the top of it, fell into such a
paroxysm of bows, that the wig threatened to be jerked off, every instant. When these
symptoms had in some degree subsided, the gentlemen who were on speaking terms with Sir
Matthew Pupker, or the two other members, crowded round them in three little groups, near
one or other of which the gentlemen who were NOT on speaking terms with Sir Matthew
Pupker or the two other members, stood lingering, and smiling, and rubbing their hands, in
the desperate hope of something turning up which might bring them into notice. All this
time, Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other members were relating to their separate circles
what the intentions of government were, about taking up the bill; with a full account of what
the government had said in a whisper the last time they dined with it, and how the
government had been observed to wink when it said so; from which premises they were at
no loss to draw the conclusion, that if the government had one object more at heart than
another, that one object was the welfare and advantage of the United Metropolitan Improved
Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
Meanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the proceedings, and a fair division of the
speechifying, the public in the large room were eyeing, by turns, the empty platform, and the
ladies in the Music Gallery. In these amusements the greater portion of them had been
occupied for a couple of hours before, and as the most agreeable diversions pall upon the
taste on a too protracted enjoyment of them, the sterner spirits now began to hammer the
floor with their boot−heels, and to express their dissatisfaction by various hoots and cries.
These vocal exertions, emanating from the people who had been there longest, naturally
proceeded from those who were nearest to the platform and furthest from the policemen in
attendance, who having no great mind to fight their way through the crowd, but entertaining
nevertheless a praiseworthy desire to do something to quell the disturbance, immediately
began to drag forth, by the coat tails and collars, all the quiet people near the door; at the
same time dealing out various smart and tingling blows with their truncheons, after the
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 17
manner of that ingenious actor, Mr Punch: whose brilliant example, both in the fashion of
his weapons and their use, this branch of the executive occasionally follows.
Several very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loud shout attracted the
attention even of the belligerents, and then there poured on to the platform, from a door at
the side, a long line of gentlemen with their hats off, all looking behind them, and uttering
vociferous cheers; the cause whereof was sufficiently explained when Sir Matthew Pupker
and the two other real members of Parliament came to the front, amidst deafening shouts,
and testified to each other in dumb motions that they had never seen such a glorious sight as
that, in the whole course of thier public career.
At length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but Sir Matthew Pupker being
voted into the chair, they underwent a relapse which lasted five minutes. This over, Sir
Matthew Pupker went on to say what must be his feelings on that great occasion, and what
must be that occasion in the eyes of the world, and what must be the intelligence of his
fellow−countrymen before him, and what must be the wealth and respectability of his
honourable friends behind him, and lastly, what must be the importance to the wealth, the
happiness, the comfort, the liberty, the very existence of a free and great people, of such an
Institution as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and
Punctual Delivery Company!
Mr Bonney then presented himself to move the first resolution; and having run his right
hand through his hair, and planted his left, in an easy manner, in his ribs, he consigned his
hat to the care of the gentleman with the double chin (who acted as a species of bottle−
holder to the orators generally), and said he would read to them the first resolution – 'That
this meeting views with alarm and apprehension, the existing state of the Muffin Trade in
this Metropolis and its neighbourhood; that it considers the Muffin Boys, as at present
constituted, wholly underserving the confidence of the public; and that it deems the whole
Muffin system alike prejudicial to the health and morals of the people, and subversive of the
best interests of a great commercial and mercantile community.' The honourable gentleman
made a speech which drew tears from the eyes of the ladies, and awakened the liveliest
emotions in every individual present. He had visited the houses of the poor in the various
districts of London, and had found them destitute of the slightest vestige of a muffin, which
there appeared too much reason to believe some of these indigent persons did not taste from
year's end to year's end. He had found that among muffin−sellers there existed drunkenness,
debauchery, and profligacy, which he attributed to the debasing nature of their employment
as at present exercised; he had found the same vices among the poorer class of people who
ought to be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to the despair engendered by their
being placed beyond the reach of that nutritious article, which drove them to seek a false
stimulant in intoxicating liquors. He would undertake to prove before a committee of the
House of Commons, that there existed a combination to keep up the price of muffins, and to
give the bellmen a monopoly; he would prove it by bellmen at the bar of that House; and he
would also prove, that these men corresponded with each other by secret words and signs as
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 18
'Snooks,' 'Walker,' 'Ferguson,' 'Is Murphy right?' and many others. It was this melancholy
state of things that the Company proposed to correct; firstly, by prohibiting, under heavy
penalties, all private muffin trading of every description; secondly, by themselves supplying
the public generally, and the poor at their own homes, with muffins of first quality at
reduced prices. It was with this object that a bill had been introduced into Parliament by
their patriotic chairman Sir Matthew Pupker; it was this bill that they had met to support; it
was the supporters of this bill who would confer undying brightness and splendour upon
England, under the name of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet
Baking and Punctual Delivery Company; he would add, with a capital of Five Millions, in
five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each.
Mr Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and another gentleman having moved that
it be amended by the insertion of the words 'and crumpet' after the word 'muffin,' whenever
it occurred, it was carried triumphantly. Only one man in the crowd cried 'No!' and he was
promptly taken into custody, and straightway borne off.
The second resolution, which recognised the expediency of immediately abolishing 'all
muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders in muffins (or crumpets) of whatsoever description,
whether male or female, boys or men, ringing hand−bells or otherwise,' was moved by a
grievous gentleman of semi−clerical appearance, who went at once into such deep pathetics,
that he knocked the first speaker clean out of the course in no time. You might have heard a
pin fall – a pin! a feather – as he described the cruelties inflicted on muffin boys by their
masters, which he very wisely urged were in themselves a sufficient reason for the
establishment of that inestimable company. It seemed that the unhappy youths were nightly
turned out into the wet streets at the most inclement periods of the year, to wander about, in
darkness and rain – or it might be hail or snow – for hours together, without shelter, food, or
warmth; and let the public never forget upon the latter point, that while the muffins were
provided with warm clothing and blankets, the boys were wholly unprovided for, and left to
their own miserable resources. (Shame!) The honourable gentleman related one case of a
muffin boy, who having been exposed to this inhuman and barbarous system for no less than
five years, at length fell a victim to a cold in the head, beneath which he gradually sunk until
he fell into a perspiration and recovered; this he could vouch for, on his own authority, but
he had heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact) of a still more heart−rending and
appalling circumstance. He had heard of the case of an orphan muffin boy, who, having
been run over by a hackney carriage, had been removed to the hospital, had undergone the
amputation of his leg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing his occupation on
crutches. Fountain of justice, were these things to last!
This was the department of the subject that took the meeting, and this was the style of
speaking to enlist their sympathies. The men shouted; the ladies wept into their
pocket−handkerchiefs till they were moist, and waved them till they were dry; the
excitement was tremendous; and Mr Nickleby whispered his friend that the shares were
thenceforth at a premium of five−and−twenty per cent.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 19
The resolution was, of course, carried with loud acclamations, every man holding up
both hands in favour of it, as he would in his enthusiasm have held up both legs also, if he
could have conveniently accomplished it. This done, the draft of the proposed petition was
read at length: and the petition said, as all petitions DO say, that the petitioners were very
humble, and the petitioned very honourable, and the object very virtuous; therefore (said the
petition) the bill ought to be passed into a law at once, to the everlasting honour and glory of
that most honourable and glorious Commons of England in Parliament assembled.
Then, the gentleman who had been at Crockford's all night, and who looked something
the worse about the eyes in consequence, came forward to tell his fellow−countrymen what
a speech he meant to make in favour of that petition whenever it should be presented, and
how desperately he meant to taunt the parliament if they rejected the bill; and to inform
them also, that he regretted his honourable friends had not inserted a clause rendering the
purchase of muffins and crumpets compulsory upon all classes of the community, which he
– opposing all half−measures, and preferring to go the extreme animal – pledged himself to
propose and divide upon, in committee. After announcing this determination, the honourable
gentleman grew jocular; and as patent boots, lemon−coloured kid gloves, and a fur coat
collar, assist jokes materially, there was immense laughter and much cheering, and moreover
such a brilliant display of ladies' pocket−handkerchiefs, as threw the grievous gentleman
quite into the shade.
And when the petition had been read and was about to be adopted, there came forward
the Irish member (who was a young gentleman of ardent temperament,) with such a speech
as only an Irish member can make, breathing the true soul and spirit of poetry, and poured
forth with such fervour, that it made one warm to look at him; in the course whereof, he told
them how he would demand the extension of that great boon to his native country; how he
would claim for her equal rights in the muffin laws as in all other laws; and how he yet
hoped to see the day when crumpets should be toasted in her lowly cabins, and muffin bells
should ring in her rich green valleys. And, after him, came the Scotch member, with various
pleasant allusions to the probable amount of profits, which increased the good humour that
the poetry had awakened; and all the speeches put together did exactly what they were
intended to do, and established in the hearers' minds that there was no speculation so
promising, or at the same time so praiseworthy, as the United Metropolitan Improved Hot
Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company.
So, the petition in favour of the bill was agreed upon, and the meeting adjourned with
acclamations, and Mr Nickleby and the other directors went to the office to lunch, as they
did every day at half−past one o'clock; and to remunerate themselves for which trouble, (as
the company was yet in its infancy,) they only charged three guineas each man for every
such attendance.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, 20
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his
Brother,
b
ut bears up nobly against the Intelligence communicated to him. The Reader is
informed how he liked Nicholas, who is herein introduced, and how kindly he proposed to
make his Fortune at once
Having rendered his zealous assistance towards dispatching the lunch, with all that
promptitude and energy which are among the most important qualities that men of business
can possess, Mr Ralph Nickleby took a cordial farewell of his fellow−speculators, and bent
his steps westward in unwonted good humour. As he passed St Paul's he stepped aside into a
doorway to set his watch, and with his hand on the key and his eye on the cathedral dial, was
intent upon so doing, when a man suddenly stopped before him. It was Newman Noggs.
'Ah! Newman,' said Mr Nickleby, looking up as he pursued his occupation. 'The letter
about the mortgage has come, has it? I thought it would.'
'Wrong,' replied Newman.
'What! and nobody called respecting it?' inquired Mr Nickleby, pausing. Noggs shook
his head.
'What HAS come, then?' inquired Mr Nickleby.
'I have,' said Newman.
'What else?' demanded the master, sternly.
'This,' said Newman, drawing a sealed letter slowly from his pocket. 'Post−mark,
Strand, black wax, black border, woman's hand, C. N. in the corner.'
'Black wax?' said Mr Nickleby, glancing at the letter. 'I know something of that hand,
too. Newman, I shouldn't be surprised if my brother were dead.'
'I don't think you would,' said Newman, quietly.
'Why not, sir?' demanded Mr Nickleby.
'You never are surprised,' replied Newman, 'that's all.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 21
Mr Nickleby snatched the letter from his assistant, and fixing a cold look upon him,
opened, read it, put it in his pocket, and having now hit the time to a second, began winding
up his watch.
'It is as I expected, Newman,' said Mr Nickleby, while he was thus engaged. 'He IS
dead. Dear me! Well, that's sudden thing. I shouldn't have thought it, really.' With these
touching expressions of sorrow, Mr Nickleby replaced his watch in his fob, and, fitting on
his gloves to a nicety, turned upon his way, and walked slowly westward with his hands
behind him.
'Children alive?' inquired Noggs, stepping up to him.
'Why, that's the very thing,' replied Mr Nickleby, as though his thoughts were about
them at that moment. 'They are both alive.'
'Both!' repeated Newman Noggs, in a low voice.
'And the widow, too,' added Mr Nickleby, 'and all three in London, confound them; all
three here, Newman.'
Newman fell a little behind his master, and his face was curiously twisted as by a
spasm; but whether of paralysis, or grief, or inward laughter, nobody but himself could
possibly explain. The expression of a man's face is commonly a help to his thoughts, or
glossary on his speech; but the countenance of Newman Noggs, in his ordinary moods, was
a problem which no stretch of ingenuity could solve.
'Go home!' said Mr Nickleby, after they had walked a few paces: looking round at the
clerk as if he were his dog. The words were scarcely uttered when Newman darted across
the road, slunk among the crowd, and disappeared in an instant.
'Reasonable, certainly!' muttered Mr Nickleby to himself, as he walked on, 'very
reasonable! My brother never did anything for me, and I never expected it; the breath is no
sooner out of his body than I am to be looked to, as the support of a great hearty woman, and
a grown boy and girl. What are they to me! I never saw them.'
Full of these, and many other reflections of a similar kind, Mr Nickleby made the best
of his way to the Strand, and, referring to his letter as if to ascertain the number of the house
he wanted, stopped at a private door about half−way down that crowded thoroughfare.
A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame screwed upon the
street−door, in which were displayed, upon a black velvet ground, two portraits of naval
dress coats with faces looking out of them, and telescopes attached; one of a young
gentleman in a very vermilion uniform, flourishing a sabre; and one of a literary character
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 22
with a high forehead, a pen and ink, six books, and a curtain. There was, moreover, a
touching representation of a young lady reading a manuscript in an unfathomable forest, and
a charming whole length of a large−headed little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs
fore−shortened to the size of salt−spoons. Besides these works of art, there were a great
many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out of blue and brown skies,
and an elegantly written card of terms with an embossed border.
Mr Nickleby glanced at these frivolities with great contempt, and gave a double knock,
which, having been thrice repeated, was answered by a servant girl with an uncommonly
dirty face.
'Is Mrs Nickleby at home, girl?' demanded Ralph sharply.
'Her name ain't Nickleby,' said the girl, 'La Creevy, you mean.'
Mr Nickleby looked very indignant at the handmaid on being thus corrected, and
demanded with much asperity what she meant; which she was about to state, when a female
voice proceeding from a perpendicular staircase at the end of the passage, inquired who was
wanted.
'Mrs Nickleby,' said Ralph.
'It's the second floor, Hannah,' said the same voice; 'what a stupid thing you are! Is the
second floor at home?'
'Somebody went out just now, but I think it was the attic which had been a cleaning of
himself,' replied the girl.
'You had better see,' said the invisible female. 'Show the gentleman where the bell is,
and tell him he mustn't knock double knocks for the second floor; I can't allow a knock
except when the bell's broke, and then it must be two single ones.'
'Here,' said Ralph, walking in without more parley, 'I beg your pardon; is that Mrs La
what's−her−name?'
'Creevy – La Creevy,' replied the voice, as a yellow headdress bobbed over the
banisters.
'I'll speak to you a moment, ma'am, with your leave,' said Ralph.
The voice replied that the gentleman was to walk up; but he had walked up before it
spoke, and stepping into the first floor, was received by the wearer of the yellow head−dress,
who had a gown to correspond, and was of much the same colour herself. Miss La Creevy
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 23
was a mincing young lady of fifty, and Miss La Creevy's apartment was the gilt frame
downstairs on a larger scale and something dirtier.
'Hem!' said Miss La Creevy, coughing delicately behind her black silk mitten. 'A
miniature, I presume. A very strongly−marked countenance for the purpose, sir. Have you
ever sat before?'
'You mistake my purpose, I see, ma'am,' replied Mr Nickleby, in his usual blunt fashion.
'I have no money to throw away on miniatures, ma'am, and nobody to give one to (thank
God) if I had. Seeing you on the stairs, I wanted to ask a question of you, about some
lodgers here.'
Miss La Creevy coughed once more – this cough was to conceal her disappointment –
and said, 'Oh, indeed!'
'I infer from what you said to your servant, that the floor above belongs to you, ma'am,'
said Mr Nickleby.
Yes it did, Miss La Creevy replied. The upper part of the house belonged to her, and as
she had no necessity for the second−floor rooms just then, she was in the habit of letting
them. Indeed, there was a lady from the country and her two children in them, at that present
speaking.
'A widow, ma'am?' said Ralph.
'Yes, she is a widow,' replied the lady.
'A POOR widow, ma'am,' said Ralph, with a powerful emphasis on that little adjective
which conveys so much.
'Well, I'm afraid she IS poor,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
'I happen to know that she is, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Now, what business has a poor
widow in such a house as this, ma'am?'
'Very true,' replied Miss La Creevy, not at all displeased with this implied compliment
to the apartments. 'Exceedingly true.'
'I know her circumstances intimately, ma'am,' said Ralph; 'in fact, I am a relation of the
family; and I should recommend you not to keep them here, ma'am.'
'I should hope, if there was any incompatibility to meet the pecuniary obligations,' said
Miss La Creevy with another cough, 'that the lady's family would – '
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 24
'No they wouldn't, ma'am,' interrupted Ralph, hastily. 'Don't think it.'
'If I am to understand that,' said Miss La Creevy, 'the case wears a very different
appearance.'
'You may understand it then, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'and make your arrangements
accordingly. I am the family, ma'am – at least, I believe I am the only relation they have, and
I think it right that you should know I can't support them in their extravagances. How long
have they taken these lodgings for?'
'Only from week to week,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Mrs Nickleby paid the first week in
advance.'
'Then you had better get them out at the end of it,' said Ralph. 'They can't do better than
go back to the country, ma'am; they are in everybody's way here.'
'Certainly,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands, 'if Mrs Nickleby took the
apartments without the means of paying for them, it was very unbecoming a lady.'
'Of course it was, ma'am,' said Ralph.
'And naturally,' continued Miss La Creevy, 'I who am, AT PRESENT – hem – an
unprotected female, cannot afford to lose by the apartments.'
'Of course you can't, ma'am,' replied Ralph.
'Though at the same time,' added Miss La Creevy, who was plainly wavering between
her good−nature and her interest, 'I have nothing whatever to say against the lady, who is
extremely pleasant and affable, though, poor thing, she seems terribly low in her spirits; nor
against the young people either, for nicer, or better−behaved young people cannot be.'
'Very well, ma'am,' said Ralph, turning to the door, for these encomiums on poverty
irritated him; 'I have done my duty, and perhaps more than I ought: of course nobody will
thank me for saying what I have.'
'I am sure I am very much obliged to you at least, sir,' said Miss La Creevy in a gracious
manner. 'Would you do me the favour to look at a few specimens of my portrait painting?'
'You're very good, ma'am,' said Mr Nickleby, making off with great speed; 'but as I
have a visit to pay upstairs, and my time is precious, I really can't.'
'At any other time when you are passing, I shall be most happy,' said Miss La Creevy.
'Perhaps you will have the kindness to take a card of terms with you? Thank you –
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 25
good−morning!'
'Good−morning, ma'am,' said Ralph, shutting the door abruptly after him to prevent any
further conversation. 'Now for my sister−in−law. Bah!'
Climbing up another perpendicular flight, composed with great mechanical ingenuity of
nothing but corner stairs, Mr Ralph Nickleby stopped to take breath on the landing, when he
was overtaken by the handmaid, whom the politeness of Miss La Creevy had dispatched to
announce him, and who had apparently been making a variety of unsuccessful attempts,
since their last interview, to wipe her dirty face clean, upon an apron much dirtier.
'What name?' said the girl.
'Nickleby,' replied Ralph.
'Oh! Mrs Nickleby,' said the girl, throwing open the door, 'here's Mr Nickleby.'
A lady in deep mourning rose as Mr Ralph Nickleby entered, but appeared incapable of
advancing to meet him, and leant upon the arm of a slight but very beautiful girl of about
seventeen, who had been sitting by her. A youth, who appeared a year or two older, stepped
forward and saluted Ralph as his uncle.
'Oh,' growled Ralph, with an ill−favoured frown, 'you are Nicholas, I suppose?'
'That is my name, sir,' replied the youth.
'Put my hat down,' said Ralph, imperiously. 'Well, ma'am, how do you do? You must
bear up against sorrow, ma'am; I always do.'
'Mine was no common loss!' said Mrs Nickleby, applying her handkerchief to her eyes.
'It was no UNcommon loss, ma'am,' returned Ralph, as he coolly unbuttoned his
spencer. 'Husbands die every day, ma'am, and wives too.'
'And brothers also, sir,' said Nicholas, with a glance of indignation.
'Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug−dogs likewise,' replied his uncle, taking a chair. 'You
didn't mention in your letter what my brother's complaint was, ma'am.'
'The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,' said Mrs Nickleby; shedding
tears. 'We have too much reason to fear that he died of a broken heart.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 26
'Pooh!' said Ralph, 'there's no such thing. I can understand a man's dying of a broken
neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a broken head, or a broken leg, or a broken nose;
but a broken heart! – nonsense, it's the cant of the day. If a man can't pay his debts, he dies
of a broken heart, and his widow's a martyr.'
'Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,' observed Nicholas, quietly.
'How old is this boy, for God's sake?' inquired Ralph, wheeling back his chair, and
surveying his nephew from head to foot with intense scorn.
'Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,' replied the widow.
'Nineteen, eh!' said Ralph; 'and what do you mean to do for your bread, sir?'
'Not to live upon my mother,' replied Nicholas, his heart swelling as he spoke.
'You'd have little enough to live upon, if you did,' retorted the uncle, eyeing him
contemptuously.
'Whatever it be,' said Nicholas, flushed with anger, 'I shall not look to you to make it
more.'
'Nicholas, my dear, recollect yourself,' remonstrated Mrs Nickleby.
'Dear Nicholas, pray,' urged the young lady.
'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Ralph. 'Upon my word! Fine beginnings, Mrs Nickleby –
fine beginnings!'
Mrs Nickleby made no other reply than entreating Nicholas by a gesture to keep silent;
and the uncle and nephew looked at each other for some seconds without speaking. The face
of the old man was stern, hard−featured, and forbidding; that of the young one, open,
handsome, and ingenuous. The old man's eye was keen with the twinklings of avarice and
cunning; the young man's bright with the light of intelligence and spirit. His figure was
somewhat slight, but manly and well formed; and, apart from all the grace of youth and
comeliness, there was an emanation from the warm young heart in his look and bearing
which kept the old man down.
However striking such a contrast as this may be to lookers−on, none ever feel it with
half the keenness or acuteness of perfection with which it strikes to the very soul of him
whose inferiority it marks. It galled Ralph to the heart's core, and he hated Nicholas from
that hour.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 27
The mutual inspection was at length brought to a close by Ralph withdrawing his eyes,
with a great show of disdain, and calling Nicholas 'a boy.' This word is much used as a term
of reproach by elderly gentlemen towards their juniors: probably with the view of deluding
society into the belief that if they could be young again, they wouldn't on any account.
'Well, ma'am,' said Ralph, impatiently, 'the creditors have administered, you tell me, and
there's nothing left for you?'
'Nothing,' replied Mrs Nickleby.
'And you spent what little money you had, in coming all the way to London, to see what
I could do for you?' pursued Ralph.
'I hoped,' faltered Mrs Nickleby, 'that you might have an opportunity of doing
something for your brother's children. It was his dying wish that I should appeal to you in
their behalf.'
'I don't know how it is,' muttered Ralph, walking up and down the room, 'but whenever
a man dies without any property of his own, he always seems to think he has a right to
dispose of other people's. What is your daughter fit for, ma'am?'
'Kate has been well educated,' sobbed Mrs Nickleby. 'Tell your uncle, my dear, how far
you went in French and extras.'
The poor girl was about to murmur something, when her uncle stopped her, very
unceremoniously.
'We must try and get you apprenticed at some boarding−school,' said Ralph. 'You have
not been brought up too delicately for that, I hope?'
'No, indeed, uncle,' replied the weeping girl. 'I will try to do anything that will gain me a
home and bread.'
'Well, well,' said Ralph, a little softened, either by his niece's beauty or her distress
(stretch a point, and say the latter). 'You must try it, and if the life is too hard, perhaps
dressmaking or tambour−work will come lighter. Have YOU ever done anything, sir?'
(turning to his nephew.)
'No,' replied Nicholas, bluntly.
'No, I thought not!' said Ralph. 'This is the way my brother brought up his children,
ma'am.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 28
'Nicholas has not long completed such education as his poor father could give him,'
rejoined Mrs Nickleby, 'and he was thinking of – '
'Of making something of him someday,' said Ralph. 'The old story; always thinking, and
never doing. If my brother had been a man of activity and prudence, he might have left you
a rich woman, ma'am: and if he had turned his son into the world, as my father turned me,
when I wasn't as old as that boy by a year and a half, he would have been in a situation to
help you, instead of being a burden upon you, and increasing your distress. My brother was
a thoughtless, inconsiderate man, Mrs Nickleby, and nobody, I am sure, can have better
reason to feel that, than you.'
This appeal set the widow upon thinking that perhaps she might have made a more
successful venture with her one thousand pounds, and then she began to reflect what a
comfortable sum it would have been just then; which dismal thoughts made her tears flow
faster, and in the excess of these griefs she (being a well−meaning woman enough, but weak
withal) fell first to deploring her hard fate, and then to remarking, with many sobs, that to be
sure she had been a slave to poor Nicholas, and had often told him she might have married
better (as indeed she had, very often), and that she never knew in his lifetime how the money
went, but that if he had confided in her they might all have been better off that day; with
other bitter recollections common to most married ladies, either during their coverture, or
afterwards, or at both periods. Mrs Nickleby concluded by lamenting that the dear departed
had never deigned to profit by her advice, save on one occasion; which was a strictly
veracious statement, inasmuch as he had only acted upon it once, and had ruined himself in
consequence.
Mr Ralph Nickleby heard all this with a half−smile; and when the widow had finished,
quietly took up the subject where it had been left before the above outbreak.
'Are you willing to work, sir?' he inquired, frowning on his nephew.
'Of course I am,' replied Nicholas haughtily.
'Then see here, sir,' said his uncle. 'This caught my eye this morning, and you may thank
your stars for it.'
With this exordium, Mr Ralph Nickleby took a newspaper from his pocket, and after
unfolding it, and looking for a short time among the advertisements, read as follows:
'«EDUCATION. – At Mr Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the
delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed,
booked, furnished with pocket−money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all
languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry,
the use of the globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification, and
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 29
every other branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no
vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till four,
at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary 5 pounds. A
Master of Arts would be preferred.»
'There!' said Ralph, folding the paper again. 'Let him get that situation, and his fortune
is made.'
'But he is not a Master of Arts,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'That,' replied Ralph, 'that, I think, can be got over.'
'But the salary is so small, and it is such a long way off, uncle!' faltered Kate.
'Hush, Kate my dear,' interposed Mrs Nickleby; 'your uncle must know best.'
'I say,' repeated Ralph, tartly, 'let him get that situation, and his fortune is made. If he
don't like that, let him get one for himself. Without friends, money, recommendation, or
knowledge of business of any kind, let him find honest employment in London, which will
keep him in shoe leather, and I'll give him a thousand pounds. At least,' said Mr Ralph
Nickleby, checking himself, 'I would if I had it.'
'Poor fellow!' said the young lady. 'Oh! uncle, must we be separated so soon!'
'Don't tease your uncle with questions when he is thinking only for our good, my love,'
said Mrs Nickleby. 'Nicholas, my dear, I wish you would say something.'
'Yes, mother, yes,' said Nicholas, who had hitherto remained silent and absorbed in
thought. 'If I am fortunate enough to be appointed to this post, sir, for which I am so
imperfectly qualified, what will become of those I leave behind?'
'Your mother and sister, sir,' replied Ralph, 'will be provided for, in that case (not
otherwise), by me, and placed in some sphere of life in which they will be able to be
independent. That will be my immediate care; they will not remain as they are, one week
after your departure, I will undertake.'
'Then,' said Nicholas, starting gaily up, and wringing his uncle's hand, 'I am ready to do
anything you wish me. Let us try our fortune with Mr Squeers at once; he can but refuse.'
'He won't do that,' said Ralph. 'He will be glad to have you on my recommendation.
Make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to be a partner in the establishment in no time.
Bless me, only think! if he were to die, why your fortune's made at once.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 30
'To be sure, I see it all,' said poor Nicholas, delighted with a thousand visionary ideas,
that his good spirits and his inexperience were conjuring up before him. 'Or suppose some
young nobleman who is being educated at the Hall, were to take a fancy to me, and get his
father to appoint me his travelling tutor when he left, and when we come back from the
continent, procured me some handsome appointment. Eh! uncle?'
'Ah, to be sure!' sneered Ralph.
'And who knows, but when he came to see me when I was settled (as he would of
course), he might fall in love with Kate, who would be keeping my house, and – and marry
her, eh! uncle? Who knows?'
'Who, indeed!' snarled Ralph.
'How happy we should be!' cried Nicholas with enthusiasm. 'The pain of parting is
nothing to the joy of meeting again. Kate will be a beautiful woman, and I so proud to hear
them say so, and mother so happy to be with us once again, and all these sad times forgotten,
and – ' The picture was too bright a one to bear, and Nicholas, fairly overpowered by it,
smiled faintly, and burst into tears.
This simple family, born and bred in retirement, and wholly unacquainted with what is
called the world – a conventional phrase which, being interpreted, often signifieth all the
rascals in it – mingled their tears together at the thought of their first separation; and, this
first gush of feeling over, were proceeding to dilate with all the buoyancy of untried hope on
the bright prospects before them, when Mr Ralph Nickleby suggested, that if they lost time,
some more fortunate candidate might deprive Nicholas of the stepping−stone to fortune
which the advertisement pointed out, and so undermine all their air−built castles. This timely
reminder effectually stopped the conversation. Nicholas, having carefully copied the address
of Mr Squeers, the uncle and nephew issued forth together in quest of that accomplished
gentleman; Nicholas firmly persuading himself that he had done his relative great injustice
in disliking him at first sight; and Mrs Nickleby being at some pains to inform her daughter
that she was sure he was a much more kindly disposed person than he seemed; which, Miss
Nickleby dutifully remarked, he might very easily be.
To tell the truth, the good lady's opinion had been not a little influenced by her
brother−in−law's appeal to her better understanding, and his implied compliment to her high
deserts; and although she had dearly loved her husband, and still doted on her children, he
had struck so successfully on one of those little jarring chords in the human heart (Ralph
was well acquainted with its worst weaknesses, though he knew nothing of its best), that she
had already begun seriously to consider herself the amiable and suffering victim of her late
husband's imprudence.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother, 31
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune
without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,
t
he Yorkshire Schoolmaster.
Snow Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeople who see the words
emblazoned, in all the legibility of gilt letters and dark shading, on the north−country
coaches, take Snow Hill to be? All people have some undefined and shadowy notion of a
place whose name is frequently before their eyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number
of random ideas there must be perpetually floating about, regarding this same Snow Hill.
The name is such a good one. Snow Hill – Snow Hill too, coupled with a Saracen's Head:
picturing to us by a double association of ideas, something stern and rugged! A bleak
desolate tract of country, open to piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms – a dark, cold,
gloomy heath, lonely by day, and scarcely to be thought of by honest folks at night – a place
which solitary wayfarers shun, and where desperate robbers congregate; – this, or something
like this, should be the prevalent notion of Snow Hill, in those remote and rustic parts,
through which the Saracen's Head, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and night
with mysterious and ghost−like punctuality; holding its swift and headlong course in all
weathers, and seeming to bid defiance to the very elements themselves.
The reality is rather different, but by no means to be despised notwithstanding. There, at
the very core of London, in the heart of its business and animation, in the midst of a whirl of
noise and motion: stemming as it were the giant currents of life that flow ceaselessly on
from different quarters, and meet beneath its walls: stands Newgate; and in that crowded
street on which it frowns so darkly – within a few feet of the squalid tottering houses – upon
the very spot on which the vendors of soup and fish and damaged fruit are now plying their
trades – scores of human beings, amidst a roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a great
city is as nothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have been hurried violently and
swiftly from the world, when the scene has been rendered frightful with excess of human
life; when curious eyes have glared from casement and house−top, and wall and pillar; and
when, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch, in his all−comprehensive
look of agony, has met not one – not one – that bore the impress of pity or compassion.
Near to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and the Compter, and the
bustle and noise of the city; and just on that particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus
horses going eastward seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in
hackney cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coach−yard of
the Saracen's Head Inn; its portal guarded by two Saracens' heads and shoulders, which it
was once the pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night,
but which have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity; possibly because this
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,32
species of humour is now confined to St James's parish, where door knockers are preferred
as being more portable, and bell−wires esteemed as convenient toothpicks. Whether this be
the reason or not, there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn
itself garnished with another Saracen's Head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard;
while from the door of the hind boot of all the red coaches that are standing therein, there
glares a small Saracen's Head, with a twin expression to the large Saracens' Heads below, so
that the general appearance of the pile is decidedly of the Saracenic order.
When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking−office on your left, and the tower
of St Sepulchre's church, darting abruptly up into the sky, on your right, and a gallery of
bedrooms on both sides. Just before you, you will observe a long window with the words
'coffee−room' legibly painted above it; and looking out of that window, you would have
seen in addition, if you had gone at the right time, Mr Wackford Squeers with his hands in
his pockets.
Mr Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye, and the popular
prejudice runs in favour of two. The eye he had, was unquestionably useful, but decidedly
not ornamental: being of a greenish grey, and in shape resembling the fan−light of a street
door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very
sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expression bordered
closely on the villainous. His hair was very flat and shiny, save at the ends, where it was
brushed stiffly up from a low protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice
and coarse manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size;
he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black; but his coat
sleeves being a great deal too long, and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at
ease in his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at finding himself
so respectable.
Mr Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee−room fire− places, fitted with
one such table as is usually seen in coffee− rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and
dimensions made to suit the angles of the partition. In a corner of the seat, was a very small
deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched – his
lace−up half−boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air – a diminutive boy, with his
shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at
the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dread and apprehension.
'Half−past three,' muttered Mr Squeers, turning from the window, and looking sulkily at
the coffee−room clock. 'There will be nobody here today.'
Much vexed by this reflection, Mr Squeers looked at the little boy to see whether he was
doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he
merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,33
'At Midsummer,' muttered Mr Squeers, resuming his complaint, 'I took down ten boys;
ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, and have
got only three – three oughts is an ought – three twos is six – sixty pound. What's come of
all the boys? what's parents got in their heads? what does it all mean?'
Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.
'Halloa, sir!' growled the schoolmaster, turning round. 'What's that, sir?'
'Nothing, please sir,' replied the little boy.
'Nothing, sir!' exclaimed Mr Squeers.
'Please sir, I sneezed,' rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him.
'Oh! sneezed, did you?' retorted Mr Squeers. 'Then what did you say «nothing» for, sir?'
In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles
into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr Squeers knocked him off the trunk
with a blow on one side of the face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.
'Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,' said Mr Squeers, 'and
then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise, sir?'
'Ye – ye – yes,' sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard with the Beggar's
Petition in printed calico.
'Then do so at once, sir,' said Squeers. 'Do you hear?'
As this admonition was accompanied with a threatening gesture, and uttered with a
savage aspect, the little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back; and, beyond
alternately sniffing and choking, gave no further vent to his emotions.
'Mr Squeers,' said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; 'here's a gentleman asking for
you at the bar.'
'Show the gentleman in, Richard,' replied Mr Squeers, in a soft voice. 'Put your
handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel, or I'll murder you when the gentleman
goes.'
The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper, when the
stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr Squeers feigned to be intent upon mending a
pen, and offering benevolent advice to his youthful pupil.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,34
'My dear child,' said Mr Squeers, 'all people have their trials. This early trial of yours
that is fit to make your little heart burst, and your very eyes come out of your head with
crying, what is it? Nothing; less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will
have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs Squeers. At the delightful village of
Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked,
washed, furnished with pocket−money, provided with all necessaries – '
'It IS the gentleman,' observed the stranger, stopping the schoolmaster in the rehearsal
of his advertisement. 'Mr Squeers, I believe, sir?'
'The same, sir,' said Mr Squeers, with an assumption of extreme surprise.
'The gentleman,' said the stranger, 'that advertised in the Times newspaper?'
' – Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regarding the Academy called
Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,'
added Mr Squeers. 'You come on business, sir. I see by my young friends. How do you do,
my little gentleman? and how do you do, sir?' With this salutation Mr Squeers patted the
heads of two hollow−eyed, small−boned little boys, whom the applicant had brought with
him, and waited for further communications.
'I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,' said the stranger.
Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, 'And a remarkably pretty name, too.'
The stranger continued. 'I have been thinking, Mr Squeers, of placing my two boys at
your school.'
'It is not for me to say so, sir,' replied Mr Squeers, 'but I don't think you could possibly
do a better thing.'
'Hem!' said the other. 'Twenty pounds per annewum, I believe, Mr Squeers?'
'Guineas,' rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.
'Pounds for two, I think, Mr Squeers,' said Mr Snawley, solemnly.
'I don't think it could be done, sir,' replied Squeers, as if he had never considered the
proposition before. 'Let me see; four fives is twenty, double that, and deduct the – well, a
pound either way shall not stand betwixt us. You must recommend me to your connection,
sir, and make it up that way.'
'They are not great eaters,' said Mr Snawley.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,35
'Oh! that doesn't matter at all,' replied Squeers. 'We don't consider the boys' appetites at
our establishment.' This was strictly true; they did not.
'Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,' continued Squeers; 'every
beautiful moral that Mrs Squeers can instil; every – in short, every comfort of a home that a
boy could wish for, will be theirs, Mr Snawley.'
'I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,' said Mr Snawley.
'I am glad of that, sir,' replied the schoolmaster, drawing himself up. 'They have come to
the right shop for morals, sir.'
'You are a moral man yourself,' said Mr Snawley.
'I rather believe I am, sir,' replied Squeers.
'I have the satisfaction to know you are, sir,' said Mr Snawley. 'I asked one of your
references, and he said you were pious.'
'Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,' replied Squeers.
'I hope I am also,' rejoined the other. 'Could I say a few words with you in the next box?'
'By all means,' rejoined Squeers with a grin. 'My dears, will you speak to your new
playfellow a minute or two? That is one of my boys, sir. Belling his name is, – a Taunton
boy that, sir.'
'Is he, indeed?' rejoined Mr Snawley, looking at the poor little urchin as if he were some
extraordinary natural curiosity.
'He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,' said Squeers. 'That's his luggage that he is a
sitting upon now. Each boy is required to bring, sir, two suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair
of stockings, two nightcaps, two pocket−handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats, and a
razor.'
'A razor!' exclaimed Mr Snawley, as they walked into the next box. 'What for?'
'To shave with,' replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.
There was not much in these three words, but there must have been something in the
manner in which they were said, to attract attention; for the schoolmaster and his companion
looked steadily at each other for a few seconds, and then exchanged a very meaning smile.
Snawley was a sleek, flat−nosed man, clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters, and
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,36
bearing in his countenance an expression of much mortification and sanctity; so, his smiling
without any obvious reason was the more remarkable.
'Up to what age do you keep boys at your school then?' he asked at length.
'Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments to my agent in town, or until
such time as they run away,' replied Squeers. 'Let us understand each other; I see we may
safely do so. What are these boys; – natural children?'
'No,' rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the schoolmaster's one eye. 'They ain't.'
'I thought they might be,' said Squeers, coolly. 'We have a good many of them; that
boy's one.'
'Him in the next box?' said Snawley.
Squeers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took another peep at the little boy on
the trunk, and, turning round again, looked as if he were quite disappointed to see him so
much like other boys, and said he should hardly have thought it.
'He is,' cried Squeers. 'But about these boys of yours; you wanted to speak to me?'
'Yes,' replied Snawley. 'The fact is, I am not their father, Mr Squeers. I'm only their
father−in−law.'
'Oh! Is that it?' said the schoolmaster. 'That explains it at once. I was wondering what
the devil you were going to send them to Yorkshire for. Ha! ha! Oh, I understand now.'
'You see I have married the mother,' pursued Snawley; 'it's expensive keeping boys at
home, and as she has a little money in her own right, I am afraid (women are so very foolish,
Mr Squeers) that she might be led to squander it on them, which would be their ruin, you
know.'
'I see,' returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his chair, and waving his hand.
'And this,' resumed Snawley, 'has made me anxious to put them to some school a good
distance off, where there are no holidays – none of those ill−judged coming home twice a
year that unsettle children's minds so – and where they may rough it a little – you
comprehend?'
'The payments regular, and no questions asked,' said Squeers, nodding his head.
'That's it, exactly,' rejoined the other. 'Morals strictly attended to, though.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,37
'Strictly,' said Squeers.
'Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?' said the father−in− law, hesitating.
'None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were so happy, and hope they
may never be sent for,' rejoined Squeers.
'Nothing could be better,' said the father−in−law, rubbing his hands.
'Then, as we understand each other,' said Squeers, 'will you allow me to ask you
whether you consider me a highly virtuous, exemplary, and well−conducted man in private
life; and whether, as a person whose business it is to take charge of youth, you place the
strongest confidence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality, religious principles, and
ability?'
'Certainly I do,' replied the father−in−law, reciprocating the schoolmaster's grin.
'Perhaps you won't object to say that, if I make you a reference?'
'Not the least in the world.'
'That's your sort!' said Squeers, taking up a pen; 'this is doing business, and that's what I
like.'
Having entered Mr Snawley's address, the schoolmaster had next to perform the still
more agreeable office of entering the receipt of the first quarter's payment in advance, which
he had scarcely completed, when another voice was heard inquiring for Mr Squeers.
'Here he is,' replied the schoolmaster; 'what is it?'
'Only a matter of business, sir,' said Ralph Nickleby, presenting himself, closely
followed by Nicholas. 'There was an advertisement of yours in the papers this morning?'
'There was, sir. This way, if you please,' said Squeers, who had by this time got back to
the box by the fire−place. 'Won't you be seated?'
'Why, I think I will,' replied Ralph, suiting the action to the word, and placing his hat on
the table before him. 'This is my nephew, sir, Mr Nicholas Nickleby.'
'How do you do, sir?' said Squeers.
Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very much astonished at the
outward appearance of the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall: as indeed he was.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,38
'Perhaps you recollect me?' said Ralph, looking narrowly at the schoolmaster.
'You paid me a small account at each of my half−yearly visits to town, for some years, I
think, sir,' replied Squeers.
'I did,' rejoined Ralph.
'For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortunately – '
' – unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,' said Ralph, finishing the sentence.
'I remember very well, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Ah! Mrs Squeers, sir, was as partial to
that lad as if he had been her own; the attention, sir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his
illness! Dry toast and warm tea offered him every night and morning when he couldn't
swallow anything – a candle in his bedroom on the very night he died – the best dictionary
sent up for him to lay his head upon – I don't regret it though. It is a pleasant thing to reflect
that one did one's duty by him.'
Ralph smiled, as if he meant anything but smiling, and looked round at the strangers
present.
'These are only some pupils of mine,' said Wackford Squeers, pointing to the little boy
on the trunk and the two little boys on the floor, who had been staring at each other without
uttering a word, and writhing their bodies into most remarkable contortions, according to the
custom of little boys when they first become acquainted. 'This gentleman, sir, is a parent
who is kind enough to compliment me upon the course of education adopted at Dotheboys
Hall, which is situated, sir, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in
Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with
pocket−money – '
'Yes, we know all about that, sir,' interrupted Ralph, testily. 'It's in the advertisement.'
'You are very right, sir; it IS in the advertisement,' replied Squeers.
'And in the matter of fact besides,' interrupted Mr Snawley. 'I feel bound to assure you,
sir, and I am proud to have this opportunity OF assuring you, that I consider Mr Squeers a
gentleman highly virtuous, exemplary, well conducted, and – '
'I make no doubt of it, sir,' interrupted Ralph, checking the torrent of recommendation;
'no doubt of it at all. Suppose we come to business?'
'With all my heart, sir,' rejoined Squeers. '«Never postpone business,» is the very first
lesson we instil into our commercial pupils. Master Belling, my dear, always remember that;
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,39
do you hear?'
'Yes, sir,' repeated Master Belling.
'He recollects what it is, does he?' said Ralph.
'Tell the gentleman,' said Squeers.
'«Never,»' repeated Master Belling.
'Very good,' said Squeers; 'go on.'
'Never,' repeated Master Belling again.
'Very good indeed,' said Squeers. 'Yes.'
'P,' suggested Nicholas, good−naturedly.
'Perform – business!' said Master Belling. 'Never – perform – business!'
'Very well, sir,' said Squeers, darting a withering look at the culprit. 'You and I will
perform a little business on our private account by−and−by.'
'And just now,' said Ralph, 'we had better transact our own, perhaps.'
'If you please,' said Squeers.
'Well,' resumed Ralph, 'it's brief enough; soon broached; and I hope easily concluded.
You have advertised for an able assistant, sir?'
'Precisely so,' said Squeers.
'And you really want one?'
'Certainly,' answered Squeers.
'Here he is!' said Ralph. 'My nephew Nicholas, hot from school, with everything he
learnt there, fermenting in his head, and nothing fermenting in his pocket, is just the man
you want.'
'I am afraid,' said Squeers, perplexed with such an application from a youth of
Nicholas's figure, 'I am afraid the young man won't suit me.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,40
'Yes, he will,' said Ralph; 'I know better. Don't be cast down, sir; you will be teaching
all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hall in less than a week's time, unless this gentleman
is more obstinate than I take him to be.'
'I fear, sir,' said Nicholas, addressing Mr Squeers, 'that you object to my youth, and to
my not being a Master of Arts?'
'The absence of a college degree IS an objection,' replied Squeers, looking as grave as
he could, and considerably puzzled, no less by the contrast between the simplicity of the
nephew and the worldly manner of the uncle, than by the incomprehensible allusion to the
young noblemen under his tuition.
'Look here, sir,' said Ralph; 'I'll put this matter in its true light in two seconds.'
'If you'll have the goodness,' rejoined Squeers.
'This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or a hobbledehoy, or whatever you
like to call him, of eighteen or nineteen, or thereabouts,' said Ralph.
'That I see,' observed the schoolmaster.
'So do I,' said Mr Snawley, thinking it as well to back his new friend occasionally.
'His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has no resources whatever, and
wants something to do,' said Ralph. 'I recommend him to this splendid establishment of
yours, as an opening which will lead him to fortune if he turns it to proper account. Do you
see that?'
'Everybody must see that,' replied Squeers, half imitating the sneer with which the old
gentleman was regarding his unconscious relative.
'I do, of course,' said Nicholas, eagerly.
'He does, of course, you observe,' said Ralph, in the same dry, hard manner. 'If any
caprice of temper should induce him to cast aside this golden opportunity before he has
brought it to perfection, I consider myself absolved from extending any assistance to his
mother and sister. Look at him, and think of the use he may be to you in half−a−dozen
ways! Now, the question is, whether, for some time to come at all events, he won't serve
your purpose better than twenty of the kind of people you would get under ordinary
circumstances. Isn't that a question for consideration?'
'Yes, it is,' said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph's head with a nod of his own.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,41
'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Let me have two words with you.'
The two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes Mr Wackford Squeers announced
that Mr Nicholas Nickleby was, from that moment, thoroughly nominated to, and installed
in, the office of first assistant master at Dotheboys Hall.
'Your uncle's recommendation has done it, Mr Nickleby,' said Wackford Squeers.
Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle's hand warmly, and could almost
have worshipped Squeers upon the spot.
'He is an odd−looking man,' thought Nicholas. 'What of that? Porson was an
odd−looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; all these bookworms are.'
'At eight o'clock tomorrow morning, Mr Nickleby,' said Squeers, 'the coach starts. You
must be here at a quarter before, as we take these boys with us.'
'Certainly, sir,' said Nicholas.
'And your fare down, I have paid,' growled Ralph. 'So, you'll have nothing to do but
keep yourself warm.'
Here was another instance of his uncle's generosity! Nicholas felt his unexpected
kindness so much, that he could scarcely find words to thank him; indeed, he had not found
half enough, when they took leave of the schoolmaster, and emerged from the Saracen's
Head gateway.
'I shall be here in the morning to see you fairly off,' said Ralph. 'No skulking!'
'Thank you, sir,' replied Nicholas; 'I never shall forget this kindness.'
'Take care you don't,' replied his uncle. 'You had better go home now, and pack up what
you have got to pack. Do you think you could find your way to Golden Square first?'
'Certainly,' said Nicholas. 'I can easily inquire.'
'Leave these papers with my clerk, then,' said Ralph, producing a small parcel, 'and tell
him to wait till I come home.'
Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding his worthy uncle an affectionate
farewell, which that warm−hearted old gentleman acknowledged by a growl, hastened away
to execute his commission.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,42
He found Golden Square in due course; Mr Noggs, who had stepped out for a minute or
so to the public−house, was opening the door with a latch−key, as he reached the steps.
'What's that?' inquired Noggs, pointing to the parcel.
'Papers from my uncle,' replied Nicholas; 'and you're to have the goodness to wait till he
comes home, if you please.'
'Uncle!' cried Noggs.
'Mr Nickleby,' said Nicholas in explanation.
'Come in,' said Newman.
Without another word he led Nicholas into the passage, and thence into the official
pantry at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair, and mounting upon his high stool,
sat, with his arms hanging, straight down by his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, as from a
tower of observation.
'There is no answer,' said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a table beside him.
Newman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting his head forward so as to
obtain a nearer view of Nicholas's face, scanned his features closely.
'No answer,' said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under the impression that Newman
Noggs was deaf.
Newman placed his hands upon his knees, and, without uttering a syllable, continued
the same close scrutiny of his companion's face.
This was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utter stranger, and his
appearance was so extremely peculiar, that Nicholas, who had a sufficiently keen sense of
the ridiculous, could not refrain from breaking into a smile as he inquired whether Mr Noggs
had any commands for him.
Noggs shook his head and sighed; upon which Nicholas rose, and remarking that he
required no rest, bade him good−morning.
It was a great exertion for Newman Noggs, and nobody knows to this day how he ever
came to make it, the other party being wholly unknown to him, but he drew a long breath
and actually said, out loud, without once stopping, that if the young gentleman did not object
to tell, he should like to know what his uncle was going to do for him.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,43
Nicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on the contrary was rather pleased
to have an opportunity of talking on the subject which occupied his thoughts; so, he sat
down again, and (his sanguine imagination warming as he spoke) entered into a fervent and
glowing description of all the honours and advantages to be derived from his appointment at
that seat of learning, Dotheboys Hall.
'But, what's the matter – are you ill?' said Nicholas, suddenly breaking off, as his
companion, after throwing himself into a variety of uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under
the stool, and cracked his finger−joints as if he were snapping all the bones in his hands.
Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging his shoulders and cracking his
finger−joints; smiling horribly all the time, and looking steadfastly at nothing, out of the
tops of his eyes, in a most ghastly manner.
At first, Nicholas thought the mysterious man was in a fit, but, on further consideration,
decided that he was in liquor, under which circumstances he deemed it prudent to make off
at once. He looked back when he had got the street−door open. Newman Noggs was still
indulging in the same extraordinary gestures, and the cracking of his fingers sounded louder
that ever.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait upon Mr Wackford Squeers,44
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire.
O
f his Leave−taking and his Fellow−Travellers, and what befell them on the Road
If tears dropped into a trunk were charms to preserve its owner from sorrow and
misfortune, Nicholas Nickleby would have commenced his expedition under most happy
auspices. There was so much to be done, and so little time to do it in; so many kind words to
be spoken, and such bitter pain in the hearts in which they rose to impede their utterance;
that the little preparations for his journey were made mournfully indeed. A hundred things
which the anxious care of his mother and sister deemed indispensable for his comfort,
Nicholas insisted on leaving behind, as they might prove of some after use, or might be
convertible into money if occasion required. A hundred affectionate contests on such points
as these, took place on the sad night which preceded his departure; and, as the termination of
every angerless dispute brought them nearer and nearer to the close of their slight
preparations, Kate grew busier and busier, and wept more silently.
The box was packed at last, and then there came supper, with some little delicacy
provided for the occasion, and as a set−off against the expense of which, Kate and her
mother had feigned to dine when Nicholas was out. The poor lady nearly choked himself by
attempting to partake of it, and almost suffocated himself in affecting a jest or two, and
forcing a melancholy laugh. Thus, they lingered on till the hour of separating for the night
was long past; and then they found that they might as well have given vent to their real
feelings before, for they could not suppress them, do what they would. So, they let them
have their way, and even that was a relief.
Nicholas slept well till six next morning; dreamed of home, or of what was home once –
no matter which, for things that are changed or gone will come back as they used to be,
thank God! in sleep – and rose quite brisk and gay. He wrote a few lines in pencil, to say the
goodbye which he was afraid to pronounce himself, and laying them, with half his scanty
stock of money, at his sister's door, shouldered his box and crept softly downstairs.
'Is that you, Hannah?' cried a voice from Miss La Creevy's sitting− room, whence shone
the light of a feeble candle.
'It is I, Miss La Creevy,' said Nicholas, putting down the box and looking in.
'Bless us!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, starting and putting her hand to her curl−papers.
'You're up very early, Mr Nickleby.'
'So are you,' replied Nicholas.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 45
'It's the fine arts that bring me out of bed, Mr Nickleby,' returned the lady. 'I'm waiting
for the light to carry out an idea.'
Miss La Creevy had got up early to put a fancy nose into a miniature of an ugly little
boy, destined for his grandmother in the country, who was expected to bequeath him
property if he was like the family.
'To carry out an idea,' repeated Miss La Creevy; 'and that's the great convenience of
living in a thoroughfare like the Strand. When I want a nose or an eye for any particular
sitter, I have only to look out of window and wait till I get one.'
'Does it take long to get a nose, now?' inquired Nicholas, smiling.
'Why, that depends in a great measure on the pattern,' replied Miss La Creevy. 'Snubs
and Romans are plentiful enough, and there are flats of all sorts and sizes when there's a
meeting at Exeter Hall; but perfect aquilines, I am sorry to say, are scarce, and we generally
use them for uniforms or public characters.'
'Indeed!' said Nicholas. 'If I should meet with any in my travels, I'll endeavour to sketch
them for you.'
'You don't mean to say that you are really going all the way down into Yorkshire this
cold winter's weather, Mr Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy. 'I heard something of it last
night.'
'I do, indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'Needs must, you know, when somebody drives.
Necessity is my driver, and that is only another name for the same gentleman.'
'Well, I am very sorry for it; that's all I can say,' said Miss La Creevy; 'as much on your
mother's and sister's account as on yours. Your sister is a very pretty young lady, Mr
Nickleby, and that is an additional reason why she should have somebody to protect her. I
persuaded her to give me a sitting or two, for the street−door case. 'Ah! she'll make a sweet
miniature.' As Miss La Creevy spoke, she held up an ivory countenance intersected with
very perceptible sky− blue veins, and regarded it with so much complacency, that Nicholas
quite envied her.
'If you ever have an opportunity of showing Kate some little kindness,' said Nicholas,
presenting his hand, 'I think you will.'
'Depend upon that,' said the good−natured miniature painter; 'and God bless you, Mr
Nickleby; and I wish you well.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 46
It was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed enough about its ways
to think, that if he gave Miss La Creevy one little kiss, perhaps she might not be the less
kindly disposed towards those he was leaving behind. So, he gave her three or four with a
kind of jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of displeasure
than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she had never heard of such a thing,
and couldn't have believed it possible.
Having terminated the unexpected interview in this satisfactory manner, Nicholas
hastily withdrew himself from the house. By the time he had found a man to carry his box it
was only seven o'clock, so he walked slowly on, a little in advance of the porter, and very
probably with not half as light a heart in his breast as the man had, although he had no
waistcoat to cover it with, and had evidently, from the appearance of his other garments,
been spending the night in a stable, and taking his breakfast at a pump.
Regarding, with no small curiosity and interest, all the busy preparations for the coming
day which every street and almost every house displayed; and thinking, now and then, that it
seemed rather hard that so many people of all ranks and stations could earn a livelihood in
London, and that he should be compelled to journey so far in search of one; Nicholas
speedily arrived at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. Having dismissed his attendant, and seen
the box safely deposited in the coach−office, he looked into the coffee−room in search of Mr
Squeers.
He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with the three little boys before
noticed, and two others who had turned up by some lucky chance since the interview of the
previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat. Mr Squeers had before him a small
measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment
intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
'This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?' said Mr Squeers, looking down into a large
blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid
contained in it.
'That's twopenn'orth, sir,' replied the waiter.
'What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!' said Mr Squeers, with a sigh. 'Just
fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?'
'To the wery top, sir?' inquired the waiter. 'Why, the milk will be drownded.'
'Never you mind that,' replied Mr Squeers. 'Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered
that thick bread and butter for three, did you?'
'Coming directly, sir.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 47
'You needn't hurry yourself,' said Squeers; 'there's plenty of time. Conquer your
passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles.' As he uttered this moral precept, Mr Squeers
took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognised Nicholas.
'Sit down, Mr Nickleby,' said Squeers. 'Here we are, a breakfasting you see!'
Nicholas did NOT see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr Squeers; but he bowed
with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could.
'Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?' said Squeers. 'Very good; don't forget the
bread and butter presently.'
At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys looked very eager, and
followed the waiter out, with their eyes; meanwhile Mr Squeers tasted the milk and water.
'Ah!' said that gentleman, smacking his lips, 'here's richness! Think of the many beggars
and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger,
isn't it, Mr Nickleby?'
'Very shocking, sir,' said Nicholas.
'When I say number one,' pursued Mr Squeers, putting the mug before the children, 'the
boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the
boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you
ready?'
'Yes, sir,' cried all the little boys with great eagerness.
'That's right,' said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast; 'keep ready till I tell
you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur. This is
the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr Nickleby,' said the schoolmaster, turning to
Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.
Nicholas murmured something – he knew not what – in reply; and the little boys,
dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which had by this time arrived),
and every morsel which Mr Squeers took into his mouth, remained with strained eyes in
torments of expectation.
'Thank God for a good breakfast,' said Squeers, when he had finished. 'Number one may
take a drink.'
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish
for more, when Mr Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 48
interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water
terminated with number five.
'And now,' said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three into as many
portions as there were children, 'you had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn
will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.'
Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously, and in
desperate haste: while the schoolmaster (who was in high good humour after his meal)
picked his teeth with a fork, and looked smilingly on. In a very short time, the horn was
heard.
'I thought it wouldn't be long,' said Squeers, jumping up and producing a little basket
from under the seat; 'put what you haven't had time to eat, in here, boys! You'll want it on
the road!'
Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical arrangements; but he had
no time to reflect upon them, for the little boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and
their boxes had to be brought out and put in, and Mr Squeers's luggage was to be seen
carefully deposited in the boot, and all these offices were in his department. He was in the
full heat and bustle of concluding these operations, when his uncle, Mr Ralph Nickleby,
accosted him.
'Oh! here you are, sir!' said Ralph. 'Here are your mother and sister, sir.'
'Where?' cried Nicholas, looking hastily round.
'Here!' replied his uncle. 'Having too much money and nothing at all to do with it, they
were paying a hackney coach as I came up, sir.'
'We were afraid of being too late to see him before he went away from us,' said Mrs
Nickleby, embracing her son, heedless of the unconcerned lookers−on in the coach−yard.
'Very good, ma'am,' returned Ralph, 'you're the best judge of course. I merely said that
you were paying a hackney coach. I never pay a hackney coach, ma'am; I never hire one. I
haven't been in a hackney coach of my own hiring, for thirty years, and I hope I shan't be for
thirty more, if I live as long.'
'I should never have forgiven myself if I had not seen him,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Poor
dear boy – going away without his breakfast too, because he feared to distress us!'
'Mighty fine certainly,' said Ralph, with great testiness. 'When I first went to business,
ma'am, I took a penny loaf and a ha'porth of milk for my breakfast as I walked to the city
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 49
every morning; what do you say to that, ma'am? Breakfast! Bah!'
'Now, Nickleby,' said Squeers, coming up at the moment buttoning his greatcoat; 'I
think you'd better get up behind. I'm afraid of one of them boys falling off and then there's
twenty pound a year gone.'
'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, touching her brother's arm, 'who is that vulgar man?'
'Eh!' growled Ralph, whose quick ears had caught the inquiry. 'Do you wish to be
introduced to Mr Squeers, my dear?'
'That the schoolmaster! No, uncle. Oh no!' replied Kate, shrinking back.
'I'm sure I heard you say as much, my dear,' retorted Ralph in his cold sarcastic manner.
'Mr Squeers, here's my niece: Nicholas's sister!'
'Very glad to make your acquaintance, miss,' said Squeers, raising his hat an inch or
two. 'I wish Mrs Squeers took gals, and we had you for a teacher. I don't know, though,
whether she mightn't grow jealous if we had. Ha! ha! ha!'
If the proprietor of Dotheboys Hall could have known what was passing in his
assistant's breast at that moment, he would have discovered, with some surprise, that he was
as near being soundly pummelled as he had ever been in his life. Kate Nickleby, having a
quicker perception of her brother's emotions, led him gently aside, and thus prevented Mr
Squeers from being impressed with the fact in a peculiarly disagreeable manner.
'My dear Nicholas,' said the young lady, 'who is this man? What kind of place can it be
that you are going to?'
'I hardly know, Kate,' replied Nicholas, pressing his sister's hand. 'I suppose the
Yorkshire folks are rather rough and uncultivated; that's all.'
'But this person,' urged Kate.
'Is my employer, or master, or whatever the proper name may be,' replied Nicholas
quickly; 'and I was an ass to take his coarseness ill. They are looking this way, and it is time
I was in my place. Bless you, love, and goodbye! Mother, look forward to our meeting again
someday! Uncle, farewell! Thank you heartily for all you have done and all you mean to do.
Quite ready, sir!'
With these hasty adieux, Nicholas mounted nimbly to his seat, and waved his hand as
gallantly as if his heart went with it.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 50
At this moment, when the coachman and guard were comparing notes for the last time
before starting, on the subject of the way−bill; when porters were screwing out the last
reluctant sixpences, itinerant newsmen making the last offer of a morning paper, and the
horses giving the last impatient rattle to their harness; Nicholas felt somebody pulling softly
at his leg. He looked down, and there stood Newman Noggs, who pushed up into his hand a
dirty letter.
'What's this?' inquired Nicholas.
'Hush!' rejoined Noggs, pointing to Mr Ralph Nickleby, who was saying a few earnest
words to Squeers, a short distance off: 'Take it. Read it. Nobody knows. That's all.'
'Stop!' cried Nicholas.
'No,' replied Noggs.
Nicholas cried stop, again, but Newman Noggs was gone.
A minute's bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a swaying of the vehicle to one side, as
the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard, climbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few
notes from the horn, a hasty glance of two sorrowful faces below, and the hard features of
Mr Ralph Nickleby – and the coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones of Smithfield.
The little boys' legs being too short to admit of their feet resting upon anything as they
sat, and the little boys' bodies being consequently in imminent hazard of being jerked off the
coach, Nicholas had enough to do over the stones to hold them on. Between the manual
exertion and the mental anxiety attendant upon this task, he was not a little relieved when
the coach stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He was still more relieved when a
hearty−looking gentleman, with a very good−humoured face, and a very fresh colour, got up
behind, and proposed to take the other corner of the seat.
'If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,' said the new− comer, 'they'll be safer
in case of their going to sleep; eh?'
'If you'll have the goodness, sir,' replied Squeers, 'that'll be the very thing. Mr Nickleby,
take three of them boys between you and the gentleman. Belling and the youngest Snawley
can sit between me and the guard. Three children,' said Squeers, explaining to the stranger,
'books as two.'
'I have not the least objection I am sure,' said the fresh−coloured gentleman; 'I have a
brother who wouldn't object to book his six children as two at any butcher's or baker's in the
kingdom, I dare say. Far from it.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 51
'Six children, sir?' exclaimed Squeers.
'Yes, and all boys,' replied the stranger.
'Mr Nickleby,' said Squeers, in great haste, 'catch hold of that basket. Let me give you a
card, sir, of an establishment where those six boys can be brought up in an enlightened,
liberal, and moral manner, with no mistake at all about it, for twenty guineas a year each –
twenty guineas, sir – or I'd take all the boys together upon a average right through, and say a
hundred pound a year for the lot.'
'Oh!' said the gentleman, glancing at the card, 'you are the Mr Squeers mentioned here, I
presume?'
'Yes, I am, sir,' replied the worthy pedagogue; 'Mr Wackford Squeers is my name, and
I'm very far from being ashamed of it. These are some of my boys, sir; that's one of my
assistants, sir – Mr Nickleby, a gentleman's son, amd a good scholar, mathematical,
classical, and commercial. We don't do things by halves at our shop. All manner of learning
my boys take down, sir; the expense is never thought of; and they get paternal treatment and
washing in.'
'Upon my word,' said the gentleman, glancing at Nicholas with a half−smile, and a more
than half expression of surprise, 'these are advantages indeed.'
'You may say that, sir,' rejoined Squeers, thrusting his hands into his great−coat pockets.
'The most unexceptionable references are given and required. I wouldn't take a reference
with any boy, that wasn't responsible for the payment of five pound five a quarter, no, not if
you went down on your knees, and asked me, with the tears running down your face, to do
it.'
'Highly considerate,' said the passenger.
'It's my great aim and end to be considerate, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Snawley, junior, if
you don't leave off chattering your teeth, and shaking with the cold, I'll warm you with a
severe thrashing in about half a minute's time.'
'Sit fast here, genelmen,' said the guard as he clambered up.
'All right behind there, Dick?' cried the coachman.
'All right,' was the reply. 'Off she goes!' And off she did go – if coaches be feminine –
amidst a loud flourish from the guard's horn, and the calm approval of all the judges of
coaches and coach−horses congregated at the Peacock, but more especially of the helpers,
who stood, with the cloths over their arms, watching the coach till it disappeared, and then
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 52
lounged admiringly stablewards, bestowing various gruff encomiums on the beauty of the
turn−out.
When the guard (who was a stout old Yorkshireman) had blown himself quite out of
breath, he put the horn into a little tunnel of a basket fastened to the coach−side for the
purpose, and giving himself a plentiful shower of blows on the chest and shoulders,
observed it was uncommon cold; after which, he demanded of every person separately
whether he was going right through, and if not, where he WAS going. Satisfactory replies
being made to these queries, he surmised that the roads were pretty heavy arter that fall last
night, and took the liberty of asking whether any of them gentlemen carried a snuff−box. It
happening that nobody did, he remarked with a mysterious air that he had heard a medical
gentleman as went down to Grantham last week, say how that snuff−taking was bad for the
eyes; but for his part he had never found it so, and what he said was, that everybody should
speak as they found. Nobody attempting to controvert this position, he took a small
brown−paper parcel out of his hat, and putting on a pair of horn spectacles (the writing being
crabbed) read the direction half−a−dozen times over; having done which, he consigned the
parcel to its old place, put up his spectacles again, and stared at everybody in turn. After this,
he took another blow at the horn by way of refreshment; and, having now exhausted his
usual topics of conversation, folded his arms as well as he could in so many coats, and
falling into a solemn silence, looked carelessly at the familiar objects which met his eye on
every side as the coach rolled on; the only things he seemed to care for, being horses and
droves of cattle, which he scrutinised with a critical air as they were passed upon the road.
The weather was intensely and bitterly cold; a great deal of snow fell from time to time;
and the wind was intolerably keen. Mr Squeers got down at almost every stage – to stretch
his legs as he said – and as he always came back from such excursions with a very red nose,
and composed himself to sleep directly, there is reason to suppose that he derived great
benefit from the process. The little pupils having been stimulated with the remains of their
breakfast, and further invigorated by sundry small cups of a curious cordial carried by Mr
Squeers, which tasted very like toast−and−water put into a brandy bottle by mistake, went to
sleep, woke, shivered, and cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholas and the
good−tempered man found so many things to talk about, that between conversing together,
and cheering up the boys, the time passed with them as rapidly as it could, under such
adverse circumstances.
So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good coach dinner, of which the box,
the four front outsides, the one inside, Nicholas, the good−tempered man, and Mr Squeers,
partook; while the five little boys were put to thaw by the fire, and regaled with sandwiches.
A stage or two further on, the lamps were lighted, and a great to−do occasioned by the
taking up, at a roadside inn, of a very fastidious lady with an infinite variety of cloaks and
small parcels, who loudly lamented, for the behoof of the outsides, the non−arrival of her
own carriage which was to have taken her on, and made the guard solemnly promise to stop
every green chariot he saw coming; which, as it was a dark night and he was sitting with his
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 53
face the other way, that officer undertook, with many fervent asseverations, to do. Lastly,
the fastidious lady, finding there was a solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lighted
which she carried in reticule, and being after much trouble shut in, the horses were put into a
brisk canter and the coach was once more in rapid motion.
The night and the snow came on together, and dismal enough they were. There was no
sound to be heard but the howling of the wind; for the noise of the wheels, and the tread of
the horses' feet, were rendered inaudible by the thick coating of snow which covered the
ground, and was fast increasing every moment. The streets of Stamford were deserted as
they passed through the town; and its old churches rose, frowning and dark, from the
whitened ground. Twenty miles further on, two of the front outside passengers, wisely
availing themselves of their arrival at one of the best inns in England, turned in, for the
night, at the George at Grantham. The remainder wrapped themselves more closely in their
coats and cloaks, and leaving the light and warmth of the town behind them, pillowed
themselves against the luggage, and prepared, with many half− suppressed moans, again to
encounter the piercing blast which swept across the open country.
They were little more than a stage out of Grantham, or about halfway between it and
Newark, when Nicholas, who had been asleep for a short time, was suddenly roused by a
violent jerk which nearly threw him from his seat. Grasping the rail, he found that the coach
had sunk greatly on one side, though it was still dragged forward by the horses; and while –
confused by their plunging and the loud screams of the lady inside – he hesitated, for an
instant, whether to jump off or not, the vehicle turned easily over, and relieved him from all
further uncertainty by flinging him into the road.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire. 54
CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident
mentioned in the last Chapter,
a
ffords an Opportunity to a couple of Gentlemen to tell Stories against each other.
'Wo ho!' cried the guard, on his legs in a minute, and running to the leaders' heads. 'Is
there ony genelmen there as can len' a hond here? Keep quiet, dang ye! Wo ho!'
'What's the matter?' demanded Nicholas, looking sleepily up.
'Matther mun, matter eneaf for one neight,' replied the guard; 'dang the wall−eyed bay,
he's gane mad wi' glory I think, carse t'coorch is over. Here, can't ye len' a hond? Dom it, I'd
ha' dean it if all my boans were brokken.'
'Here!' cried Nicholas, staggering to his feet, 'I'm ready. I'm only a little abroad, that's
all.'
'Hoold 'em toight,' cried the guard, 'while ar coot treaces. Hang on tiv'em sumhoo. Well
deane, my lod. That's it. Let'em goa noo. Dang 'em, they'll gang whoam fast eneaf!'
In truth, the animals were no sooner released than they trotted back, with much
deliberation, to the stable they had just left, which was distant not a mile behind.
'Can you blo' a harn?' asked the guard, disengaging one of the coach−lamps.
'I dare say I can,' replied Nicholas.
'Then just blo' away into that 'un as lies on the grund, fit to wakken the deead, will'ee,'
said the man, 'while I stop sum o' this here squealing inside. Cumin', cumin'. Dean't make
that noise, wooman.'
As the man spoke, he proceeded to wrench open the uppermost door of the coach, while
Nicholas, seizing the horn, awoke the echoes far and wide with one of the most
extraordinary performances on that instrument ever heard by mortal ears. It had its effect,
however, not only in rousing such of their fall, but in summoning assistance to their relief;
for lights gleamed in the distance, and people were already astir.
In fact, a man on horseback galloped down, before the passengers were well collected
together; and a careful investigation being instituted, it appeared that the lady inside had
broken her lamp, and the gentleman his head; that the two front outsides had escaped with
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 55
black eyes; the box with a bloody nose; the coachman with a contusion on the temple; Mr
Squeers with a portmanteau bruise on his back; and the remaining passengers without any
injury at all – thanks to the softness of the snow−drift in which they had been overturned.
These facts were no sooner thoroughly ascertained, than the lady gave several indications of
fainting, but being forewarned that if she did, she must be carried on some gentleman's
shoulders to the nearest public−house, she prudently thought better of it, and walked back
with the rest.
They found on reaching it, that it was a lonely place with no very great accommodation
in the way of apartments – that portion of its resources being all comprised in one public
room with a sanded floor, and a chair or two. However, a large faggot and a plentiful supply
of coals being heaped upon the fire, the appearance of things was not long in mending; and,
by the time they had washed off all effaceable marks of the late accident, the room was
warm and light, which was a most agreeable exchange for the cold and darkness out of
doors.
'Well, Mr Nickleby,' said Squeers, insinuating himself into the warmest corner, 'you did
very right to catch hold of them horses. I should have done it myself if I had come to in
time, but I am very glad you did it. You did it very well; very well.'
'So well,' said the merry−faced gentleman, who did not seem to approve very much of
the patronising tone adopted by Squeers, 'that if they had not been firmly checked when they
were, you would most probably have had no brains left to teach with.'
This remark called up a discourse relative to the promptitude Nicholas had displayed,
and he was overwhelmed with compliments and commendations.
'I am very glad to have escaped, of course,' observed Squeers: 'every man is glad when
he escapes from danger; but if any one of my charges had been hurt – if I had been
prevented from restoring any one of these little boys to his parents whole and sound as I
received him – what would have been my feelings? Why the wheel a−top of my head would
have been far preferable to it.'
'Are they all brothers, sir?' inquired the lady who had carried the 'Davy' or safety−lamp.
'In one sense they are, ma'am,' replied Squeers, diving into his greatcoat pocket for
cards. 'They are all under the same parental and affectionate treatment. Mrs Squeers and
myself are a mother and father to every one of 'em. Mr Nickleby, hand the lady them cards,
and offer these to the gentleman. Perhaps they might know of some parents that would be
glad to avail themselves of the establishment.'
Expressing himself to this effect, Mr Squeers, who lost no opportunity of advertising
gratuitously, placed his hands upon his knees, and looked at the pupils with as much
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 56
benignity as he could possibly affect, while Nicholas, blushing with shame, handed round
the cards as directed.
'I hope you suffer no inconvenience from the overturn, ma'am?' said the merry−faced
gentleman, addressing the fastidious lady, as though he were charitably desirous to change
the subject.
'No bodily inconvenience,' replied the lady.
'No mental inconvenience, I hope?'
'The subject is a very painful one to my feelings, sir,' replied the lady with strong
emotion; 'and I beg you as a gentleman, not to refer to it.'
'Dear me,' said the merry−faced gentleman, looking merrier still, 'I merely intended to
inquire – '
'I hope no inquiries will be made,' said the lady, 'or I shall be compelled to throw myself
on the protection of the other gentlemen. Landlord, pray direct a boy to keep watch outside
the door – and if a green chariot passes in the direction of Grantham, to stop it instantly.'
The people of the house were evidently overcome by this request, and when the lady
charged the boy to remember, as a means of identifying the expected green chariot, that it
would have a coachman with a gold−laced hat on the box, and a footman, most probably in
silk stockings, behind, the attentions of the good woman of the inn were redoubled. Even the
box−passenger caught the infection, and growing wonderfully deferential, immediately
inquired whether there was not very good society in that neighbourhood, to which the lady
replied yes, there was: in a manner which sufficiently implied that she moved at the very
tiptop and summit of it all.
'As the guard has gone on horseback to Grantham to get another coach,' said the
good−tempered gentleman when they had been all sitting round the fire, for some time, in
silence, 'and as he must be gone a couple of hours at the very least, I propose a bowl of hot
punch. What say you, sir?'
This question was addressed to the broken−headed inside, who was a man of very
genteel appearance, dressed in mourning. He was not past the middle age, but his hair was
grey; it seemed to have been prematurely turned by care or sorrow. He readily acceded to
the proposal, and appeared to be prepossessed by the frank good−nature of the individual
from whom it emanated.
This latter personage took upon himself the office of tapster when the punch was ready,
and after dispensing it all round, led the conversation to the antiquities of York, with which
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 57
both he and the grey−haired gentleman appeared to be well acquainted. When this topic
flagged, he turned with a smile to the grey−headed gentleman, and asked if he could sing.
'I cannot indeed,' replied gentleman, smiling in his turn.
'That's a pity,' said the owner of the good−humoured countenance. 'Is there nobody here
who can sing a song to lighten the time?'
The passengers, one and all, protested that they could not; that they wished they could;
that they couldn't remember the words of anything without the book; and so forth.
'Perhaps the lady would not object,' said the president with great respect, and a merry
twinkle in his eye. 'Some little Italian thing out of the last opera brought out in town, would
be most acceptable I am sure.'
As the lady condescended to make no reply, but tossed her head contemptuously, and
murmured some further expression of surprise regarding the absence of the green chariot,
one or two voices urged upon the president himself, the propriety of making an attempt for
the general benefit.
'I would if I could,' said he of the good−tempered face; 'for I hold that in this, as in all
other cases where people who are strangers to each other are thrown unexpectedly together,
they should endeavour to render themselves as pleasant, for the joint sake of the little
community, as possible.'
'I wish the maxim were more generally acted on, in all cases,' said the grey−headed
gentleman.
'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the other. 'Perhaps, as you can't sing, you'll tell us a story?'
'Nay. I should ask you.'
'After you, I will, with pleasure.'
'Indeed!' said the grey−haired gentleman, smiling, 'Well, let it be so. I fear the turn of
my thoughts is not calculated to lighten the time you must pass here; but you have brought
this upon yourselves, and shall judge. We were speaking of York Minster just now. My
story shall have some reference to it. Let us call it
THE FIVE SISTERS OF YORK
After a murmur of approbation from the other passengers, during which the fastidious
lady drank a glass of punch unobserved, the grey−headed gentleman thus went on:
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 58
'A great many years ago – for the fifteenth century was scarce two years old at the time,
and King Henry the Fourth sat upon the throne of England – there dwelt, in the ancient city
of York, five maiden sisters, the subjects of my tale.
'These five sisters were all of surpassing beauty. The eldest was in her twenty−third
year, the second a year younger, the third a year younger than the second, and the fourth a
year younger than the third. They were tall stately figures, with dark flashing eyes and hair
of jet; dignity and grace were in their every movement; and the fame of their great beauty
had spread through all the country round.
'But, if the four elder sisters were lovely, how beautiful was the youngest, a fair creature
of sixteen! The blushing tints in the soft bloom on the fruit, or the delicate painting on the
flower, are not more exquisite than was the blending of the rose and lily in her gentle face,
or the deep blue of her eye. The vine, in all its elegant luxuriance, is not more graceful than
were the clusters of rich brown hair that sported round her brow.
'If we all had hearts like those which beat so lightly in the bosoms of the young and
beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be! If, while our bodies grow old and withered, our
hearts could but retain their early youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows
and sufferings! But, the faint image of Eden which is stamped upon them in childhood,
chafes and rubs in our rough struggles with the world, and soon wears away: too often to
leave nothing but a mournful blank remaining.
'The heart of this fair girl bounded with joy and gladness. Devoted attachment to her
sisters, and a fervent love of all beautiful things in nature, were its pure affections. Her
gleesome voice and merry laugh were the sweetest music of their home. She was its very
light and life. The brightest flowers in the garden were reared by her; the caged birds sang
when they heard her voice, and pined when they missed its sweetness. Alice, dear Alice;
what living thing within the sphere of her gentle witchery, could fail to love her!
'You may seek in vain, now, for the spot on which these sisters lived, for their very
names have passed away, and dusty antiquaries tell of them as of a fable. But they dwelt in
an old wooden house – old even in those days – with overhanging gables and balconies of
rudely−carved oak, which stood within a pleasant orchard, and was surrounded by a rough
stone wall, whence a stout archer might have winged an arrow to St Mary's Abbey. The old
abbey flourished then; and the five sisters, living on its fair domains, paid yearly dues to the
black monks of St Benedict, to which fraternity it belonged.
'It was a bright and sunny morning in the pleasant time of summer, when one of those
black monks emerged from the abbey portal, and bent his steps towards the house of the fair
sisters. Heaven above was blue, and earth beneath was green; the river glistened like a path
of diamonds in the sun; the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the lark
soared high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air. Everything
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 59
looked gay and smiling; but the holy man walked gloomily on, with his eyes bent upon the
ground. The beauty of the earth is but a breath, and man is but a shadow. What sympathy
should a holy preacher have with either?
'With eyes bent upon the ground, then, or only raised enough to prevent his stumbling
over such obstacles as lay in his way, the religious man moved slowly forward until he
reached a small postern in the wall of the sisters' orchard, through which he passed, closing
it behind him. The noise of soft voices in conversation, and of merry laughter, fell upon his
ears ere he had advanced many paces; and raising his eyes higher than was his humble wont,
he descried, at no great distance, the five sisters seated on the grass, with Alice in the centre:
all busily plying their customary task of embroidering.
'«Save you, fair daughters!» said the friar; and fair in truth they were. Even a monk
might have loved them as choice masterpieces of his Maker's hand.
'The sisters saluted the holy man with becoming reverence, and the eldest motioned him
to a mossy seat beside them. But the good friar shook his head, and bumped himself down
on a very hard stone, – at which, no doubt, approving angels were gratified.
'«Ye were merry, daughters,» said the monk.
'«You know how light of heart sweet Alice is,» replied the eldest sister, passing her
fingers through the tresses of the smiling girl.
'«And what joy and cheerfulness it wakes up within us, to see all nature beaming in
brightness and sunshine, father,» added Alice, blushing beneath the stern look of the recluse.
'The monk answered not, save by a grave inclination of the head, and the sisters pursued
their task in silence.
'«Still wasting the precious hours,» said the monk at length, turning to the eldest sister
as he spoke, "still wasting the precious hours on this vain trifling. Alas, alas! that the few
bubbles on the surface of eternity – all that Heaven wills we should see of that dark deep
stream – should be so lightly scattered!'
'«Father,» urged the maiden, pausing, as did each of the others, in her busy task, "we
have prayed at matins, our daily alms have been distributed at the gate, the sick peasants
have been tended, – all our morning tasks have been performed. I hope our occupation is a
blameless one?'
'«See here,» said the friar, taking the frame from her hand, «an intricate winding of
gaudy colours, without purpose or object, unless it be that one day it is destined for some
vain ornament, to minister to the pride of your frail and giddy sex. Day after day has been
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 60
employed upon this senseless task, and yet it is not half accomplished. The shade of each
departed day falls upon our graves, and the worm exults as he beholds it, to know that we
are hastening thither. Daughters, is there no better way to pass the fleeting hours?»
'The four elder sisters cast down their eyes as if abashed by the holy man's reproof, but
Alice raised hers, and bent them mildly on the friar.
'«Our dear mother,» said the maiden; «Heaven rest her soul!»
'«Amen!» cried the friar in a deep voice.
'«Our dear mother,» faltered the fair Alice, «was living when these long tasks began,
and bade us, when she should be no more, ply them in all discretion and cheerfulness, in our
leisure hours; she said that if in harmless mirth and maidenly pursuits we passed those hours
together, they would prove the happiest and most peaceful of our lives, and that if, in later
times, we went forth into the world, and mingled with its cares and trials – if, allured by its
temptations and dazzled by its glitter, we ever forgot that love and duty which should bind,
in holy ties, the children of one loved parent – a glance at the old work of our common
girlhood would awaken good thoughts of bygone days, and soften our hearts to affection and
love.»
'«Alice speaks truly, father,» said the elder sister, somewhat proudly. And so saying she
resumed her work, as did the others.
'It was a kind of sampler of large size, that each sister had before her; the device was of
a complex and intricate description, and the pattern and colours of all five were the same.
The sisters bent gracefully over their work; the monk, resting his chin upon his hands,
looked from one to the other in silence.
'«How much better,» he said at length, «to shun all such thoughts and chances, and, in
the peaceful shelter of the church, devote your lives to Heaven! Infancy, childhood, the
prime of life, and old age, wither as rapidly as they crowd upon each other. Think how
human dust rolls onward to the tomb, and turning your faces steadily towards that goal,
avoid the cloud which takes its rise among the pleasures of the world, and cheats the senses
of their votaries. The veil, daughters, the veil!»
'«Never, sisters,» cried Alice. «Barter not the light and air of heaven, and the freshness
of earth and all the beautiful things which breathe upon it, for the cold cloister and the cell.
Nature's own blessings are the proper goods of life, and we may share them sinlessly
together. To die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us die with life about us; when our cold
hearts cease to beat, let warm hearts be beating near; let our last look be upon the bounds
which God has set to his own bright skies, and not on stone walls and bars of iron! Dear
sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in this green garden's compass; only shun the gloom
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 61
and sadness of a cloister, and we shall be happy.»
'The tears fell fast from the maiden's eyes as she closed her impassioned appeal, and hid
her face in the bosom of her sister.
'«Take comfort, Alice,» said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead. «The veil shall never
cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say you, sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not
for Alice, or for me.»
'The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was cast together, and that there were
dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the convent's walls.
'«Father,» said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, «you hear our final resolve. The same
pious care which enriched the abbey of St Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy
guardianship, directed that no constraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, but that
we should be free to live according to our choice. Let us hear no more of this, we pray you.
Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us take shelter until evening!» With a reverence to the friar, the
lady rose and walked towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the other sisters followed.
'The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, but had never met with so
direct a repulse, walked some little distance behind, with his eyes bent upon the earth, and
his lips moving AS IF in prayer. As the sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace,
and called upon them to stop.
'«Stay!» said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, and directing an angry glance
by turns at Alice and the eldest sister. «Stay, and hear from me what these recollections are,
which you would cherish above eternity, and awaken – if in mercy they slumbered – by
means of idle toys. The memory of earthly things is charged, in after life, with bitter
disappointment, affliction, death; with dreary change and wasting sorrow. The time will one
day come, when a glance at those unmeaning baubles will tear open deep wounds in the
hearts of some among you, and strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives – and,
mark me, come it will – turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge which you
spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fire of mortals grows, when
dimmed by calamity and trial, and there weep for the dreams of youth. These things are
Heaven's will, not mine,» said the friar, subduing his voice as he looked round upon the
shrinking girls. «The Virgin's blessing be upon you, daughters!»
'With these words he disappeared through the postern; and the sisters hastening into the
house were seen no more that day.
'But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next day the sun shone brightly,
and on the next, and the next again. And in the morning's glare, and the evening's soft
repose, the five sisters still walked, or worked, or beguiled the time by cheerful
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CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 62
conversation, in their quiet orchard.
'Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed than many tales that are told, of
which number I fear this may be one. The house of the five sisters stood where it did, and
the same trees cast their pleasant shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters too were there,
and lovely as at first, but a change had come over their dwelling. Sometimes, there was the
clash of armour, and the gleaming of the moon on caps of steel; and, at others, jaded
coursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female form glided hurriedly forth, as if eager to
demand tidings of the weary messenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one
night within the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of the fair sisters among
them. Then, horsemen began to come less frequently, and seemed to bring bad tidings when
they did, and at length they ceased to come at all, and footsore peasants slunk to the gate
after sunset, and did their errand there, by stealth. Once, a vassal was dispatched in haste to
the abbey at dead of night, and when morning came, there were sounds of woe and wailing
in the sisters' house; and after this, a mournful silence fell upon it, and knight or lady, horse
or armour, was seen about it no more.
'There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had gone angrily down, tinting the
dull clouds with the last traces of his wrath, when the same black monk walked slowly on,
with folded arms, within a stone's−throw of the abbey. A blight had fallen on the trees and
shrubs; and the wind, at length beginning to break the unnatural stillness that had prevailed
all day, sighed heavily from time to time, as though foretelling in grief the ravages of the
coming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights through the heavy air, and the ground
was alive with crawling things, whose instinct brought them forth to swell and fatten in the
rain.
'No longer were the friar's eyes directed to the earth; they were cast abroad, and roamed
from point to point, as if the gloom and desolation of the scene found a quick response in his
own bosom. Again he paused near the sisters' house, and again he entered by the postern.
'But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, or his eyes rest upon the
beautiful figures of the five sisters. All was silent and deserted. The boughs of the trees were
bent and broken, and the grass had grown long and rank. No light feet had pressed it for
many, many a day.
'With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed to the change, the monk
glided into the house, and entered a low, dark room. Four sisters sat there. Their black
garments made their pale faces whiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages.
They were stately yet; but the flush and pride of beauty were gone.
'And Alice – where was she? In Heaven.
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'The monk – even the monk – could bear with some grief here; for it was long since
these sisters had met, and there were furrows in their blanched faces which years could
never plough. He took his seat in silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.
'«They are here, sisters,» said the elder lady in a trembling voice. «I have never borne to
look upon them since, and now I blame myself for my weakness. What is there in her
memory that we should dread? To call up our old days shall be a solemn pleasure yet.»
'She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet, brought forth the five
frames of work, completed long before. Her step was firm, but her hand trembled as she
produced the last one; and, when the feelings of the other sisters gushed forth at sight of it,
her pent−up tears made way, and she sobbed «God bless her!»
'The monk rose and advanced towards them. «It was almost the last thing she touched in
health,» he said in a low voice.
'«It was,» cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.
'The monk turned to the second sister.
'«The gallant youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung upon thy very breath when
first he saw thee intent upon this pastime, lies buried on a plain whereof the turf is red with
blood. Rusty fragments of armour, once brightly burnished, lie rotting on the ground, and
are as little distinguishable for his, as are the bones that crumble in the mould!»
'The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.
'«The policy of courts,» he continued, turning to the two other sisters, «drew ye from
your peaceful home to scenes of revelry and splendour. The same policy, and the restless
ambition of – proud and fiery men, have sent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbled
outcasts. Do I speak truly?»
'The sobs of the two sisters were their only reply.
'«There is little need,» said the monk, with a meaning look, «to fritter away the time in
gewgaws which shall raise up the pale ghosts of hopes of early years. Bury them, heap
penance and mortification on their heads, keep them down, and let the convent be their
grave!»
'The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, that night, as though the veil
were indeed the fitting shroud for their dead joys. But, morning came again, and though the
boughs of the orchard trees drooped and ran wild upon the ground, it was the same orchard
still. The grass was coarse and high, but there was yet the spot on which they had so often
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sat together, when change and sorrow were but names. There was every walk and nook
which Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave was one flat stone beneath which she
slept in peace.
'And could they, remembering how her young heart had sickened at the thought of
cloistered walls, look upon her grave, in garbs which would chill the very ashes within it?
Could they bow down in prayer, and when all Heaven turned to hear them, bring the dark
shade of sadness on one angel's face? No.
'They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times, and having obtained the
church's sanction to their work of piety, caused to be executed, in five large compartments of
richly stained glass, a faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a
large window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone brightly, as she had
so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were reflected in their original colours, and
throwing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice.
'For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up and down the nave, or knelt
by the side of the flat broad stone. Only three were seen in the customary place, after many
years; then but two, and, for a long time afterwards, but one solitary female bent with age.
At length she came no more, and the stone bore five plain Christian names.
'That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, and many generations have
come and gone since then. Time has softened down the colours, but the same stream of light
still falls upon the forgotten tomb, of which no trace remains; and, to this day, the stranger is
shown in York Cathedral, an old window called the Five Sisters.'
'That's a melancholy tale,' said the merry−faced gentleman, emptying his glass.
'It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows,' returned the other, courteously,
but in a grave and sad tone of voice.
'There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if we choose to
contemplate them,' said the gentleman with the merry face. 'The youngest sister in your tale
was always light−hearted.'
'And died early,' said the other, gently.
'She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy,' said the first speaker,
with much feeling. 'Do you think the sisters who loved her so well, would have grieved the
less if her life had been one of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp
pain of a heavy loss, it would be – with me – the reflection, that those I mourned, by being
innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared themselves for a purer and
happier world. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend
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upon it.'
'I believe you are right,' said the gentleman who had told the story.
'Believe!' retorted the other, 'can anybody doubt it? Take any subject of sorrowful
regret, and see with how much pleasure it is associated. The recollection of past pleasure
may become pain – '
'It does,' interposed the other.
'Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot be restored, is pain, but of a
softened kind. Our recollections are unfortunately mingled with much that we deplore, and
with many actions which we bitterly repent; still in the most chequered life I firmly think
there are so many little rays of sunshine to look back upon, that I do not believe any mortal
(unless he had put himself without the pale of hope) would deliberately drain a goblet of the
waters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.'
'Possibly you are correct in that belief,' said the grey−haired gentleman after a short
reflection. 'I am inclined to think you are.'
'Why, then,' replied the other, 'the good in this state of existence preponderates over the
bad, let miscalled philosophers tell us what they will. If our affections be tried, our
affections are our consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is the best and purest
link between this world and a better. But come! I'll tell you a story of another kind.'
After a very brief silence, the merry−faced gentleman sent round the punch, and
glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately apprehensive that he was
going to relate something improper, began
THE BARON OF GROGZWIG
'The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was as likely a young baron
as you would wish to see. I needn't say that he lived in a castle, because that's of course;
neither need I say that he lived in an old castle; for what German baron ever lived in a new
one? There were many strange circumstances connected with this venerable building, among
which, not the least startling and mysterious were, that when the wind blew, it rumbled in
the chimneys, or even howled among the trees in the neighbouring forest; and that when the
moon shone, she found her way through certain small loopholes in the wall, and actually
made some parts of the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others in gloomy
shadow. I believe that one of the baron's ancestors, being short of money, had inserted a
dagger in a gentleman who called one night to ask his way, and it WAS supposed that these
miraculous occurrences took place in consequence. And yet I hardly know how that could
have been, either, because the baron's ancestor, who was an amiable man, felt very sorry
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afterwards for having been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a quantity of stone and
timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapel as an apology, and so took a receipt
from Heaven, in full of all demands.
'Talking of the baron's ancestor puts me in mind of the baron's great claims to respect,
on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid to say, I am sure, how many ancestors the baron
had; but I know that he had a great many more than any other man of his time; and I only
wish that he had lived in these latter days, that he might have had more. It is a very hard
thing upon the great men of past centuries, that they should have come into the world so
soon, because a man who was born three or four hundred years ago, cannot reasonably be
expected to have had as many relations before him, as a man who is born now. The last man,
whoever he is – and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught we know – will
have a longer pedigree than the greatest nobleman now alive; and I contend that this is not
fair.
'Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was a fine swarthy fellow,
with dark hair and large moustachios, who rode a−hunting in clothes of Lincoln green, with
russet boots on his feet, and a bugle slung over his shoulder like the guard of a long stage.
When he blew this bugle, four−and−twenty other gentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln
green a little coarser, and russet boots with a little thicker soles, turned out directly: and
away galloped the whole train, with spears in their hands like lacquered area railings, to hunt
down the boars, or perhaps encounter a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him first,
and greased his whiskers with him afterwards.
'This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrier still for the baron's
retainers, who drank Rhine wine every night till they fell under the table, and then had the
bottles on the floor, and called for pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking,
merry−making blades, as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.
'But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under the table, require a little variety;
especially when the same five−and− twenty people sit daily down to the same board, to
discuss the same subjects, and tell the same stories. The baron grew weary, and wanted
excitement. He took to quarrelling with his gentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of
them every day after dinner. This was a pleasant change at first; but it became monotonous
after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out of sorts, and cast about, in despair, for some
new amusement.
'One night, after a day's sport in which he had outdone Nimrod or Gillingwater, and
slaughtered «another fine bear,» and brought him home in triumph, the Baron Von
Koeldwethout sat moodily at the head of his table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a
discontended aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers of wine, but the more he swallowed, the
more he frowned. The gentlemen who had been honoured with the dangerous distinction of
sitting on his right and left, imitated him to a miracle in the drinking, and frowned at each
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other.
'«I will!» cried the baron suddenly, smiting the table with his right hand, and twirling
his moustache with his left. «Fill to the Lady of Grogzwig!»
'The four−and−twenty Lincoln greens turned pale, with the exception of their
four−and−twenty noses, which were unchangeable.
'«I said to the Lady of Grogzwig,» repeated the baron, looking round the board.
'«To the Lady of Grogzwig!» shouted the Lincoln greens; and down their
four−and−twenty throats went four−and−twenty imperial pints of such rare old hock, that
they smacked their eight−and−forty lips, and winked again.
'«The fair daughter of the Baron Von Swillenhausen,» said Koeldwethout,
condescending to explain. «We will demand her in marriage of her father, ere the sun goes
down tomorrow. If he refuse our suit, we will cut off his nose.»
'A hoarse murmur arose from the company; every man touched, first the hilt of his
sword, and then the tip of his nose, with appalling significance.
'What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate! If the daughter of the Baron Von
Swillenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied heart, or fallen at her father's feet and corned them
in salt tears, or only fainted away, and complimented the old gentleman in frantic
ejaculations, the odds are a hundred to one but Swillenhausen Castle would have been
turned out at window, or rather the baron turned out at window, and the castle demolished.
The damsel held her peace, however, when an early messenger bore the request of Von
Koeldwethout next morning, and modestly retired to her chamber, from the casement of
which she watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue. She was no sooner assured that
the horseman with the large moustachios was her proffered husband, than she hastened to
her father's presence, and expressed her readiness to sacrifice herself to secure his peace.
The venerable baron caught his child to his arms, and shed a wink of joy.
'There was great feasting at the castle, that day. The four−and− twenty Lincoln greens
of Von Koeldwethout exchanged vows of eternal friendship with twelve Lincoln greens of
Von Swillenhausen, and promised the old baron that they would drink his wine «Till all was
blue» – meaning probably until their whole countenances had acquired the same tint as their
noses. Everybody slapped everybody else's back, when the time for parting came; and the
Baron Von Koeldwethout and his followers rode gaily home.
'For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. The houses of Koeldwethout
and Swillenhausen were united; the spears rusted; and the baron's bugle grew hoarse for lack
of blowing.
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'Those were great times for the four−and−twenty; but, alas! their high and palmy days
had taken boots to themselves, and were already walking off.
'«My dear,» said the baroness.
'«My love,» said the baron.
'«Those coarse, noisy men – »
'«Which, ma'am?» said the baron, starting.
'The baroness pointed, from the window at which they stood, to the courtyard beneath,
where the unconscious Lincoln greens were taking a copious stirrup−cup, preparatory to
issuing forth after a boar or two.
'«My hunting train, ma'am,» said the baron.
'«Disband them, love,» murmured the baroness.
'«Disband them!» cried the baron, in amazement.
'«To please me, love,» replied the baroness.
'«To please the devil, ma'am,» answered the baron.
'Whereupon the baroness uttered a great cry, and swooned away at the baron's feet.
'What could the baron do? He called for the lady's maid, and roared for the doctor; and
then, rushing into the yard, kicked the two Lincoln greens who were the most used to it, and
cursing the others all round, bade them go – but never mind where. I don't know the German
for it, or I would put it delicately that way.
'It is not for me to say by what means, or by what degrees, some wives manage to keep
down some husbands as they do, although I may have my private opinion on the subject, and
may think that no Member of Parliament ought to be married, inasmuch as three married
members out of every four, must vote according to their wives' consciences (if there be such
things), and not according to their own. All I need say, just now, is, that the Baroness Von
Koeldwethout somehow or other acquired great control over the Baron Von Koeldwethout,
and that, little by little, and bit by bit, and day by day, and year by year, the baron got the
worst of some disputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby; and that by
the time he was a fat hearty fellow of forty−eight or thereabouts, he had no feasting, no
revelry, no hunting train, and no hunting – nothing in short that he liked, or used to have;
and that, although he was as fierce as a lion, and as bold as brass, he was decidedly snubbed
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and put down, by his own lady, in his own castle of Grogzwig.
'Nor was this the whole extent of the baron's misfortunes. About a year after his
nuptials, there came into the world a lusty young baron, in whose honour a great many
fireworks were let off, and a great many dozens of wine drunk; but next year there came a
young baroness, and next year another young baron, and so on, every year, either a baron or
baroness (and one year both together), until the baron found himself the father of a small
family of twelve. Upon every one of these anniversaries, the venerable Baroness Von
Swillenhausen was nervously sensitive for the well−being of her child the Baroness Von
Koeldwethout; and although it was not found that the good lady ever did anything material
towards contributing to her child's recovery, still she made it a point of duty to be as nervous
as possible at the castle of Grogzwig, and to divide her time between moral observations on
the baron's housekeeping, and bewailing the hard lot of her unhappy daughter. And if the
Baron of Grogzwig, a little hurt and irritated at this, took heart, and ventured to suggest that
his wife was at least no worse off than the wives of other barons, the Baroness Von
Swillenhausen begged all persons to take notice, that nobody but she, sympathised with her
dear daughter's sufferings; upon which, her relations and friends remarked, that to be sure
she did cry a great deal more than her son−in−law, and that if there were a hard−hearted
brute alive, it was that Baron of Grogzwig.
'The poor baron bore it all as long as he could, and when he could bear it no longer lost
his appetite and his spirits, and sat himself gloomily and dejectedly down. But there were
worse troubles yet in store for him, and as they came on, his melancholy and sadness
increased. Times changed. He got into debt. The Grogzwig coffers ran low, though the
Swillenhausen family had looked upon them as inexhaustible; and just when the baroness
was on the point of making a thirteenth addition to the family pedigree, Von Koeldwethout
discovered that he had no means of replenishing them.
'«I don't see what is to be done,» said the baron. «I think I'll kill myself.»
'This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting−knife from a cupboard hard by,
and having sharpened it on his boot, made what boys call «an offer» at his throat.
'«Hem!» said the baron, stopping short. «Perhaps it's not sharp enough.»
'The baron sharpened it again, and made another offer, when his hand was arrested by a
loud screaming among the young barons and baronesses, who had a nursery in an upstairs
tower with iron bars outside the window, to prevent their tumbling out into the moat.
'«If I had been a bachelor,» said the baron sighing, «I might have done it fifty times
over, without being interrupted. Hallo! Put a flask of wine and the largest pipe in the little
vaulted room behind the hall.»
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'One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed the baron's order in the course of
half an hour or so, and Von Koeldwethout being apprised thereof, strode to the vaulted
room, the walls of which, being of dark shining wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing
logs which were piled upon the hearth. The bottle and pipe were ready, and, upon the whole,
the place looked very comfortable.
'«Leave the lamp,» said the baron.
'«Anything else, my lord?» inquired the domestic.
'«The room,» replied the baron. The domestic obeyed, and the baron locked the door.
'«I'll smoke a last pipe,» said the baron, «and then I'll be off.» So, putting the knife upon
the table till he wanted it, and tossing off a goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grogzwig
threw himself back in his chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffed away.
'He thought about a great many things – about his present troubles and past days of
bachelorship, and about the Lincoln greens, long since dispersed up and down the country,
no one knew whither: with the exception of two who had been unfortunately beheaded, and
four who had killed themselves with drinking. His mind was running upon bears and boars,
when, in the process of draining his glass to the bottom, he raised his eyes, and saw, for the
first time and with unbounded astonishment, that he was not alone.
'No, he was not; for, on the opposite side of the fire, there sat with folded arms a
wrinkled hideous figure, with deeply sunk and bloodshot eyes, and an immensely long
cadaverous face, shadowed by jagged and matted locks of coarse black hair. He wore a kind
of tunic of a dull bluish colour, which, the baron observed, on regarding it attentively, was
clasped or ornamented down the front with coffin handles. His legs, too, were encased in
coffin plates as though in armour; and over his left shoulder he wore a short dusky cloak,
which seemed made of a remnant of some pall. He took no notice of the baron, but was
intently eyeing the fire.
'«Halloa!» said the baron, stamping his foot to attract attention.
'«Halloa!» replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards the baron, but not his face or
himself «What now?»
'«What now!» replied the baron, nothing daunted by his hollow voice and lustreless
eyes. «I should ask that question. How did you get here?»
'«Through the door,» replied the figure.
'«What are you?» says the baron.
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'«A man,» replied the figure.
'«I don't believe it,» says the baron.
'«Disbelieve it then,» says the figure.
'«I will,» rejoined the baron.
'The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogzwig for some time, and then said
familiarly,
'«There's no coming over you, I see. I'm not a man!»
'«What are you then?» asked the baron.
'«A genius,» replied the figure.
'«You don't look much like one,» returned the baron scornfully.
'«I am the Genius of Despair and Suicide,» said the apparition. «Now you know me.»
'With these words the apparition turned towards the baron, as if composing himself for a
talk – and, what was very remarkable, was, that he threw his cloak aside, and displaying a
stake, which was run through the centre of his body, pulled it out with a jerk, and laid it on
the table, as composedly as if it had been a walking−stick.
'«Now,» said the figure, glancing at the hunting−knife, «are you ready for me?»
'«Not quite,» rejoined the baron; «I must finish this pipe first.»
'«Look sharp then,» said the figure.
'«You seem in a hurry,» said the baron.
'«Why, yes, I am,» answered the figure; «they're doing a pretty brisk business in my
way, over in England and France just now, and my time is a good deal taken up.»
'«Do you drink?» said the baron, touching the bottle with the bowl of his pipe.
'«Nine times out of ten, and then very hard,» rejoined the figure, drily.
'«Never in moderation?» asked the baron.
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'«Never,» replied the figure, with a shudder, «that breeds cheerfulness.»
'The baron took another look at his new friend, whom he thought an uncommonly queer
customer, and at length inquired whether he took any active part in such little proceedings as
that which he had in contemplation.
'«No,» replied the figure evasively; «but I am always present.»
'«Just to see fair, I suppose?» said the baron.
'«Just that,» replied the figure, playing with his stake, and examining the ferule. «Be as
quick as you can, will you, for there's a young gentleman who is afflicted with too much
money and leisure wanting me now, I find.»
'«Going to kill himself because he has too much money!» exclaimed the baron, quite
tickled. «Ha! ha! that's a good one.» (This was the first time the baron had laughed for many
a long day.)
'«I say,» expostulated the figure, looking very much scared; «don't do that again.»
'«Why not?» demanded the baron.
'«Because it gives me pain all over,» replied the figure. «Sigh as much as you please:
that does me good.»
'The baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word; the figure, brightening up
again, handed him the hunting−knife with most winning politeness.
'«It's not a bad idea though,» said the baron, feeling the edge of the weapon; «a man
killing himself because he has too much money.»
'«Pooh!» said the apparition, petulantly, «no better than a man's killing himself because
he has none or little.»
'Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself in saying this, or whether he
thought the baron's mind was so thoroughly made up that it didn't matter what he said, I
have no means of knowing. I only know that the baron stopped his hand, all of a sudden,
opened his eyes wide, and looked as if quite a new light had come upon him for the first
time.
'«Why, certainly,» said Von Koeldwethout, «nothing is too bad to be retrieved.»
'«Except empty coffers,» cried the genius.
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'«Well; but they may be one day filled again,» said the baron.
'«Scolding wives,» snarled the genius.
'«Oh! They may be made quiet,» said the baron.
'«Thirteen children,» shouted the genius.
'«Can't all go wrong, surely,» said the baron.
'The genius was evidently growing very savage with the baron, for holding these
opinions all at once; but he tried to laugh it off, and said if he would let him know when he
had left off joking he should feel obliged to him.
'«But I am not joking; I was never farther from it,» remonstrated the baron.
'«Well, I am glad to hear that,» said the genius, looking very grim, «because a joke,
without any figure of speech, IS the death of me. Come! Quit this dreary world at once.»
'«I don't know,» said the baron, playing with the knife; «it's a dreary one certainly, but I
don't think yours is much better, for you have not the appearance of being particularly
comfortable. That puts me in mind – what security have I, that I shall be any the better for
going out of the world after all!» he cried, starting up; «I never thought of that.»
'«Dispatch,» cried the figure, gnashing his teeth.
'«Keep off!» said the baron. 'I'll brood over miseries no longer, but put a good face on
the matter, and try the fresh air and the bears again; and if that don't do, I'll talk to the
baroness soundly, and cut the Von Swillenhausens dead.' With this the baron fell into his
chair, and laughed so loud and boisterously, that the room rang with it.
'The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the baron meanwhile with a look of
intense terror, and when he had ceased, caught up the stake, plunged it violently into its
body, uttered a frightful howl, and disappeared.
'Von Koeldwethout never saw it again. Having once made up his mind to action, he
soon brought the baroness and the Von Swillenhausens to reason, and died many years
afterwards: not a rich man that I am aware of, but certainly a happy one: leaving behind him
a numerous family, who had been carefully educated in bear and boar−hunting under his
own personal eye. And my advice to all men is, that if ever they become hipped and
melancholy from similar causes (as very many men do), they look at both sides of the
question, applying a magnifying−glass to the best one; and if they still feel tempted to retire
without leave, that they smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first, and profit by the
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laudable example of the Baron of Grogzwig.'
'The fresh coach is ready, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,' said a new driver,
looking in.
This intelligence caused the punch to be finished in a great hurry, and prevented any
discussion relative to the last story. Mr Squeers was observed to draw the grey−headed
gentleman on one side, and to ask a question with great apparent interest; it bore reference to
the Five Sisters of York, and was, in fact, an inquiry whether he could inform him how
much per annum the Yorkshire convents got in those days with their boarders.
The journey was then resumed. Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and, when he
awoke, found, with great regret, that, during his nap, both the Baron of Grogzwig and the
grey−haired gentleman had got down and were gone. The day dragged on uncomfortably
enough. At about six o'clock that night, he and Mr Squeers, and the little boys, and their
united luggage, were all put down together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter, 75
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home
M
r Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and the boys standing with the luggage
in the road, to amuse themselves by looking at the coach as it changed horses, while he ran
into the tavern and went through the leg−stretching process at the bar. After some minutes,
he returned, with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and a short hiccup
afforded any criterion; and at the same time there came out of the yard a rusty pony−chaise,
and a cart, driven by two labouring men.
'Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,' said Squeers, rubbing his hands; 'and this
young man and me will go on in the chaise. Get in, Nickleby.'
Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing the pony to obey also, they
started off, leaving the cart−load of infant misery to follow at leisure.
'Are you cold, Nickleby?' inquired Squeers, after they had travelled some distance in
silence.
'Rather, sir, I must say.'
'Well, I don't find fault with that,' said Squeers; 'it's a long journey this weather.'
'Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?' asked Nicholas.
'About three mile from here,' replied Squeers. 'But you needn't call it a Hall down here.'
Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.
'The fact is, it ain't a Hall,' observed Squeers drily.
'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligence much astonished.
'No,' replied Squeers. 'We call it a Hall up in London, because it sounds better, but they
don't know it by that name in these parts. A man may call his house an island if he likes;
there's no act of Parliament against that, I believe?'
'I believe not, sir,' rejoined Nicholas.
Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this little dialogue, and finding
that he had grown thoughtful and appeared in nowise disposed to volunteer any
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 76
observations, contented himself with lashing the pony until they reached their journey's end.
'Jump out,' said Squeers. 'Hallo there! Come and put this horse up. Be quick, will you!'
While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries, Nicholas had time
to observe that the school was a long, cold− looking house, one storey high, with a few
straggling out−buildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute
or two, the noise of somebody unlocking the yard−gate was heard, and presently a tall lean
boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.
'Is that you, Smike?' cried Squeers.
'Yes, sir,' replied the boy.
'Then why the devil didn't you come before?'
'Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire,' answered Smike, with humility.
'Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?' demanded the schoolmaster, sharply.
'Only in the kitchen, sir,' replied the boy. 'Missus said as I was sitting up, I might go in
there for a warm.'
'Your missus is a fool,' retorted Squeers. 'You'd have been a deuced deal more wakeful
in the cold, I'll engage.'
By this time Mr Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to see to the pony,
and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the
front−door a minute while he went round and let him in.
A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas during the
whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled force when he was left alone. His
great distance from home and the impossibility of reaching it, except on foot, should he feel
ever so anxious to return, presented itself to him in most alarming colours; and as he looked
up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered with
snow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had never experienced before.
'Now then!' cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front−door. 'Where are you,
Nickleby?'
'Here, sir,' replied Nicholas.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 77
'Come in, then,' said Squeers 'the wind blows in, at this door, fit to knock a man off his
legs.'
Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr Squeers, having bolted the door to keep it shut,
ushered him into a small parlour scantily furnished with a few chairs, a yellow map hung
against the wall, and a couple of tables; one of which bore some preparations for supper;
while, on the other, a tutor's assistant, a Murray's grammar, half−a−dozen cards of terms,
and a worn letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in picturesque
confusion.
They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, when a female bounced into
the room, and, seizing Mr Squeers by the throat, gave him two loud kisses: one close after
the other, like a postman's knock. The lady, who was of a large raw−boned figure, was about
half a head taller than Mr Squeers, and was dressed in a dimity night−jacket; with her hair in
papers; she had also a dirty nightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton handkerchief which tied
it under the chin.
'How is my Squeery?' said this lady in a playful manner, and a very hoarse voice.
'Quite well, my love,' replied Squeers. 'How's the cows?'
'All right, every one of'em,' answered the lady.
'And the pigs?' said Squeers.
'As well as they were when you went away.'
'Come; that's a blessing,' said Squeers, pulling off his great−coat. 'The boys are all as
they were, I suppose?'
'Oh, yes, they're well enough,' replied Mrs Squeers, snappishly. 'That young Pitcher's
had a fever.'
'No!' exclaimed Squeers. 'Damn that boy, he's always at something of that sort.'
'Never was such a boy, I do believe,' said Mrs Squeers; 'whatever he has is always
catching too. I say it's obstinacy, and nothing shall ever convince me that it isn't. I'd beat it
out of him; and I told you that, six months ago.'
'So you did, my love,' rejoined Squeers. 'We'll try what can be done.'
Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood, awkwardly enough, in the middle
of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected to retire into the passage, or to
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 78
remain where he was. He was now relieved from his perplexity by Mr Squeers.
'This is the new young man, my dear,' said that gentleman.
'Oh,' replied Mrs Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him coldly from
top to toe.
'He'll take a meal with us tonight,' said Squeers, 'and go among the boys tomorrow
morning. You can give him a shake−down here, tonight, can't you?'
'We must manage it somehow,' replied the lady. 'You don't much mind how you sleep, I
suppose, sir?'
No, indeed,' replied Nicholas, 'I am not particular.'
'That's lucky,' said Mrs Squeers. And as the lady's humour was considered to lie chiefly
in retort, Mr Squeers laughed heartily, and seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the
same.
After some further conversation between the master and mistress relative to the success
of Mr Squeers's trip and the people who had paid, and the people who had made default in
payment, a young servant girl brought in a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being
set upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.
Mr Squeers was emptying his great−coat pockets of letters to different boys, and other
small documents, which he had brought down in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious
and timid expression, at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one among them might
relate to him. The look was a very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once; for it
told a long and very sad history.
It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised to observe the
extraordinary mixture of garments which formed his dress. Although he could not have been
less than eighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit,
such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most absurdly short in the
arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his attenuated frame. In order that the lower part
of his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of
boots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some stout farmer, but
were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven knows how long he had been there,
but he still wore the same linen which he had first taken down; for, round his neck, was a
tattered child's frill, only half concealed by a coarse, man's neckerchief. He was lame; and as
he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and
yet so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 79
'What are you bothering about there, Smike?' cried Mrs Squeers; 'let the things alone,
can't you?'
'Eh!' said Squeers, looking up. 'Oh! it's you, is it?'
'Yes, sir,' replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to control, by force,
the nervous wandering of his fingers. 'Is there – '
'Well!' said Squeers.
'Have you – did anybody – has nothing been heard – about me?'
'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers testily.
The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved towards the door.
'Not a word,' resumed Squeers, 'and never will be. Now, this is a pretty sort of thing,
isn't it, that you should have been left here, all these years, and no money paid after the first
six – nor no notice taken, nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing
that I should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one penny for it,
isn't it?'
The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to recollect something,
and then, looking vacantly at his questioner, gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
'I'll tell you what, Squeers,' remarked his wife as the door closed, 'I think that young
chap's turning silly.'
'I hope not,' said the schoolmaster; 'for he's a handy fellow out of doors, and worth his
meat and drink, anyway. I should think he'd have wit enough for us though, if he was. But
come; let's have supper, for I am hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.'
This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr Squeers, who speedily proceeded to
do it ample justice. Nicholas drew up his chair, but his appetite was effectually taken away.
'How's the steak, Squeers?' said Mrs S.
'Tender as a lamb,' replied Squeers. 'Have a bit.'
'I couldn't eat a morsel,' replied his wife. 'What'll the young man take, my dear?'
'Whatever he likes that's present,' rejoined Squeers, in a most unusual burst of
generosity.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 80
'What do you say, Mr Knuckleboy?' inquired Mrs Squeers.
'I'll take a little of the pie, if you please,' replied Nicholas. 'A very little, for I'm not
hungry.'
Well, it's a pity to cut the pie if you're not hungry, isn't it?' said Mrs Squeers. 'Will you
try a bit of the beef?'
'Whatever you please,' replied Nicholas abstractedly; 'it's all the same to me.'
Mrs Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; and nodding to Squeers, as
much as to say that she was glad to find the young man knew his station, assisted Nicholas
to a slice of meat with her own fair hands.
'Ale, Squeery?' inquired the lady, winking and frowning to give him to understand that
the question propounded, was, whether Nicholas should have ale, and not whether he
(Squeers) would take any.
'Certainly,' said Squeers, re−telegraphing in the same manner. 'A glassful.'
So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his own reflections, drank it, in
happy innocence of all the foregone proceedings.
'Uncommon juicy steak that,' said Squeers, as he laid down his knife and fork, after
plying it, in silence, for some time.
'It's prime meat,' rejoined his lady. 'I bought a good large piece of it myself on purpose
for – '
'For what!' exclaimed Squeers hastily. 'Not for the – '
'No, no; not for them,' rejoined Mrs Squeers; 'on purpose for you against you came
home. Lor! you didn't think I could have made such a mistake as that.'
'Upon my word, my dear, I didn't know what you were going to say,' said Squeers, who
had turned pale.
'You needn't make yourself uncomfortable,' remarked his wife, laughing heartily. 'To
think that I should be such a noddy! Well!'
This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; but popular rumour in the
neighbourhood asserted that Mr Squeers, being amiably opposed to cruelty to animals, not
unfrequently purchased for by consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 81
natural death; possibly he was apprehensive of having unintentionally devoured some choice
morsel intended for the young gentlemen.
Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with a hungry eye, Mrs Squeers
retired to lock it up, and also to take into safe custody the clothes of the five boys who had
just arrived, and who were half−way up the troublesome flight of steps which leads to
death's door, in consequence of exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with a light
supper of porridge, and stowed away, side by side, in a small bedstead, to warm each other,
and dream of a substantial meal with something hot after it, if their fancies set that way:
which it is not at all improbable they did.
Mr Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, made on the liberal
half−and−half principle, allowing for the dissolution of the sugar; and his amiable helpmate
mixed Nicholas the ghost of a small glassful of the same compound. This done, Mr and Mrs
Squeers drew close up to the fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender, talked
confidentially in whispers; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor's assistant, read the interesting
legends in the miscellaneous questions, and all the figures into the bargain, with as much
thought or consciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a magnetic slumber.
At length, Mr Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it was high time to go to bed;
upon which signal, Mrs Squeers and the girl dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple
of blankets, and arranged them into a couch for Nicholas.
'We'll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickelby,' said Squeers. 'Let me
see! Who sleeps in Brooks's's bed, my dear?'
'In Brooks's,' said Mrs Squeers, pondering. 'There's Jennings, little Bolder, Graymarsh,
and what's his name.'
'So there is,' rejoined Squeers. 'Yes! Brooks is full.'
'Full!' thought Nicholas. 'I should think he was.'
'There's a place somewhere, I know,' said Squeers; 'but I can't at this moment call to
mind where it is. However, we'll have that all settled tomorrow. Good−night, Nickleby.
Seven o'clock in the morning, mind.'
'I shall be ready, sir,' replied Nicholas. 'Good−night.'
'I'll come in myself and show you where the well is,' said Squeers. 'You'll always find a
little bit of soap in the kitchen window; that belongs to you.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 82
Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers was again going away, when
he once more turned back.
'I don't know, I am sure,' he said, 'whose towel to put you on; but if you'll make shift
with something tomorrow morning, Mrs Squeers will arrange that, in the course of the day.
My dear, don't forget.'
'I'll take care,' replied Mrs Squeers; 'and mind YOU take care, young man, and get first
wash. The teacher ought always to have it; but they get the better of him if they can.'
Mr Squeers then nudged Mrs Squeers to bring away the brandy bottle, lest Nicholas
should help himself in the night; and the lady having seized it with great precipitation, they
retired together.
Nicholas, being left alone, took half−a−dozen turns up and down the room in a
condition of much agitation and excitement; but, growing gradually calmer, sat himself
down in a chair, and mentally resolved that, come what come might, he would endeavour,
for a time, to bear whatever wretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering
the helplessness of his mother and sister, he would give his uncle no plea for deserting them
in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of producing some good effect in the mind from
which they spring. He grew less desponding, and – so sanguine and buoyant is youth – even
hoped that affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than they promised.
He was preparing for bed, with something like renewed cheerfulness, when a sealed
letter fell from his coat pocket. In the hurry of leaving London, it had escaped his attention,
and had not occurred to him since, but it at once brought back to him the recollection of the
mysterious behaviour of Newman Noggs.
'Dear me!' said Nicholas; 'what an extraordinary hand!'
It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper, and in such cramped and
crippled writing as to be almost illegible. After great difficulty and much puzzling, he
contrived to read as follows: –
My dear young Man.
I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not have done me a kindness when
there was no hope of return. You do not, or you would not be bound on such a journey.
If ever you want a shelter in London (don't be angry at this, I once thought I never
should), they know where I live, at the sign of the Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It
is at the corner of Silver Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. You can come
at night. Once, nobody was ashamed – never mind that. It's all over.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 83
Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have forgotten all my
old ways. My spelling may have gone with them.
NEWMAN NOGGS.
P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale at the King's Head. Say you
know me, and I am sure they will not charge you for it. You may say Mr Noggs there, for I
was a gentleman then. I was indeed.
It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but after he had folded this letter
and placed it in his pocket−book, Nicholas Nickleby's eyes were dimmed with a moisture
that might have been taken for tears.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home 84
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall
A
ride of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, is one of the best softeners of a
hard bed that ingenuity can devise. Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams, for those which
hovered over the rough couch of Nicholas, and whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were
of an agreeable and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed, when the faint
glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his eyes, and a voice he had no difficulty in
recognising as part and parcel of Mr Squeers, admonished him that it was time to rise.
'Past seven, Nickleby,' said Mr Squeers.
'Has morning come already?' asked Nicholas, sitting up in bed.
'Ah! that has it,' replied Squeers, 'and ready iced too. Now, Nickleby, come; tumble up,
will you?'
Nicholas needed no further admonition, but 'tumbled up' at once, and proceeded to dress
himself by the light of the taper, which Mr Squeers carried in his hand.
'Here's a pretty go,' said that gentleman; 'the pump's froze.'
'Indeed!' said Nicholas, not much interested in the intelligence.
'Yes,' replied Squeers. 'You can't wash yourself this morning.'
'Not wash myself!' exclaimed Nicholas.
'No, not a bit of it,' rejoined Squeers tartly. 'So you must be content with giving yourself
a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and can get a bucketful out for the boys. Don't
stand staring at me, but do look sharp, will you?'
Offering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his clothes. Squeers, meanwhile,
opened the shutters and blew the candle out; when the voice of his amiable consort was
heard in the passage, demanding admittance.
'Come in, my love,' said Squeers.
Mrs Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night−jacket which had displayed the
symmetry of her figure on the previous night, and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet
of some antiquity, which she wore, with much ease and lightness, on the top of the nightcap
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 85
before mentioned.
'Drat the things,' said the lady, opening the cupboard; 'I can't find the school spoon
anywhere.'
'Never mind it, my dear,' observed Squeers in a soothing manner; 'it's of no
consequence.'
'No consequence, why how you talk!' retorted Mrs Squeers sharply; 'isn't it brimstone
morning?'
'I forgot, my dear,' rejoined Squeers; 'yes, it certainly is. We purify the boys' bloods now
and then, Nickleby.'
'Purify fiddlesticks' ends,' said his lady. 'Don't think, young man, that we go to the
expense of flower of brimstone and molasses, just to purify them; because if you think we
carry on the business in that way, you'll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.'
'My dear,' said Squeers frowning. 'Hem!'
'Oh! nonsense,' rejoined Mrs Squeers. 'If the young man comes to be a teacher here, let
him understand, at once, that we don't want any foolery about the boys. They have the
brimstone and treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or other in the way of
medicine they'd be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils
their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So, it does them good and us
good at the same time, and that's fair enough I'm sure.'
Having given this explanation, Mrs Squeers put her head into the closet and instituted a
stricter search after the spoon, in which Mr Squeers assisted. A few words passed between
them while they were thus engaged, but as their voices were partially stifled by the
cupboard, all that Nicholas could distinguish was, that Mr Squeers said what Mrs Squeers
had said, was injudicious, and that Mrs Squeers said what Mr Squeers said, was 'stuff.'
A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless, Smike was
called in, and pushed by Mrs Squeers, and boxed by Mr Squeers; which course of treatment
brightening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs Squeers might have the
spoon in her pocket, as indeed turned out to be the case. As Mrs Squeers had previously
protested, however, that she was quite certain she had not got it, Smike received another box
on the ear for presuming to contradict his mistress, together with a promise of a sound
thrashing if he were not more respectful in future; so that he took nothing very advantageous
by his motion.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 86
'A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,' said Squeers when his consort had hurried
away, pushing the drudge before her.
'Indeed, sir!' observed Nicholas.
'I don't know her equal,' said Squeers; 'I do not know her equal. That woman, Nickleby,
is always the same – always the same bustling, lively, active, saving creetur that you see her
now.'
Nicholas sighed involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable domestic prospect thus
opened to him; but Squeers was, fortunately, too much occupied with his own reflections to
perceive it.
'It's my way to say, when I am up in London,' continued Squeers, 'that to them boys she
is a mother. But she is more than a mother to them; ten times more. She does things for them
boys, Nickleby, that I don't believe half the mothers going, would do for their own sons.'
'I should think they would not, sir,' answered Nicholas.
Now, the fact was, that both Mr and Mrs Squeers viewed the boys in the light of their
proper and natural enemies; or, in other words, they held and considered that their business
and profession was to get as much from every boy as could by possibility be screwed out of
him. On this point they were both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The only
difference between them was, that Mrs Squeers waged war against the enemy openly and
fearlessly, and that Squeers covered his rascality, even at home, with a spice of his habitual
deceit; as if he really had a notion of someday or other being able to take himself in, and
persuade his own mind that he was a very good fellow.
'But come,' said Squeers, interrupting the progress of some thoughts to this effect in the
mind of his usher, 'let's go to the schoolroom; and lend me a hand with my school−coat, will
you?'
Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shooting− jacket, which he took
down from a peg in the passage; and Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way
across a yard, to a door in the rear of the house.
'There,' said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together; 'this is our shop, Nickleby!'
It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract attention, that, at
first, Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however,
the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a
tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copy−books and paper.
There were a couple of long old rickety desks, cut and notched, and inked, and damaged, in
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 87
every possible way; two or three forms; a detached desk for Squeers; and another for his
assistant. The ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by cross−beams and rafters; and the
walls were so stained and discoloured, that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever
been touched with paint or whitewash.
But the pupils – the young noblemen! How the last faint traces of hope, the remotest
glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of
Nicholas as he looked in dismay around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures,
children with the countenances of old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of
stunted growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies,
all crowded on the view together; there were the bleared eye, the hare−lip, the crooked foot,
and every ugliness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived by parents for their
offspring, or of young lives which, from the earliest dawn of infancy, had been one horrible
endurance of cruelty and neglect. There were little faces which should have been handsome,
darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering; there was childhood with the light of
its eye quenched, its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining; there were
vicious−faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like malefactors in a jail; and there were
young creatures on whom the sins of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the
mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their loneliness. With every kindly
sympathy and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling flogged
and starved down, with every revengeful passion that can fester in swollen hearts, eating its
evil way to their core in silence, what an incipient Hell was breeding here!
And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features, which, in a less
interested observer than Nicholas, might have provoked a smile. Mrs Squeers stood at one of
the desks, presiding over an immense basin of brimstone and treacle, of which delicious
compound she administered a large instalment to each boy in succession: using for the
purpose a common wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufactured for some
gigantic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth considerably: they being
all obliged, under heavy corporal penalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a gasp. In
another corner, huddled together for companionship, were the little boys who had arrived on
the preceding night, three of them in very large leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a
something tighter fit than drawers are usually worn; at no great distance from these was
seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr Squeers – a striking likeness of his father – kicking,
with great vigour, under the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots
that bore a most suspicious resemblance to those which the least of the little boys had worn
on the journey down – as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he was regarding the
appropriation with a look of most rueful amazement. Besides these, there was a long row of
boys waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anticipation, to be treacled; and another file,
who had just escaped from the infliction, making a variety of wry mouths indicative of
anything but satisfaction. The whole were attired in such motley, ill−assorted, extraordinary
garments, as would have been irresistibly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt,
disorder, and disease, with which they were associated.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 88
'Now,' said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane, which made half the little
boys nearly jump out of their boots, 'is that physicking over?'
'Just over,' said Mrs Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and tapping the crown of
his head with the wooden spoon to restore him. 'Here, you Smike; take away now. Look
sharp!'
Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs Squeers having called up a little boy with a
curly head, and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out after him into a species of wash−house,
where there was a small fire and a large kettle, together with a number of little wooden
bowls which were arranged upon a board.
Into these bowls, Mrs Squeers, assisted by the hungry servant, poured a brown
composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without the covers, and was called
porridge. A minute wedge of brown bread was inserted in each bowl, and when they had
eaten their porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had finished
their breakfast; whereupon Mr Squeers said, in a solemn voice, 'For what we have received,
may the Lord make us truly thankful!' – and went away to his own.
Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the same reason
which induces some savages to swallow earth – lest they should be inconveniently hungry
when there is nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread and butter, allotted
to him in virtue of his office, he sat himself down, to wait for school−time.
He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be. There was none
of the noise and clamour of a schoolroom; none of its boisterous play, or hearty mirth. The
children sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about.
The only pupil who evinced the slightest tendency towards locomotion or playfulness was
Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other boys' toes in his
new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable than otherwise.
After some half−hour's delay, Mr Squeers reappeared, and the boys took their places
and their books, of which latter commodity the average might be about one to eight learners.
A few minutes having elapsed, during which Mr Squeers looked very profound, as if he had
a perfect apprehension of what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their
contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman called up the first class.
Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the schoolmaster's desk,
half−a−dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows, one of whom placed a torn and filthy
book beneath his learned eye.
'This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,' said Squeers,
beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. 'We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you.
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 89
Now, then, where's the first boy?'
'Please, sir, he's cleaning the back−parlour window,' said the temporary head of the
philosophical class.
'So he is, to be sure,' rejoined Squeers. 'We go upon the practical mode of teaching,
Nickleby; the regular education system. C−l−e−a− n, clean, verb active, to make bright, to
scour. W−i−n, win, d−e−r, der, winder, a casement. When the boy knows this out of book,
he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second
boy?'
'Please, sir, he's weeding the garden,' replied a small voice.
'To be sure,' said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. 'So he is. B−o−t, bot, t−i−n, tin,
bottin, n−e−y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learned
that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system,
Nickleby: what do you think of it?'
'It's very useful one, at any rate,' answered Nicholas.
'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers, not remarking the emphasis of his usher. 'Third boy,
what's horse?'
'A beast, sir,' replied the boy.
'So it is,' said Squeers. 'Ain't it, Nickleby?'
'I believe there is no doubt of that, sir,' answered Nicholas.
'Of course there isn't,' said Squeers. 'A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's Latin for
beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of
having grammars at all?'
'Where, indeed!' said Nicholas abstractedly.
'As you're perfect in that,' resumed Squeers, turning to the boy, 'go and look after MY
horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water
up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing−day tomorrow, and they want the
coppers filled.'
So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in practical philosophy, and
eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and half doubtful, as if he were not altogether
certain what he might think of him by this time.
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 90
'That's the way we do it, Nickleby,' he said, after a pause.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely perceptible, and said he
saw it was.
'And a very good way it is, too,' said Squeers. 'Now, just take them fourteen little boys
and hear them some reading, because, you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about
here won't do.'
Mr Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that he must not say
too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to him in praise of the
establishment. The children were arranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was
soon listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engrossing interest
which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling−books.
In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. At one o'clock, the boys,
having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken away by stir−about and potatoes, sat
down in the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to
take his portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this, there was another
hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with cold, and then school began again.
It was Mr Squeer's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of report, after
every half−yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the relations and friends he had seen, the
news he had heard, the letters he had brought down, the bills which had been paid, the
accounts which had been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took
place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the boys acquired
strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or, possibly, because Mr Squeers
himself acquired greater sternness and inflexibility from certain warm potations in which he
was wont to indulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from
house− window, garden, stable, and cow−yard, and the school were assembled in full
conclave, when Mr Squeers, with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and Mrs S. following
with a pair of canes, entered the room and proclaimed silence.
'Let any boy speak a word without leave,' said Mr Squeers mildly, 'and I'll take the skin
off his back.'
This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a deathlike silence immediately
prevailed, in the midst of which Mr Squeers went on to say:
'Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you, as strong and well
as ever.'
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 91
According to half−yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing
intelligence. Such cheers! Sights of extra strength with the chill on.
'I have seen the parents of some boys,' continued Squeers, turning over his papers, 'and
they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their
going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for all parties.'
Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but the greater
part of the young gentlemen having no particular parents to speak of, were wholly
uninterested in the thing one way or other.
'I have had diappointments to contend against,' said Squeers, looking very grim;
'Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?'
'Here he is, please sir,' rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys are very like men to be
sure.
'Come here, Bolder,' said Squeers.
An unhealthy−looking boy, with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place to the
master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face; his own, quite white from
the rapid beating of his heart.
'Bolder,' said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering, as the saying goes,
where to have him. 'Bolder, if you father thinks that because – why, what's this, sir?'
As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed it
with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
'What do you call this, sir?' demanded the schoolmaster, administering a cut with the
cane to expedite the reply.
'I can't help it, indeed, sir,' rejoined the boy, crying. 'They will come; it's the dirty work I
think, sir – at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault.'
'Bolder,' said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and moistening the palm of his right
hand to get a good grip of the cane, 'you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last
thrashing did you no good, we must see what another will do towards beating it out of you.'
With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr Squeers fell upon the
boy and caned him soundly: not leaving off, indeed, until his arm was tired out.
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 92
'There,' said Squeers, when he had quite done; 'rub away as hard as you like, you won't
rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won't hold that noise, won't you? Put him out, Smike.'
The drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitate about obeying, so he
bundled the victim out by a side−door, and Mr Squeers perched himself again on his own
stool, supported by Mrs Squeers, who occupied another at his side.
'Now let us see,' said Squeers. 'A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.'
Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while Squeers made a mental
abstract of the same.
'Oh!' said Squeers: 'Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to
drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except eighteenpence, which will just pay for
that broken square of glass. Mrs Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?'
The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most business−like air, and Squeers
passed on to the next boy, as coolly as possible.
'Graymarsh,' said Squeers, 'he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh.'
Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over the letter as before.
'Graymarsh's maternal aunt,' said Squeers, when he had possessed himself of the
contents, 'is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful compliments
to Mrs Squeers, and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks Mr Squeers is too good
for this world; but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent
the two pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and
hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in
everything to please Mr and Mrs Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that
he will love Master Squeers; and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian
should. Ah!' said Squeers, folding it up, 'a delightful letter. Very affecting indeed.'
It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh's maternal aunt was strongly supposed, by
her more intimate friends, to be no other than his maternal parent; Squeers, however,
without alluding to this part of the story (which would have sounded immoral before boys),
proceeded with the business by calling out 'Mobbs,' whereupon another boy rose, and
Graymarsh resumed his seat.
'Mobbs's step−mother,' said Squeers, 'took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat,
and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to
go to, if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the
cow's−liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 93
London newspapers – not by Mr Squeers, for he is too kind and too good to set anybody
against anybody – and it has vexed her so much, Mobbs can't think. She is sorry to find he is
discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr Squeers will flog him into a happier
state of mind; with which view, she has also stopped his halfpenny a week pocket−money,
and given a double−bladed knife with a corkscrew in it to the Missionaries, which she had
bought on purpose for him.'
'A sulky state of feeling,' said Squeers, after a terrible pause, during which he had
moistened the palm of his right hand again, 'won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be
kept up. Mobbs, come to me!'
Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause
for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired by the side−door, with as good cause as a boy
need have.
Mr Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collection of letters; some
enclosing money, which Mrs Squeers 'took care of;' and others referring to small articles of
apparel, as caps and so forth, all of which the same lady stated to be too large, or too small,
and calculated for nobody but young Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most
accommodating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted him to a nicety. His
head, in particular, must have been singularly elastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions
were alike to him.
This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and Squeers retired to
his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the school−room, which was very
cold, and where a meal of bread and cheese was served out shortly after dark.
There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest to the master's
desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, so depressed and self−degraded by the consciousness of
his position, that if death could have come upon him at that time, he would have been almost
happy to meet it. The cruelty of which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse and
ruffianly behaviour of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy place, the sights and sounds
about him, all contributed to this state of feeling; but when he recollected that, being there as
an assistant, he actually seemed – no matter what unhappy train of circumstances had
brought him to that pass – to be the aider and abettor of a system which filled him with
honest disgust and indignation, he loathed himself, and felt, for the moment, as though the
mere consciousness of his present situation must, through all time to come, prevent his
raising his head again.
But, for the present, his resolve was taken, and the resolution he had formed on the
preceding night remained undisturbed. He had written to his mother and sister, announcing
the safe conclusion of his journey, and saying as little about Dotheboys Hall, and saying that
little as cheerfully, as he possibly could. He hoped that by remaining where he was, he might
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 94
do some good, even there; at all events, others depended too much on his uncle's favour, to
admit of his awakening his wrath just then.
One reflection disturbed him far more than any selfish considerations arising out of his
own position. This was the probable destination of his sister Kate. His uncle had deceived
him, and might he not consign her to some miserable place where her youth and beauty
would prove a far greater curse than ugliness and decrepitude? To a caged man, bound hand
and foot, this was a terrible idea – but no, he thought, his mother was by; there was the
portrait−painter, too – simple enough, but still living in the world, and of it. He was willing
to believe that Ralph Nickleby had conceived a personal dislike to himself. Having pretty
good reason, by this time, to reciprocate it, he had no great difficulty in arriving at this
conclusion, and tried to persuade himself that the feeling extended no farther than between
them.
As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face
of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth
and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw
that he was observed, shrunk back, as if expecting a blow.
'You need not fear me,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Are you cold?'
'N−n−o.'
'You are shivering.'
'I am not cold,' replied Smike quickly. 'I am used to it.'
There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he was such a
timid, broken−spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, 'Poor fellow!'
If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word. But, now, he
burst into tears.
'Oh dear, oh dear!' he cried, covering his face with his cracked and horny hands. 'My
heart will break. It will, it will.'
'Hush!' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. 'Be a man; you are nearly one
by years, God help you.'
'By years!' cried Smike. 'Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I
was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all!'
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 95
'Whom do you speak of?' inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor half−witted
creature to reason. 'Tell me.'
'My friends,' he replied, 'myself – my – oh! what sufferings mine have been!'
'There is always hope,' said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.
'No,' rejoined the other, 'no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?'
'I was not here, you know,' said Nicholas gently; 'but what of him?'
'Why,' replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's side, 'I was with him at
night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with
him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and
talked to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?'
'Yes, yes,' rejoined Nicholas.
'What faces will smile on me when I die!' cried his companion, shivering. 'Who will talk
to me in those long nights! They cannot come from home; they would frighten me, if they
did, for I don't know what it is, and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for
me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!'
The bell rang to bed: and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual listless state,
crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon
afterwards – no, not retired; there was no retirement there – followed – to his dirty and
crowded dormitory.
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CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall 96
CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers,
and Mr Squeers; and of various Matters
a
nd Persons connected no less with the Squeerses than Nicholas Nickleby
When Mr Squeers left the schoolroom for the night, he betook himself, as has been
before remarked, to his own fireside, which was situated – not in the room in which
Nicholas had supped on the night of his arrival, but in a smaller apartment in the rear of the
premises, where his lady wife, his amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full
enjoyment of each other's society; Mrs Squeers being engaged in the matronly pursuit of
stocking−darning; and the young lady and gentleman being occupied in the adjustment of
some youthful differences, by means of a pugilistic contest across the table, which, on the
approach of their honoured parent, subsided into a noiseless exchange of kicks beneath it.
And, in this place, it may be as well to apprise the reader, that Miss Fanny Squeers was
in her three−and−twentieth year. If there be any one grace or loveliness inseparable from
that particular period of life, Miss Squeers may be presumed to have been possessed of it, as
there is no reason to suppose that she was a solitary exception to an universal rule. She was
not tall like her mother, but short like her father; from the former she inherited a voice of
harsh quality; from the latter a remarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to
having none at all.
Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neighbouring friend, and had only
just returned to the parental roof. To this circumstance may be referred, her having heard
nothing of Nicholas, until Mr Squeers himself now made him the subject of conversation.
'Well, my dear,' said Squeers, drawing up his chair, 'what do you think of him by this
time?'
'Think of who?' inquired Mrs Squeers; who (as she often remarked) was no grammarian,
thank Heaven.
'Of the young man – the new teacher – who else could I mean?'
'Oh! that Knuckleboy,' said Mrs Squeers impatiently. 'I hate him.'
'What do you hate him for, my dear?' asked Squeers.
'What's that to you?' retorted Mrs Squeers. 'If I hate him, that's enough, ain't it?'
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CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr Squeers; and of various Matters97
'Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal too much I dare say, if he knew it,'
replied Squeers in a pacific tone. 'I only ask from curiosity, my dear.'
'Well, then, if you want to know,' rejoined Mrs Squeers, 'I'll tell you. Because he's a
proud, haughty, consequential, turned−up−nosed peacock.'
Mrs Squeers, when excited, was accustomed to use strong language, and, moreover, to
make use of a plurality of epithets, some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word
peacock, and furthermore the allusion to Nicholas's nose, which was not intended to be
taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear a latitude of construction according to the fancy
of the hearers.
Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so much as to the object on
whom they were bestowed, as will be seen in the present case: a peacock with a turned−up
nose being a novelty in ornithology, and a thing not commonly seen.
'Hem!' said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this outbreak. 'He is cheap, my dear;
the young man is very cheap.'
'Not a bit of it,' retorted Mrs Squeers.
'Five pound a year,' said Squeers.
'What of that; it's dear if you don't want him, isn't it?' replied his wife.
'But we DO want him,' urged Squeers.
'I don't see that you want him any more than the dead,' said Mrs Squeers. 'Don't tell me.
You can put on the cards and in the advertisements, «Education by Mr Wackford Squeers
and able assistants,» without having any assistants, can't you? Isn't it done every day by all
the masters about? I've no patience with you.'
'Haven't you!' said Squeers, sternly. 'Now I'll tell you what, Mrs Squeers. In this matter
of having a teacher, I'll take my own way, if you please. A slave driver in the West Indies is
allowed a man under him, to see that his blacks don't run away, or get up a rebellion; and I'll
have a man under me to do the same with OUR blacks, till such time as little Wackford is
able to take charge of the school.'
'Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father?' said Wackford junior,
suspending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious kick which he was administering to his
sister.
'You are, my son,' replied Mr Squeers, in a sentimental voice.
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CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr Squeers; and of various Matters98
'Oh my eye, won't I give it to the boys!' exclaimed the interesting child, grasping his
father's cane. 'Oh, father, won't I make 'em squeak again!'
It was a proud moment in Mr Squeers's life, when he witnessed that burst of enthusiasm
in his young child's mind, and saw in it a foreshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed
a penny into his hand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wife also), in a
shout of approving laughter. The infantine appeal to their common sympathies, at once
restored cheerfulness to the conversation, and harmony to the company.
'He's a nasty stuck−up monkey, that's what I consider him,' said Mrs Squeers, reverting
to Nicholas.
'Supposing he is,' said Squeers, 'he is as well stuck up in our schoolroom as anywhere
else, isn't he? – especially as he don't like it.'
'Well,' observed Mrs Squeers, 'there's something in that. I hope it'll bring his pride
down, and it shall be no fault of mine if it don't.'
Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very extraordinary and
unaccountable thing to hear of, – any usher at all being a novelty; but a proud one, a being of
whose existence the wildest imagination could never have dreamed – that Miss Squeers,
who seldom troubled herself with scholastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this
Knuckleboy was, that gave himself such airs.
'Nickleby,' said Squeers, spelling the name according to some eccentric system which
prevailed in his own mind; 'your mother always calls things and people by their wrong
names.'
'No matter for that,' said Mrs Squeers; 'I see them with right eyes, and that's quite
enough for me. I watched him when you were laying on to little Bolder this afternoon. He
looked as black as thunder, all the while, and, one time, started up as if he had more than got
it in his mind to make a rush at you. I saw him, though he thought I didn't.'
'Never mind that, father,' said Miss Squeers, as the head of the family was about to
reply. 'Who is the man?'
'Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that he's the son of a poor
gentleman that died the other day,' said Mrs Squeers.
'The son of a gentleman!'
'Yes; but I don't believe a word of it. If he's a gentleman's son at all, he's a fondling,
that's my opinion.'
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CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr Squeers; and of various Matters99
'Mrs Squeers intended to say 'foundling,' but, as she frequently remarked when she
made any such mistake, it would be all the same a hundred years hence; with which axiom
of philosophy, indeed, she was in the constant habit of consoling the boys when they
laboured under more than ordinary ill−usage.
'He's nothing of the kind,' said Squeers, in answer to the above remark, 'for his father
was married to his mother years before he was born, and she is alive now. If he was, it
would be no business of ours, for we make a very good friend by having him here; and if he
likes to learn the boys anything besides minding them, I have no objection I am sure.'
'I say again, I hate him worse than poison,' said Mrs Squeers vehemently.
'If you dislike him, my dear,' returned Squeers, 'I don't know anybody who can show
dislike better than you, and of course there's no occasion, with him, to take the trouble to
hide it.'
'I don't intend to, I assure you,' interposed Mrs S.
'That's right,' said Squeers; 'and if he has a touch of pride about him, as I think he has, I
don't believe there's woman in all England that can bring anybody's spirit down, as quick as
you can, my love.'
Mrs Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these flattering compliments, and said,
she hoped she had tamed a high spirit or two in her day. It is but due to her character to say,
that in conjunction with her estimable husband, she had broken many and many a one.
Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much more conversation on the
same subject, until she retired for the night, when she questioned the hungry servant,
minutely, regarding the outward appearance and demeanour of Nicholas; to which queries
the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, coupled with so many laudatory remarks touching
his beautiful dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight legs – upon which last−named
articles she laid particular stress; the general run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked –
that Miss Squeers was not long in arriving at the conclusion that the new usher must be a
very remarkable person, or, as she herself significantly phrased it, 'something quite out of
the common.' And so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she would take a personal
observation of Nicholas the very next day.
In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of her mother being
engaged, and her father absent, and went accidentally into the schoolroom to get a pen
mended: where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boys, she blushed very
deeply, and exhibited great confusion.
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CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr Squeers; and of various Matters100
'I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers; 'I thought my father was – or might be – dear
me, how very awkward!'
'Mr Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the apparition, unexpected
though it was.
'Do you know will he be long, sir?' asked Miss Squeers, with bashful hesitation.
'He said about an hour,' replied Nicholas – politely of course, but without any indication
of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's charms.
'I never knew anything happen so cross,' exclaimed the young lady. 'Thank you! I am
very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought my father was here, I wouldn't upon any
account have – it is very provoking – must look so very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers,
blushing once more, and glancing, from the pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his desk, and
back again.
'If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, pointing to the pen, and smiling, in spite of
himself, at the affected embarrassment of the schoolmaster's daughter, 'perhaps I can supply
his place.'
Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of advancing any nearer
to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by the
presence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand,
with a most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.
'Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?' inquired Nicholas, smiling to prevent himself from
laughing outright.
'He HAS a beautiful smile,' thought Miss Squeers.
'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas.
'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,' replied Miss
Squeers. 'Oh! as soft as possible, if you please.' With which words, Miss Squeers sighed. It
might be, to give Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted
to match.
Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen; when he gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss
Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up, Miss Squeers stopped also, and they
knocked their heads together; whereat five−and−twenty little boys laughed aloud: being
positively for the first and only time that half−year.
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'Very awkward of me,' said Nicholas, opening the door for the young lady's retreat.
'Not at all, sir,' replied Miss Squeers; 'it was my fault. It was all my foolish – a – a –
good−morning!'
'Goodbye,' said Nicholas. 'The next I make for you, I hope will be made less clumsily.
Take care! You are biting the nib off now.'
'Really,' said Miss Squeers; 'so embarrassing that I scarcely know what I – very sorry to
give you so much trouble.'
'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the schoolroom door.
'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!' said Miss Squeers, as she walked
away.
In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby.
To account for the rapidity with which this young lady had conceived a passion for
Nicholas, it may be necessary to state, that the friend from whom she had so recently
returned, was a miller's daughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto the son
of a small corn−factor, resident in the nearest market town. Miss Squeers and the miller's
daughter, being fast friends, had covenanted together some two years before, according to a
custom prevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first engaged to be married, should
straightway confide the mighty secret to the bosom of the other, before communicating it to
any living soul, and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time; in fulfilment of which
pledge the miller's daughter, when her engagement was formed, came out express, at eleven
o'clock at night as the corn−factor's son made an offer of his hand and heart at twenty−five
minutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the kitchen, and rushed into Miss Squeers's bedroom
with the gratifying intelligence. Now, Miss Squeers being five years older, and out of her
teens (which is also a great matter), had, since, been more than commonly anxious to return
the compliment, and possess her friend with a similar secret; but, either in consequence of
finding it hard to please herself, or harder still to please anybody else, had never had an
opportunity so to do, inasmuch as she had no such secret to disclose. The little interview
with Nicholas had no sooner passed, as above described, however, than Miss Squeers,
putting on her bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation, to her friend's house, and,
upon a solemn renewal of divers old vows of secrecy, revealed how that she was – not
exactly engaged, but going to be – to a gentleman's son – (none of your corn−factors, but a
gentleman's son of high descent) – who had come down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall, under
most mysterious and remarkable circumstances – indeed, as Miss Squeers more than once
hinted she had good reason to believe, induced, by the fame of her many charms, to seek her
out, and woo and win her.
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'Isn't it an extraordinary thing?' said Miss Squeers, emphasising the adjective strongly.
'Most extraordinary,' replied the friend. 'But what has he said to you?'
'Don't ask me what he said, my dear,' rejoined Miss Squeers. 'If you had only seen his
looks and smiles! I never was so overcome in all my life.'
'Did he look in this way?' inquired the miller's daughter, counterfeiting, as nearly as she
could, a favourite leer of the corn−factor.
'Very like that – only more genteel,' replied Miss Squeers.
'Ah!' said the friend, 'then he means something, depend on it.'
Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was by no means ill pleased to
be confirmed by a competent authority; and discovering, on further conversation and
comparison of notes, a great many points of resemblance between the behaviour of
Nicholas, and that of the corn−factor, grew so exceedingly confidential, that she intrusted
her friend with a vast number of things Nicholas had NOT said, which were all so very
complimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she dilated on the fearful hardship of having
a father and mother strenuously opposed to her intended husband; on which unhappy
circumstance she dwelt at great length; for the friend's father and mother were quite
agreeable to her being married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat and
common−place an affair as it was possible to imagine.
'How I should like to see him!' exclaimed the friend.
'So you shall, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers. 'I should consider myself one of the most
ungrateful creatures alive, if I denied you. I think mother's going away for two days to fetch
some boys; and when she does, I'll ask you and John up to tea, and have him to meet you.'
This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the friends parted.
It so fell out, that Mrs Squeers's journey, to some distance, to fetch three new boys, and
dun the relations of two old ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed that very
afternoon, for the next day but one; and on the next day but one, Mrs Squeers got up outside
the coach, as it stopped to change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle containing
something in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and carrying besides a large white top−coat to
wear in the night−time; with which baggage she went her way.
Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it was Squeers's custom to drive over to
the market town, every evening, on pretence of urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven
o'clock at a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in his way, therefore, but rather
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afforded a means of compromise with Miss Squeers, he readily yielded his full assent
thereunto, and willingly communicated to Nicholas that he was expected to take his tea in
the parlour that evening, at five o'clock.
To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the time approached, and to be
sure she was dressed out to the best advantage: with her hair – it had more than a tinge of
red, and she wore it in a crop – curled in five distinct rows, up to the very top of her head,
and arranged dexterously over the doubtful eye; to say nothing of the blue sash which
floated down her back, or the worked apron or the long gloves, or the green gauze scarf
worn over one shoulder and under the other; or any of the numerous devices which were to
be as so many arrows to the heart of Nicholas. She had scarcely completed these
arrangements to her entire satisfaction, when the friend arrived with a whity−brown parcel –
flat and three− cornered – containing sundry small adornments which were to be put on
upstairs, and which the friend put on, talking incessantly. When Miss Squeers had 'done' the
friend's hair, the friend 'did' Miss Squeers's hair, throwing in some striking improvements in
the way of ringlets down the neck; and then, when they were both touched up to their entire
satisfaction, they went downstairs in full state with the long gloves on, all ready for
company.
'Where's John, 'Tilda?' said Miss Squeers.
'Only gone home to clean himself,' replied the friend. 'He will be here by the time the
tea's drawn.'
'I do so palpitate,' observed Miss Squeers.
'Ah! I know what it is,' replied the friend.
'I have not been used to it, you know, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, applying her hand to
the left side of her sash.
'You'll soon get the better of it, dear,' rejoined the friend. While they were talking thus,
the hungry servant brought in the tea− things, and, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the
room door.
'There he is!' cried Miss Squeers. 'Oh 'Tilda!'
'Hush!' said 'Tilda. 'Hem! Say, come in.'
'Come in,' cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked Nicholas.
'Good−evening,' said that young gentleman, all unconscious of his conquest. 'I
understood from Mr Squeers that – '
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'Oh yes; it's all right,' interposed Miss Squeers. 'Father don't tea with us, but you won't
mind that, I dare say.' (This was said archly.)
Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter off very coolly – not caring,
particularly, about anything just then – and went through the ceremony of introduction to the
miller's daughter with so much grace, that that young lady was lost in admiration.
'We are only waiting for one more gentleman,' said Miss Squeers, taking off the teapot
lid, and looking in, to see how the tea was getting on.
It was matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they were waiting for one
gentleman or twenty, so he received the intelligence with perfect unconcern; and, being out
of spirits, and not seeing any especial reason why he should make himself agreeable, looked
out of the window and sighed involuntarily.
As luck would have it, Miss Squeers's friend was of a playful turn, and hearing Nicholas
sigh, she took it into her head to rally the lovers on their lowness of spirits.
'But if it's caused by my being here,' said the young lady, 'don't mind me a bit, for I'm
quite as bad. You may go on just as you would if you were alone.'
''Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, colouring up to the top row of curls, 'I am ashamed of you;'
and here the two friends burst into a variety of giggles, and glanced from time to time, over
the tops of their pocket−handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who from a state of unmixed
astonishment, gradually fell into one of irrepressible laughter – occasioned, partly by the
bare notion of his being in love with Miss Squeers, and partly by the preposterous
appearance and behaviour of the two girls. These two causes of merriment, taken together,
struck him as being so keenly ridiculous, that, despite his miserable condition, he laughed
till he was thoroughly exhausted.
'Well,' thought Nicholas, 'as I am here, and seem expected, for some reason or other, to
be amiable, it's of no use looking like a goose. I may as well accommodate myself to the
company.'
We blush to tell it; but his youthful spirits and vivacity getting, for the time, the better
of his sad thoughts, he no sooner formed this resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and
the friend with great gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea−table, began to make himself
more at home than in all probability an usher has ever done in his employer's house since
ushers were first invented.
The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behaviour on the part of Mr Nickleby,
when the expected swain arrived, with his hair very damp from recent washing, and a clean
shirt, whereof the collar might have belonged to some giant ancestor, forming, together with
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a white waistcoat of similar dimensions, the chief ornament of his person.
'Well, John,' said Miss Matilda Price (which, by−the−bye, was the name of the miller's
daughter).
'Weel,' said John with a grin that even the collar could not conceal.
'I beg your pardon,' interposed Miss Squeers, hastening to do the honours. 'Mr Nickleby
– Mr John Browdie.'
'Servant, sir,' said John, who was something over six feet high, with a face and body
rather above the due proportion than below it.
'Yours to command, sir,' replied Nicholas, making fearful ravages on the bread and
butter.
Mr Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversational powers, so he grinned twice
more, and having now bestowed his customary mark of recognition on every person in
company, grinned at nothing in particular, and helped himself to food.
'Old wooman awa', bean't she?' said Mr Browdie, with his mouth full.
Miss Squeers nodded assent.
Mr Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought that really was something to
laugh at, and went to work at the bread and butter with increased vigour. It was quite a sight
to behold how he and Nicholas emptied the plate between them.
'Ye wean't get bread and butther ev'ry neight, I expect, mun,' said Mr Browdie, after he
had sat staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty plate.
Nicholas bit his lip, and coloured, but affected not to hear the remark.
'Ecod,' said Mr Browdie, laughing boisterously, 'they dean't put too much intiv'em. Ye'll
be nowt but skeen and boans if you stop here long eneaf. Ho! ho! ho!'
'You are facetious, sir,' said Nicholas, scornfully.
'Na; I dean't know,' replied Mr Browdie, 'but t'oother teacher, 'cod he wur a learn 'un, he
wur.' The recollection of the last teacher's leanness seemed to afford Mr Browdie the most
exquisite delight, for he laughed until he found it necessary to apply his coat−cuffs to his
eyes.
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'I don't know whether your perceptions are quite keen enough, Mr Browdie, to enable
you to understand that your remarks are offensive,' said Nicholas in a towering passion, 'but
if they are, have the goodness to – '
'If you say another word, John,' shrieked Miss Price, stopping her admirer's mouth as he
was about to interrupt, 'only half a word, I'll never forgive you, or speak to you again.'
'Weel, my lass, I dean't care aboot 'un,' said the corn−factor, bestowing a hearty kiss on
Miss Matilda; 'let 'un gang on, let 'un gang on.'
It now became Miss Squeers's turn to intercede with Nicholas, which she did with many
symptoms of alarm and horror; the effect of the double intercession was, that he and John
Browdie shook hands across the table with much gravity; and such was the imposing nature
of the ceremonial, that Miss Squeers was overcome and shed tears.
'What's the matter, Fanny?' said Miss Price.
'Nothing, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, sobbing.
'There never was any danger,' said Miss Price, 'was there, Mr Nickleby?'
'None at all,' replied Nicholas. 'Absurd.'
'That's right,' whispered Miss Price, 'say something kind to her, and she'll soon come
round. Here! Shall John and I go into the little kitchen, and come back presently?'
'Not on any account,' rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at the proposition. 'What on earth
should you do that for?'
'Well,' said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speaking with some degree of
contempt – 'you ARE a one to keep company.'
'What do you mean?' said Nicholas; 'I am not a one to keep company at all – here at all
events. I can't make this out.'
'No, nor I neither," rejoined Miss Price; 'but men are always fickle, and always were,
and always will be; that I can make out, very easily.'
'Fickle!' cried Nicholas; 'what do you suppose? You don't mean to say that you think – '
'Oh no, I think nothing at all,' retorted Miss Price, pettishly. 'Look at her, dressed so
beautiful and looking so well – really ALMOST handsome. I am ashamed at you.'
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'My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing beautifully or looking well?'
inquired Nicholas.
'Come, don't call me a dear girl,' said Miss Price – smiling a little though, for she was
pretty, and a coquette too in her small way, and Nicholas was good−looking, and she
supposed him the property of somebody else, which were all reasons why she should be
gratified to think she had made an impression on him, – 'or Fanny will be saying it's my
fault. Come; we're going to have a game at cards.' Pronouncing these last words aloud, she
tripped away and rejoined the big Yorkshireman.
This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no other distinct impression on his
mind at the moment, than that Miss Squeers was an ordinary−looking girl, and her friend
Miss Price a pretty one; but he had not time to enlighten himself by reflection, for the hearth
being by this time swept up, and the candle snuffed, they sat down to play speculation.
'There are only four of us, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, looking slyly at Nicholas; 'so we
had better go partners, two against two.'
'What do you say, Mr Nickleby?' inquired Miss Price.
'With all the pleasure in life,' replied Nicholas. And so saying, quite unconscious of his
heinous offence, he amalgamated into one common heap those portions of a Dotheboys Hall
card of terms, which represented his own counters, and those allotted to Miss Price,
respectively.
'Mr Browdie,' said Miss Squeers hysterically, 'shall we make a bank against them?'
The Yorkshireman assented – apparently quite overwhelmed by the new usher's
impudence – and Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her friend, and giggled convulsively.
The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered.
'We intend to win everything,' said he.
''Tilda HAS won something she didn't expect, I think, haven't you, dear?' said Miss
Squeers, maliciously.
'Only a dozen and eight, love,' replied Miss Price, affecting to take the question in a
literal sense.
'How dull you are tonight!' sneered Miss Squeers.
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'No, indeed,' replied Miss Price, 'I am in excellent spirits. I was thinking YOU seemed
out of sorts.'
'Me!' cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling with very jealousy. 'Oh no!'
'That's well,' remarked Miss Price. 'Your hair's coming out of curl, dear.'
'Never mind me,' tittered Miss Squeers; 'you had better attend to your partner.'
'Thank you for reminding her,' said Nicholas. 'So she had.'
The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with his clenched fist, as if to keep
his hand in, till he had an opportunity of exercising it upon the features of some other
gentleman; and Miss Squeers tossed her head with such indignation, that the gust of wind
raised by the multitudinous curls in motion, nearly blew the candle out.
'I never had such luck, really,' exclaimed coquettish Miss Price, after another hand or
two. 'It's all along of you, Mr Nickleby, I think. I should like to have you for a partner
always.'
'I wish you had.'
'You'll have a bad wife, though, if you always win at cards,' said Miss Price.
'Not if your wish is gratified,' replied Nicholas. 'I am sure I shall have a good one in that
case.'
To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn−factor flattened his nose, while
this conversation was carrying on! It would have been worth a small annuity to have beheld
that; let alone Miss Price's evident joy at making them jealous, and Nicholas Nickleby's
happy unconsciousness of making anybody uncomfortable.
'We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,' said Nicholas, looking
good−humouredly round the table as he took up the cards for a fresh deal.
'You do it so well,' tittered Miss Squeers, 'that it would be a pity to interrupt, wouldn't it,
Mr Browdie? He! he! he!'
'Nay,' said Nicholas, 'we do it in default of having anybody else to talk to.'
'We'll talk to you, you know, if you'll say anything,' said Miss Price.
'Thank you, 'Tilda, dear,' retorted Miss Squeers, majestically.
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'Or you can talk to each other, if you don't choose to talk to us,' said Miss Price, rallying
her dear friend. 'John, why don't you say something?'
'Say summat?' repeated the Yorkshireman.
'Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.'
'Weel, then!' said the Yorkshireman, striking the table heavily with his fist, 'what I say's
this – Dang my boans and boddy, if I stan' this ony longer. Do ye gang whoam wi' me, and
do yon loight an' toight young whipster look sharp out for a brokken head, next time he
cums under my hond.'
'Mercy on us, what's all this?' cried Miss Price, in affected astonishment.
'Cum whoam, tell 'e, cum whoam,' replied the Yorkshireman, sternly. And as he
delivered the reply, Miss Squeers burst into a shower of tears; arising in part from desperate
vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate somebody's countenance with her
fair finger−nails.
This state of things had been brought about by divers means and workings. Miss
Squeers had brought it about, by aspiring to the high state and condition of being
matrimonially engaged, without good grounds for so doing; Miss Price had brought it about,
by indulging in three motives of action: first, a desire to punish her friend for laying claim to
a rivalship in dignity, having no good title: secondly, the gratification of her own vanity, in
receiving the compliments of a smart young man: and thirdly, a wish to convince the
corn−factor of the great danger he ran, in deferring the celebration of their expected nuptials;
while Nicholas had brought it about, by half an hour's gaiety and thoughtlessness, and a very
sincere desire to avoid the imputation of inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the means
employed, and the end produced, were alike the most natural in the world; for young ladies
will look forward to being married, and will jostle each other in the race to the altar, and will
avail themselves of all opportunities of displaying their own attractions to the best
advantage, down to the very end of time, as they have done from its beginning.
'Why, and here's Fanny in tears now!' exclaimed Miss Price, as if in fresh amazement.
'What can be the matter?'
'Oh! you don't know, miss, of course you don't know. Pray don't trouble yourself to
inquire,' said Miss Squeers, producing that change of countenance which children call
making a face.
'Well, I'm sure!' exclaimed Miss Price.
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'And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma'am?' retorted Miss Squeers, making
another face.
'You are monstrous polite, ma'am,' said Miss Price.
'I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma'am!' retorted Miss Squeers.
'You needn't take the trouble to make yourself plainer than you are, ma'am, however,'
rejoined Miss Price, 'because that's quite unnecessary.'
Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God that she hadn't got the bold
faces of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder, congratulated herself upon not being
possessed of the envious feeling of other people; whereupon Miss Squeers made some
general remark touching the danger of associating with low persons; in which Miss Price
entirely coincided: observing that it was very true indeed, and she had thought so a long
time.
''Tilda,' exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, 'I hate you.'
'Ah! There's no love lost between us, I assure you,' said Miss Price, tying her bonnet
strings with a jerk. 'You'll cry your eyes out, when I'm gone; you know you will.'
'I scorn your words, Minx,' said Miss Squeers.
'You pay me a great compliment when you say so,' answered the miller's daughter,
curtseying very low. 'Wish you a very good− night, ma'am, and pleasant dreams attend your
sleep!'
With this parting benediction, Miss Price swept from the room, followed by the huge
Yorkshireman, who exchanged with Nicholas, at parting, that peculiarly expressive scowl
with which the cut−and− thrust counts, in melodramatic performances, inform each other
they will meet again.
They were no sooner gone, than Miss Squeers fulfilled the prediction of her quondam
friend by giving vent to a most copious burst of tears, and uttering various dismal
lamentations and incoherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for a few seconds, rather
doubtful what to do, but feeling uncertain whether the fit would end in his being embraced,
or scratched, and considering that either infliction would be equally agreeable, he walked off
very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in her pocket−handkerchief.
'This is one consequence,' thought Nicholas, when he had groped his way to the dark
sleeping−room, 'of my cursed readiness to adapt myself to any society in which chance
carries me. If I had sat mute and motionless, as I might have done, this would not have
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happened.'
He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet.
'I was glad,' he murmured, 'to grasp at any relief from the sight of this dreadful place, or
the presence of its vile master. I have set these people by the ears, and made two new
enemies, where, Heaven knows, I needed none. Well, it is a just punishment for having
forgotten, even for an hour, what is around me now!'
So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary−hearted sleepers, and crept into
his poor bed.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece
and Sister−in−Law
O
n the second morning after the departure of Nicholas for Yorkshire, Kate Nickleby
sat in a very faded chair raised upon a very dusty throne in Miss La Creevy's room, giving
that lady a sitting for the portrait upon which she was engaged; and towards the full
perfection of which, Miss La Creevy had had the street−door case brought upstairs, in order
that she might be the better able to infuse into the counterfeit countenance of Miss Nickleby,
a bright salmon flesh− tint which she had originally hit upon while executing the miniature
of a young officer therein contained, and which bright salmon flesh− tint was considered, by
Miss La Creevy's chief friends and patrons, to be quite a novelty in art: as indeed it was.
'I think I have caught it now,' said Miss La Creevy. 'The very shade! This will be the
sweetest portrait I have ever done, certainly.'
'It will be your genius that makes it so, then, I am sure,' replied Kate, smiling.
'No, no, I won't allow that, my dear,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'It's a very nice subject –
a very nice subject, indeed – though, of course, something depends upon the mode of
treatment.'
'And not a little,' observed Kate.
'Why, my dear, you are right there,' said Miss La Creevy, 'in the main you are right
there; though I don't allow that it is of such very great importance in the present case. Ah!
The difficulties of Art, my dear, are great.'
'They must be, I have no doubt,' said Kate, humouring her good− natured little friend.
'They are beyond anything you can form the faintest conception of,' replied Miss La
Creevy. 'What with bringing out eyes with all one's power, and keeping down noses with all
one's force, and adding to heads, and taking away teeth altogether, you have no idea of the
trouble one little miniature is.'
'The remuneration can scarcely repay you,' said Kate.
'Why, it does not, and that's the truth,' answered Miss La Creevy; 'and then people are so
dissatisfied and unreasonable, that, nine times out of ten, there's no pleasure in painting
them. Sometimes they say, «Oh, how very serious you have made me look, Miss La
Creevy!» and at others, «La, Miss La Creevy, how very smirking!» when the very essence
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 113
of a good portrait is, that it must be either serious or smirking, or it's no portrait at all.'
'Indeed!' said Kate, laughing.
'Certainly, my dear; because the sitters are always either the one or the other,' replied
Miss La Creevy. 'Look at the Royal Academy! All those beautiful shiny portraits of
gentlemen in black velvet waistcoats, with their fists doubled up on round tables, or marble
slabs, are serious, you know; and all the ladies who are playing with little parasols, or little
dogs, or little children – it's the same rule in art, only varying the objects – are smirking. In
fact,' said Miss La Creevy, sinking her voice to a confidential whisper, 'there are only two
styles of portrait painting; the serious and the smirk; and we always use the serious for
professional people (except actors sometimes), and the smirk for private ladies and
gentlemen who don't care so much about looking clever.'
Kate seemed highly amused by this information, and Miss La Creevy went on painting
and talking, with immovable complacency.
'What a number of officers you seem to paint!' said Kate, availing herself of a pause in
the discourse, and glancing round the room.
'Number of what, child?' inquired Miss La Creevy, looking up from her work.
'Character portraits, oh yes – they're not real military men, you know.'
'No!'
'Bless your heart, of course not; only clerks and that, who hire a uniform coat to be
painted in, and send it here in a carpet bag. Some artists,' said Miss La Creevy, 'keep a red
coat, and charge seven−and−sixpence extra for hire and carmine; but I don't do that myself,
for I don't consider it legitimate.'
Drawing herself up, as though she plumed herself greatly upon not resorting to these
lures to catch sitters, Miss La Creevy applied herself, more intently, to her task: only raising
her head occasionally, to look with unspeakable satisfaction at some touch she had just put
in: and now and then giving Miss Nickleby to understand what particular feature she was at
work upon, at the moment; 'not,' she expressly observed, 'that you should make it up for
painting, my dear, but because it's our custom sometimes to tell sitters what part we are
upon, in order that if there's any particular expression they want introduced, they may throw
it in, at the time, you know.'
'And when,' said Miss La Creevy, after a long silence, to wit, an interval of full a minute
and a half, 'when do you expect to see your uncle again?'
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'I scarcely know; I had expected to have seen him before now,' replied Kate. 'Soon I
hope, for this state of uncertainty is worse than anything.'
'I suppose he has money, hasn't he?' inquired Miss La Creevy.
'He is very rich, I have heard,' rejoined Kate. 'I don't know that he is, but I believe so.'
'Ah, you may depend upon it he is, or he wouldn't be so surly,' remarked Miss La
Creevy, who was an odd little mixture of shrewdness and simplicity. 'When a man's a bear,
he is generally pretty independent.'
'His manner is rough,' said Kate.
'Rough!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'a porcupine's a featherbed to him! I never met with
such a cross−grained old savage.'
'It is only his manner, I believe,' observed Kate, timidly; 'he was disappointed in early
life, I think I have heard, or has had his temper soured by some calamity. I should be sorry
to think ill of him until I knew he deserved it.'
'Well; that's very right and proper,' observed the miniature painter, 'and Heaven forbid
that I should be the cause of your doing so! But, now, mightn't he, without feeling it himself,
make you and your mama some nice little allowance that would keep you both comfortable
until you were well married, and be a little fortune to her afterwards? What would a hundred
a year for instance, be to him?'
'I don't know what it would be to him,' said Kate, with energy, 'but it would be that to
me I would rather die than take.'
'Heyday!' cried Miss La Creevy.
'A dependence upon him,' said Kate, 'would embitter my whole life. I should feel
begging a far less degradation.'
'Well!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy. 'This of a relation whom you will not hear an
indifferent person speak ill of, my dear, sounds oddly enough, I confess.'
'I dare say it does,' replied Kate, speaking more gently, 'indeed I am sure it must. I – I –
only mean that with the feelings and recollection of better times upon me, I could not bear to
live on anybody's bounty – not his particularly, but anybody's.'
Miss La Creevy looked slyly at her companion, as if she doubted whether Ralph himself
were not the subject of dislike, but seeing that her young friend was distressed, made no
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 115
remark.
'I only ask of him,' continued Kate, whose tears fell while she spoke, 'that he will move
so little out of his way, in my behalf, as to enable me by his recommendation – only by his
recommendation – to earn, literally, my bread and remain with my mother. Whether we shall
ever taste happiness again, depends upon the fortunes of my dear brother; but if he will do
this, and Nicholas only tells us that he is well and cheerful, I shall be contented.'
As she ceased to speak, there was a rustling behind the screen which stood between her
and the door, and some person knocked at the wainscot.'
'Come in, whoever it is!' cried Miss La Creevy.
The person complied, and, coming forward at once, gave to view the form and features
of no less an individual than Mr Ralph Nickleby himself.
'Your servant, ladies,' said Ralph, looking sharply at them by turns. 'You were talking so
loud, that I was unable to make you hear.'
When the man of business had a more than commonly vicious snarl lurking at his heart,
he had a trick of almost concealing his eyes under their thick and protruding brows, for an
instant, and then displaying them in their full keenness. As he did so now, and tried to keep
down the smile which parted his thin compressed lips, and puckered up the bad lines about
his mouth, they both felt certain that some part, if not the whole, of their recent
conversation, had been overheard.
'I called in, on my way upstairs, more than half expecting to find you here,' said Ralph,
addressing his niece, and looking contemptuously at the portrait. 'Is that my niece's portrait,
ma'am?'
'Yes it is, Mr Nickleby,' said Miss La Creevy, with a very sprightly air, 'and between
you and me and the post, sir, it will be a very nice portrait too, though I say it who am the
painter.'
'Don't trouble yourself to show it to me, ma'am,' cried Ralph, moving away, 'I have no
eye for likenesses. Is it nearly finished?'
'Why, yes,' replied Miss La Creevy, considering with the pencil end of her brush in her
mouth. 'Two sittings more will – '
'Have them at once, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'She'll have no time to idle over fooleries after
tomorrow. Work, ma'am, work; we must all work. Have you let your lodgings, ma'am?'
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'I have not put a bill up yet, sir.'
'Put it up at once, ma'am; they won't want the rooms after this week, or if they do, can't
pay for them. Now, my dear, if you're ready, we'll lose no more time.'
With an assumption of kindness which sat worse upon him even than his usual manner,
Mr Ralph Nickleby motioned to the young lady to precede him, and bowing gravely to Miss
La Creevy, closed the door and followed upstairs, where Mrs Nickleby received him with
many expressions of regard. Stopping them somewhat abruptly, Ralph waved his hand with
an impatient gesture, and proceeded to the object of his visit.
'I have found a situation for your daughter, ma'am,' said Ralph.
'Well,' replied Mrs Nickleby. 'Now, I will say that that is only just what I have expected
of you. «Depend upon it,» I said to Kate, only yesterday morning at breakfast, «that after
your uncle has provided, in that most ready manner, for Nicholas, he will not leave us until
he has done at least the same for you.» These were my very words, as near as I remember.
Kate, my dear, why don't you thank your – '
'Let me proceed, ma'am, pray,' said Ralph, interrupting his sister− in−law in the full
torrent of her discourse.
'Kate, my love, let your uncle proceed,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'I am most anxious that he should, mama,' rejoined Kate.
'Well, my dear, if you are anxious that he should, you had better allow your uncle to say
what he has to say, without interruption,' observed Mrs Nickleby, with many small nods and
frowns. 'Your uncle's time is very valuable, my dear; and however desirous you may be –
and naturally desirous, as I am sure any affectionate relations who have seen so little of your
uncle as we have, must naturally be to protract the pleasure of having him among us, still,
we are bound not to be selfish, but to take into consideration the important nature of his
occupations in the city.'
'I am very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Ralph with a scarcely perceptible sneer.
'An absence of business habits in this family leads, apparently, to a great waste of words
before business – when it does come under consideration – is arrived at, at all.'
'I fear it is so indeed,' replied Mrs Nickleby with a sigh. 'Your poor brother – '
'My poor brother, ma'am,' interposed Ralph tartly, 'had no idea what business was – was
unacquainted, I verily believe, with the very meaning of the word.'
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'I fear he was,' said Mrs Nickleby, with her handkerchief to her eyes. 'If it hadn't been
for me, I don't know what would have become of him.'
What strange creatures we are! The slight bait so skilfully thrown out by Ralph, on their
first interview, was dangling on the hook yet. At every small deprivation or discomfort
which presented itself in the course of the four−and−twenty hours to remind her of her
straitened and altered circumstances, peevish visions of her dower of one thousand pounds
had arisen before Mrs Nickleby's mind, until, at last, she had come to persuade herself that
of all her late husband's creditors she was the worst used and the most to be pitied. And yet,
she had loved him dearly for many years, and had no greater share of selfishness than is the
usual lot of mortals. Such is the irritability of sudden poverty. A decent annuity would have
restored her thoughts to their old train, at once.
'Repining is of no use, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Of all fruitless errands, sending a tear to
look after a day that is gone is the most fruitless.'
'So it is,' sobbed Mrs Nickleby. 'So it is.'
'As you feel so keenly, in your own purse and person, the consequences of inattention to
business, ma'am,' said Ralph, 'I am sure you will impress upon your children the necessity of
attaching themselves to it early in life.'
'Of course I must see that,' rejoined Mrs Nickleby. 'Sad experience, you know,
brother−in−law. – Kate, my dear, put that down in the next letter to Nicholas, or remind me
to do it if I write.'
Ralph paused for a few moments, and seeing that he had now made pretty sure of the
mother, in case the daughter objected to his proposition, went on to say:
'The situation that I have made interest to procure, ma'am, is with – with a milliner and
dressmaker, in short.'
'A milliner!' cried Mrs Nickleby.
'A milliner and dressmaker, ma'am,' replied Ralph. 'Dressmakers in London, as I need
not remind you, ma'am, who are so well acquainted with all matters in the ordinary routine
of life, make large fortunes, keep equipages, and become persons of great wealth and
fortune.'
Now, the first idea called up in Mrs Nickleby's mind by the words milliner and
dressmaker were connected with certain wicker baskets lined with black oilskin, which she
remembered to have seen carried to and fro in the streets; but, as Ralph proceeded, these
disappeared, and were replaced by visions of large houses at the West end, neat private
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carriages, and a banker's book; all of which images succeeded each other with such rapidity,
that he had no sooner finished speaking, than she nodded her head and said 'Very true,' with
great appearance of satisfaction.
'What your uncle says is very true, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I recollect when
your poor papa and I came to town after we were married, that a young lady brought me
home a chip cottage− bonnet, with white and green trimming, and green persian lining, in
her own carriage, which drove up to the door full gallop; – at least, I am not quite certain
whether it was her own carriage or a hackney chariot, but I remember very well that the
horse dropped down dead as he was turning round, and that your poor papa said he hadn't
had any corn for a fortnight.'
This anecdote, so strikingly illustrative of the opulence of milliners, was not received
with any great demonstration of feeling, inasmuch as Kate hung down her head while it was
relating, and Ralph manifested very intelligible symptoms of extreme impatience.
'The lady's name,' said Ralph, hastily striking in, 'is Mantalini – Madame Mantalini. I
know her. She lives near Cavendish Square. If your daughter is disposed to try after the
situation, I'll take her there directly.'
'Have you nothing to say to your uncle, my love?' inquired Mrs Nickleby.
'A great deal,' replied Kate; 'but not now. I would rather speak to him when we are
alone; – it will save his time if I thank him and say what I wish to say to him, as we walk
along.'
With these words, Kate hurried away, to hide the traces of emotion that were stealing
down her face, and to prepare herself for the walk, while Mrs Nickleby amused her
brother−in−law by giving him, with many tears, a detailed account of the dimensions of a
rosewood cabinet piano they had possessed in their days of affluence, together with a minute
description of eight drawing−room chairs, with turned legs and green chintz squabs to match
the curtains, which had cost two pounds fifteen shillings apiece, and had gone at the sale for
a mere nothing.
These reminiscences were at length cut short by Kate's return in her walking dress,
when Ralph, who had been fretting and fuming during the whole time of her absence, lost no
time, and used very little ceremony, in descending into the street.
'Now,' he said, taking her arm, 'walk as fast as you can, and you'll get into the step that
you'll have to walk to business with, every morning.' So saying, he led Kate off, at a good
round pace, towards Cavendish Square.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 119
'I am very much obliged to you, uncle,' said the young lady, after they had hurried on in
silence for some time; 'very.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Ralph. 'I hope you'll do your duty.'
'I will try to please, uncle,' replied Kate: 'indeed I – '
'Don't begin to cry,' growled Ralph; 'I hate crying.'
'It's very foolish, I know, uncle,' began poor Kate.
'It is,' replied Ralph, stopping her short, 'and very affected besides. Let me see no more
of it.'
Perhaps this was not the best way to dry the tears of a young and sensitive female, about
to make her first entry on an entirely new scene of life, among cold and uninterested
strangers; but it had its effect notwithstanding. Kate coloured deeply, breathed quickly for a
few moments, and then walked on with a firmer and more determined step.
It was a curious contrast to see how the timid country girl shrunk through the crowd that
hurried up and down the streets, giving way to the press of people, and clinging closely to
Ralph as though she feared to lose him in the throng; and how the stern and hard− featured
man of business went doggedly on, elbowing the passengers aside, and now and then
exchanging a gruff salutation with some passing acquaintance, who turned to look back
upon his pretty charge, with looks expressive of surprise, and seemed to wonder at the
ill−assorted companionship. But, it would have been a stranger contrast still, to have read
the hearts that were beating side by side; to have laid bare the gentle innocence of the one,
and the rugged villainy of the other; to have hung upon the guileless thoughts of the
affectionate girl, and been amazed that, among all the wily plots and calculations of the old
man, there should not be one word or figure denoting thought of death or of the grave. But
so it was; and stranger still – though this is a thing of every day – the warm young heart
palpitated with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions, while that of the old worldly man
lay rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one
throb of hope, or fear, or love, or care, for any living thing.
'Uncle,' said Kate, when she judged they must be near their destination, 'I must ask one
question of you. I am to live at home?'
'At home!' replied Ralph; 'where's that?'
'I mean with my mother – THE WIDOW,' said Kate emphatically.
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'You will live, to all intents and purposes, here,' rejoined Ralph; 'for here you will take
your meals, and here you will be from morning till night – occasionally perhaps till morning
again.'
'But at night, I mean,' said Kate; 'I cannot leave her, uncle. I must have some place that I
can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you know, and may be a very humble one.'
'May be!' said Ralph, walking faster, in the impatience provoked by the remark; 'must
be, you mean. May be a humble one! Is the girl mad?'
'The word slipped from my lips, I did not mean it indeed,' urged Kate.
'I hope not,' said Ralph.
'But my question, uncle; you have not answered it.'
'Why, I anticipated something of the kind,' said Ralph; 'and – though I object very
strongly, mind – have provided against it. I spoke of you as an out−of−door worker; so you
will go to this home that may be humble, every night.'
There was comfort in this. Kate poured forth many thanks for her uncle's consideration,
which Ralph received as if he had deserved them all, and they arrived without any further
conversation at the dressmaker's door, which displayed a very large plate, with Madame
Mantalini's name and occupation, and was approached by a handsome flight of steps. There
was a shop to the house, but it was let off to an importer of otto of roses. Madame
Mantalini's shows−rooms were on the first−floor: a fact which was notified to the nobility
and gentry by the casual exhibition, near the handsomely curtained windows, of two or three
elegant bonnets of the newest fashion, and some costly garments in the most approved taste.
A liveried footman opened the door, and in reply to Ralph's inquiry whether Madame
Mantalini was at home, ushered them, through a handsome hall and up a spacious staircase,
into the show saloon, which comprised two spacious drawing−rooms, and exhibited an
immense variety of superb dresses and materials for dresses: some arranged on stands,
others laid carelessly on sofas, and others again, scattered over the carpet, hanging on the
cheval−glasses, or mingling, in some other way, with the rich furniture of various
descriptions, which was profusely displayed.
They waited here a much longer time than was agreeable to Mr Ralph Nickleby, who
eyed the gaudy frippery about him with very little concern, and was at length about to pull
the bell, when a gentleman suddenly popped his head into the room, and, seeing somebody
there, as suddenly popped it out again.
'Here. Hollo!' cried Ralph. 'Who's that?'
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 121
At the sound of Ralph's voice, the head reappeared, and the mouth, displaying a very
long row of very white teeth, uttered in a mincing tone the words, 'Demmit. What, Nickleby!
oh, demmit!' Having uttered which ejaculations, the gentleman advanced, and shook hands
with Ralph, with great warmth. He was dressed in a gorgeous morning gown, with a
waistcoat and Turkish trousers of the same pattern, a pink silk neckerchief, and bright green
slippers, and had a very copious watch−chain wound round his body. Moreover, he had
whiskers and a moustache, both dyed black and gracefully curled.
'Demmit, you don't mean to say you want me, do you, demmit?' said this gentleman,
smiting Ralph on the shoulder.
'Not yet,' said Ralph, sarcastically.
'Ha! ha! demmit,' cried the gentleman; when, wheeling round to laugh with greater
elegance, he encountered Kate Nickleby, who was standing near.
'My niece,' said Ralph.
'I remember,' said the gentleman, striking his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger as
a chastening for his forgetfulness. 'Demmit, I remember what you come for. Step this way,
Nickleby; my dear, will you follow me? Ha! ha! They all follow me, Nickleby; always did,
demmit, always.'
Giving loose to the playfulness of his imagination, after this fashion, the gentleman led
the way to a private sitting−room on the second floor, scarcely less elegantly furnished than
the apartment below, where the presence of a silver coffee−pot, an egg−shell, and sloppy
china for one, seemed to show that he had just breakfasted.
'Sit down, my dear,' said the gentleman: first staring Miss Nickleby out of countenance,
and then grinning in delight at the achievement. 'This cursed high room takes one's breath
away. These infernal sky parlours – I'm afraid I must move, Nickleby.'
'I would, by all means,' replied Ralph, looking bitterly round.
'What a demd rum fellow you are, Nickleby,' said the gentleman, 'the demdest,
longest−headed, queerest−tempered old coiner of gold and silver ever was – demmit.'
Having complimented Ralph to this effect, the gentleman rang the bell, and stared at
Miss Nickleby until it was answered, when he left off to bid the man desire his mistress to
come directly; after which, he began again, and left off no more until Madame Mantalini
appeared.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 122
The dressmaker was a buxom person, handsomely dressed and rather good−looking, but
much older than the gentleman in the Turkish trousers, whom she had wedded some six
months before. His name was originally Muntle; but it had been converted, by an easy
transition, into Mantalini: the lady rightly considering that an English appellation would be
of serious injury to the business. He had married on his whiskers; upon which property he
had previously subsisted, in a genteel manner, for some years; and which he had recently
improved, after patient cultivation by the addition of a moustache, which promised to secure
him an easy independence: his share in the labours of the business being at present confined
to spending the money, and occasionally, when that ran short, driving to Mr Ralph Nickleby
to procure discount – at a percentage – for the customers' bills.
'My life,' said Mr Mantalini, 'what a demd devil of a time you have been!'
'I didn't even know Mr Nickleby was here, my love,' said Madame Mantalini.
'Then what a doubly demd infernal rascal that footman must be, my soul,' remonstrated
Mr Mantalini.
'My dear,' said Madame, 'that is entirely your fault.'
'My fault, my heart's joy?'
'Certainly,' returned the lady; 'what can you expect, dearest, if you will not correct the
man?'
'Correct the man, my soul's delight!'
'Yes; I am sure he wants speaking to, badly enough,' said Madame, pouting.
'Then do not vex itself,' said Mr Mantalini; 'he shall be horse− whipped till he cries out
demnebly.' With this promise Mr Mantalini kissed Madame Mantalini, and, after that
performance, Madame Mantalini pulled Mr Mantalini playfully by the ear: which done, they
descended to business.
'Now, ma'am,' said Ralph, who had looked on, at all this, with such scorn as few men
can express in looks, 'this is my niece.'
'Just so, Mr Nickleby,' replied Madame Mantalini, surveying Kate from head to foot,
and back again. 'Can you speak French, child?'
'Yes, ma'am,' replied Kate, not daring to look up; for she felt that the eyes of the odious
man in the dressing−gown were directed towards her.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 123
'Like a demd native?' asked the husband.
Miss Nickleby offered no reply to this inquiry, but turned her back upon the questioner,
as if addressing herself to make answer to what his wife might demand.
'We keep twenty young women constantly employed in the establishment,' said
Madame.
'Indeed, ma'am!' replied Kate, timidly.
'Yes; and some of 'em demd handsome, too,' said the master.
'Mantalini!' exclaimed his wife, in an awful voice.
'My senses' idol!' said Mantalini.
'Do you wish to break my heart?'
'Not for twenty thousand hemispheres populated with – with – with little
ballet−dancers,' replied Mantalini in a poetical strain.
'Then you will, if you persevere in that mode of speaking,' said his wife. 'What can Mr
Nickleby think when he hears you?'
'Oh! Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied Ralph. 'I know his amiable nature, and yours, –
mere little remarks that give a zest to your daily intercourse – lovers' quarrels that add
sweetness to those domestic joys which promise to last so long – that's all; that's all.'
If an iron door could be supposed to quarrel with its hinges, and to make a firm
resolution to open with slow obstinacy, and grind them to powder in the process, it would
emit a pleasanter sound in so doing, than did these words in the rough and bitter voice in
which they were uttered by Ralph. Even Mr Mantalini felt their influence, and turning
affrighted round, exclaimed: 'What a demd horrid croaking!'
'You will pay no attention, if you please, to what Mr Mantalini says,' observed his wife,
addressing Miss Nickleby.
'I do not, ma'am,' said Kate, with quiet contempt.
'Mr Mantalini knows nothing whatever about any of the young women,' continued
Madame, looking at her husband, and speaking to Kate. 'If he has seen any of them, he must
have seen them in the street, going to, or returning from, their work, and not here. He was
never even in the room. I do not allow it. What hours of work have you been accustomed
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 124
to?'
'I have never yet been accustomed to work at all, ma'am,' replied Kate, in a low voice.
'For which reason she'll work all the better now,' said Ralph, putting in a word, lest this
confession should injure the negotiation.
'I hope so,' returned Madame Mantalini; 'our hours are from nine to nine, with extra
work when we're very full of business, for which I allow payment as overtime.'
Kate bowed her head, to intimate that she heard, and was satisfied.
'Your meals,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'that is, dinner and tea, you will take here. I
should think your wages would average from five to seven shillings a week; but I can't give
you any certain information on that point, until I see what you can do.'
Kate bowed her head again.
'If you're ready to come,' said Madame Mantalini, 'you had better begin on Monday
morning at nine exactly, and Miss Knag the forewoman shall then have directions to try you
with some easy work at first. Is there anything more, Mr Nickleby?'
'Nothing more, ma'am,' replied Ralph, rising.
'Then I believe that's all,' said the lady. Having arrived at this natural conclusion, she
looked at the door, as if she wished to be gone, but hesitated notwithstanding, as though
unwilling to leave to Mr Mantalini the sole honour of showing them downstairs. Ralph
relieved her from her perplexity by taking his departure without delay: Madame Mantalini
making many gracious inquiries why he never came to see them; and Mr Mantalini
anathematising the stairs with great volubility as he followed them down, in the hope of
inducing Kate to look round, – a hope, however, which was destined to remain ungratified.
'There!' said Ralph when they got into the street; 'now you're provided for.'
Kate was about to thank him again, but he stopped her.
'I had some idea,' he said, 'of providing for your mother in a pleasant part of the country
– (he had a presentation to some almshouses on the borders of Cornwall, which had
occurred to him more than once) – but as you want to be together, I must do something else
for her. She has a little money?'
'A very little,' replied Kate.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 125
'A little will go a long way if it's used sparingly,' said Ralph. 'She must see how long she
can make it last, living rent free. You leave your lodgings on Saturday?'
'You told us to do so, uncle.'
'Yes; there is a house empty that belongs to me, which I can put you into till it is let, and
then, if nothing else turns up, perhaps I shall have another. You must live there.'
'Is it far from here, sir?' inquired Kate.
'Pretty well,' said Ralph; 'in another quarter of the town – at the East end; but I'll send
my clerk down to you, at five o'clock on Saturday, to take you there. Goodbye. You know
your way? Straight on.'
Coldly shaking his niece's hand, Ralph left her at the top of Regent Street, and turned
down a by−thoroughfare, intent on schemes of money−getting. Kate walked sadly back to
their lodgings in the Strand.
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CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law 126
CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby
into their New Dwelling in the City
M
iss Nickleby's reflections, as she wended her way homewards, were of that
desponding nature which the occurrences of the morning had been sufficiently calculated to
awaken. Her uncle's was not a manner likely to dispel any doubts or apprehensions she
might have formed, in the outset, neither was the glimpse she had had of Madame
Mantalini's establishment by any means encouraging. It was with many gloomy forebodings
and misgivings, therefore, that she looked forward, with a heavy heart, to the opening of her
new career.
If her mother's consolations could have restored her to a pleasanter and more enviable
state of mind, there were abundance of them to produce the effect. By the time Kate reached
home, the good lady had called to mind two authentic cases of milliners who had been
possessed of considerable property, though whether they had acquired it all in business, or
had had a capital to start with, or had been lucky and married to advantage, she could not
exactly remember. However, as she very logically remarked, there must have been
SOME young person in that way of business who had made a fortune without having
anything to begin with, and that being taken for granted, why should not Kate do the same?
Miss La Creevy, who was a member of the little council, ventured to insinuate some doubts
relative to the probability of Miss Nickleby's arriving at this happy consummation in the
compass of an ordinary lifetime; but the good lady set that question entirely at rest, by
informing them that she had a presentiment on the subject – a species of second−sight with
which she had been in the habit of clenching every argument with the deceased Mr
Nickleby, and, in nine cases and three−quarters out of every ten, determining it the wrong
way.
'I am afraid it is an unhealthy occupation,' said Miss La Creevy. 'I recollect getting three
young milliners to sit to me, when I first began to paint, and I remember that they were all
very pale and sickly.'
'Oh! that's not a general rule by any means,' observed Mrs Nickleby; 'for I remember, as
well as if it was only yesterday, employing one that I was particularly recommended to, to
make me a scarlet cloak at the time when scarlet cloaks were fashionable, and she had a very
red face – a very red face, indeed.'
'Perhaps she drank,' suggested Miss La Creevy.
'I don't know how that may have been,' returned Mrs Nickleby: 'but I know she had a
very red face, so your argument goes for nothing.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City127
In this manner, and with like powerful reasoning, did the worthy matron meet every
little objection that presented itself to the new scheme of the morning. Happy Mrs Nickleby!
A project had but to be new, and it came home to her mind, brightly varnished and gilded as
a glittering toy.
This question disposed of, Kate communicated her uncle's desire about the empty
house, to which Mrs Nickleby assented with equal readiness, characteristically remarking,
that, on the fine evenings, it would be a pleasant amusement for her to walk to the West end
to fetch her daughter home; and no less characteristically forgetting, that there were such
things as wet nights and bad weather to be encountered in almost every week of the year.
'I shall be sorry – truly sorry to leave you, my kind friend,' said Kate, on whom the good
feeling of the poor miniature painter had made a deep impression.
'You shall not shake me off, for all that,' replied Miss La Creevy, with as much
sprightliness as she could assume. 'I shall see you very often, and come and hear how you
get on; and if, in all London, or all the wide world besides, there is no other heart that takes
an interest in your welfare, there will be one little lonely woman that prays for it night and
day.'
With this, the poor soul, who had a heart big enough for Gog, the guardian genius of
London, and enough to spare for Magog to boot, after making a great many extraordinary
faces which would have secured her an ample fortune, could she have transferred them to
ivory or canvas, sat down in a corner, and had what she termed 'a real good cry.'
But no crying, or talking, or hoping, or fearing, could keep off the dreaded Saturday
afternoon, or Newman Noggs either; who, punctual to his time, limped up to the door, and
breathed a whiff of cordial gin through the keyhole, exactly as such of the church clocks in
the neighbourhood as agreed among themselves about the time, struck five. Newman waited
for the last stroke, and then knocked.
'From Mr Ralph Nickleby,' said Newman, announcing his errand, when he got upstairs,
with all possible brevity.
'We shall be ready directly,' said Kate. 'We have not much to carry, but I fear we must
have a coach.'
'I'll get one,' replied Newman.
'Indeed you shall not trouble yourself,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'I will,' said Newman.
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CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City128
'I can't suffer you to think of such a thing,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'You can't help it,' said Newman.
'Not help it!'
'No; I thought of it as I came along; but didn't get one, thinking you mightn't be ready. I
think of a great many things. Nobody can prevent that.'
'Oh yes, I understand you, Mr Noggs,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Our thoughts are free, of
course. Everybody's thoughts are their own, clearly.'
'They wouldn't be, if some people had their way,' muttered Newman.
'Well, no more they would, Mr Noggs, and that's very true,' rejoined Mrs Nickleby.
'Some people to be sure are such – how's your master?'
Newman darted a meaning glance at Kate, and replied with a strong emphasis on the
last word of his answer, that Mr Ralph Nickleby was well, and sent his LOVE.
'I am sure we are very much obliged to him,' observed Mrs Nickleby.
'Very,' said Newman. 'I'll tell him so.'
It was no very easy matter to mistake Newman Noggs, after having once seen him, and
as Kate, attracted by the singularity of his manner (in which on this occasion, however, there
was something respectful and even delicate, notwithstanding the abruptness of his speech),
looked at him more closely, she recollected having caught a passing glimpse of that strange
figure before.
'Excuse my curiosity,' she said, 'but did I not see you in the coachyard, on the morning
my brother went away to Yorkshire?'
Newman cast a wistful glance on Mrs Nickleby and said 'No,' most unblushingly.
'No!' exclaimed Kate, 'I should have said so anywhere.'
'You'd have said wrong,' rejoined Newman. 'It's the first time I've been out for three
weeks. I've had the gout.'
Newman was very, very far from having the appearance of a gouty subject, and so Kate
could not help thinking; but the conference was cut short by Mrs Nickleby's insisting on
having the door shut, lest Mr Noggs should take cold, and further persisting in sending the
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CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City129
servant girl for a coach, for fear he should bring on another attack of his disorder. To both
conditions, Newman was compelled to yield. Presently, the coach came; and, after many
sorrowful farewells, and a great deal of running backwards and forwards across the
pavement on the part of Miss La Creevy, in the course of which the yellow turban came into
violent contact with sundry foot−passengers, it (that is to say the coach, not the turban) went
away again, with the two ladies and their luggage inside; and Newman, despite all Mrs
Nickleby's assurances that it would be his death – on the box beside the driver.
They went into the city, turning down by the river side; and, after a long and very slow
drive, the streets being crowded at that hour with vehicles of every kind, stopped in front of
a large old dingy house in Thames Street: the door and windows of which were so
bespattered with mud, that it would have appeared to have been uninhabited for years.
The door of this deserted mansion Newman opened with a key which he took out of his
hat – in which, by−the−bye, in consequence of the dilapidated state of his pockets, he
deposited everything, and would most likely have carried his money if he had had any – and
the coach being discharged, he led the way into the interior of the mansion.
Old, and gloomy, and black, in truth it was, and sullen and dark were the rooms, once so
bustling with life and enterprise. There was a wharf behind, opening on the Thames. An
empty dog−kennel, some bones of animals, fragments of iron hoops, and staves of old casks,
lay strewn about, but no life was stirring there. It was a picture of cold, silent decay.
'This house depresses and chills one,' said Kate, 'and seems as if some blight had fallen
on it. If I were superstitious, I should be almost inclined to believe that some dreadful crime
had been perpetrated within these old walls, and that the place had never prospered since.
How frowning and how dark it looks!'
'Lord, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, 'don't talk in that way, or you'll frighten me to
death.'
'It is only my foolish fancy, mama,' said Kate, forcing a smile.
'Well, then, my love, I wish you would keep your foolish fancy to yourself, and not
wake up MY foolish fancy to keep it company,' retorted Mrs Nickleby. 'Why didn't you
think of all this before – you are so careless – we might have asked Miss La Creevy to keep
us company or borrowed a dog, or a thousand things – but it always was the way, and was
just the same with your poor dear father. Unless I thought of everything – ' This was Mrs
Nickleby's usual commencement of a general lamentation, running through a dozen or so of
complicated sentences addressed to nobody in particular, and into which she now launched
until her breath was exhausted.
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CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City130
Newman appeared not to hear these remarks, but preceded them to a couple of rooms on
the first floor, which some kind of attempt had been made to render habitable. In one, were a
few chairs, a table, an old hearth−rug, and some faded baize; and a fire was ready laid in the
grate. In the other stood an old tent bedstead, and a few scanty articles of chamber furniture.
'Well, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, trying to be pleased, 'now isn't this thoughtful and
considerate of your uncle? Why, we should not have had anything but the bed we bought
yesterday, to lie down upon, if it hadn't been for his thoughtfulness!'
'Very kind, indeed,' replied Kate, looking round.
Newman Noggs did not say that he had hunted up the old furniture they saw, from attic
and cellar; or that he had taken in the halfpennyworth of milk for tea that stood upon a shelf,
or filled the rusty kettle on the hob, or collected the woodchips from the wharf, or begged
the coals. But the notion of Ralph Nickleby having directed it to be done, tickled his fancy
so much, that he could not refrain from cracking all his ten fingers in succession: at which
performance Mrs Nickleby was rather startled at first, but supposing it to be in some remote
manner connected with the gout, did not remark upon.
'We need detain you no longer, I think,' said Kate.
'Is there nothing I can do?' asked Newman.
'Nothing, thank you,' rejoined Miss Nickleby.
'Perhaps, my dear, Mr Noggs would like to drink our healths,' said Mrs Nickleby,
fumbling in her reticule for some small coin.
'I think, mama,' said Kate hesitating, and remarking Newman's averted face, 'you would
hurt his feelings if you offered it.'
Newman Noggs, bowing to the young lady more like a gentleman than the miserable
wretch he seemed, placed his hand upon his breast, and, pausing for a moment, with the air
of a man who struggles to speak but is uncertain what to say, quitted the room.
As the jarring echoes of the heavy house−door, closing on its latch, reverberated
dismally through the building, Kate felt half tempted to call him back, and beg him to
remain a little while; but she was ashamed to own her fears, and Newman Noggs was on his
road homewards.
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CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New Dwelling in the City131
CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the
further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,
a
nd to ascertain whether it ran smooth or otherwise.
It was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers, that when her worthy papa
returned home on the night of the small tea−party, he was what the initiated term 'too far
gone' to observe the numerous tokens of extreme vexation of spirit which were plainly
visible in her countenance. Being, however, of a rather violent and quarrelsome mood in his
cups, it is not impossible that he might have fallen out with her, either on this or some
imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with a foresight and prudence highly
commendable, kept a boy up, on purpose, to bear the first brunt of the good gentleman's
anger; which, having vented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, subsided sufficiently to
admit of his being persuaded to go to bed. Which he did with his boots on, and an umbrella
under his arm.
The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room according to custom, to curl
her hair, perform the other little offices of her toilet, and administer as much flattery as she
could get up, for the purpose; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy enough (and sufficiently vain
and frivolous withal) to have been a fine lady; and it was only the arbitrary distinctions of
rank and station which prevented her from being one.
'How lovely your hair do curl tonight, miss!' said the handmaiden. 'I declare if it isn't a
pity and a shame to brush it out!'
'Hold your tongue!' replied Miss Squeers wrathfully.
Some considerable experience prevented the girl from being at all surprised at any
outbreak of ill−temper on the part of Miss Squeers. Having a half−perception of what had
occurred in the course of the evening, she changed her mode of making herself agreeable,
and proceeded on the indirect tack.
'Well, I couldn't help saying, miss, if you was to kill me for it,' said the attendant, 'that I
never see nobody look so vulgar as Miss Price this night.'
Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen.
'I know it's very wrong in me to say so, miss,' continued the girl, delighted to see the
impression she was making, 'Miss Price being a friend of your'n, and all; but she do dress
herself out so, and go on in such a manner to get noticed, that – oh – well, if people only saw
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,132
themselves!'
'What do you mean, Phib?' asked Miss Squeers, looking in her own little glass, where,
like most of us, she saw – not herself, but the reflection of some pleasant image in her own
brain. 'How you talk!'
'Talk, miss! It's enough to make a Tom cat talk French grammar, only to see how she
tosses her head,' replied the handmaid.
'She DOES toss her head,' observed Miss Squeers, with an air of abstraction.
'So vain, and so very – very plain,' said the girl.
'Poor 'Tilda!' sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately.
'And always laying herself out so, to get to be admired,' pursued the servant. 'Oh, dear!
It's positive indelicate.'
'I can't allow you to talk in that way, Phib,' said Miss Squeers. ''Tilda's friends are low
people, and if she don't know any better, it's their fault, and not hers.'
'Well, but you know, miss,' said Phoebe, for which name 'Phib' was used as a
patronising abbreviation, 'if she was only to take copy by a friend – oh! if she only knew
how wrong she was, and would but set herself right by you, what a nice young woman she
might be in time!'
'Phib,' rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, 'it's not proper for me to hear these
comparisons drawn; they make 'Tilda look a coarse improper sort of person, and it seems
unfriendly in me to listen to them. I would rather you dropped the subject, Phib; at the same
time, I must say, that if 'Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody – not me particularly – '
'Oh yes; you, miss,' interposed Phib.
'Well, me, Phib, if you will have it so,' said Miss Squeers. 'I must say, that if she would,
she would be all the better for it.'
'So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,' said the girl mysteriously.
'What do you mean?' demanded Miss Squeers.
'Never mind, miss,' replied the girl; 'I know what I know; that's all.'
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,133
'Phib,' said Miss Squeers dramatically, 'I insist upon your explaining yourself. What is
this dark mystery? Speak.'
'Why, if you will have it, miss, it's this,' said the servant girl. 'Mr John Browdie thinks
as you think; and if he wasn't too far gone to do it creditable, he'd be very glad to be off with
Miss Price, and on with Miss Squeers.'
'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping her hands with great dignity.
'What is this?'
'Truth, ma'am, and nothing but truth,' replied the artful Phib.
'What a situation!' cried Miss Squeers; 'on the brink of unconsciously destroying the
peace and happiness of my own 'Tilda. What is the reason that men fall in love with me,
whether I like it or not, and desert their chosen intendeds for my sake?'
'Because they can't help it, miss,' replied the girl; 'the reason's plain.' (If Miss Squeers
were the reason, it was very plain.)
'Never let me hear of it again,' retorted Miss Squeers. 'Never! Do you hear? 'Tilda Price
has faults – many faults – but I wish her well, and above all I wish her married; for I think it
highly desirable – most desirable from the very nature of her failings – that she should be
married as soon as possible. No, Phib. Let her have Mr Browdie. I may pity HIM, poor
fellow; but I have a great regard for 'Tilda, and only hope she may make a better wife than I
think she will.'
With this effusion of feeling, Miss Squeers went to bed.
Spite is a little word; but it represents as strange a jumble of feelings, and compound of
discords, as any polysyllable in the language. Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of
hearts that what the miserable serving−girl had said was sheer, coarse, lying flattery, as did
the girl herself; yet the mere opportunity of venting a little ill−nature against the offending
Miss Price, and affecting to compassionate her weaknesses and foibles, though only in the
presence of a solitary dependant, was almost as great a relief to her spleen as if the whole
had been gospel truth. Nay, more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion when
they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt quite high−minded and great after her
noble renunciation of John Browdie's hand, and looked down upon her rival with a kind of
holy calmness and tranquillity, that had a mighty effect in soothing her ruffled feelings.
This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing about a reconciliation; for,
when a knock came at the front−door next day, and the miller's daughter was announced,
Miss Squeers betook herself to the parlour in a Christian frame of spirit, perfectly beautiful
to behold.
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,134
'Well, Fanny,' said the miller's daughter, 'you see I have come to see you, although we
HAD some words last night.'
'I pity your bad passions, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'but I bear no malice. I am above
it.'
'Don't be cross, Fanny,' said Miss Price. 'I have come to tell you something that I know
will please you.'
'What may that be, 'Tilda?' demanded Miss Squeers; screwing up her lips, and looking
as if nothing in earth, air, fire, or water, could afford her the slightest gleam of satisfaction.
'This,' rejoined Miss Price. 'After we left here last night John and I had a dreadful
quarrel.'
'That doesn't please me,' said Miss Squeers – relaxing into a smile though.
'Lor! I wouldn't think so bad of you as to suppose it did,' rejoined her companion. 'That's
not it.'
'Oh!' said Miss Squeers, relapsing into melancholy. 'Go on.'
'After a great deal of wrangling, and saying we would never see each other any more,'
continued Miss Price, 'we made it up, and this morning John went and wrote our names
down to be put up, for the first time, next Sunday, so we shall be married in three weeks, and
I give you notice to get your frock made.'
There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. The prospect of the friend's being
married so soon was the gall, and the certainty of her not entertaining serious designs upon
Nicholas was the honey. Upon the whole, the sweet greatly preponderated over the bitter, so
Miss Squeers said she would get the frock made, and that she hoped 'Tilda might be happy,
though at the same time she didn't know, and would not have her build too much upon it, for
men were strange creatures, and a great many married women were very miserable, and
wished themselves single again with all their hearts; to which condolences Miss Squeers
added others equally calculated to raise her friend's spirits and promote her cheerfulness of
mind.
'But come now, Fanny,' said Miss Price, 'I want to have a word or two with you about
young Mr Nickleby.'
'He is nothing to me,' interrupted Miss Squeers, with hysterical symptoms. 'I despise
him too much!'
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,135
'Oh, you don't mean that, I am sure?' replied her friend. 'Confess, Fanny; don't you like
him now?'
Without returning any direct reply, Miss Squeers, all at once, fell into a paroxysm of
spiteful tears, and exclaimed that she was a wretched, neglected, miserable castaway.
'I hate everybody,' said Miss Squeers, 'and I wish that everybody was dead – that I do.'
'Dear, dear,' said Miss Price, quite moved by this avowal of misanthropical sentiments.
'You are not serious, I am sure.'
'Yes, I am,' rejoined Miss Squeers, tying tight knots in her pocket− handkerchief and
clenching her teeth. 'And I wish I was dead too. There!'
'Oh! you'll think very differently in another five minutes,' said Matilda. 'How much
better to take him into favour again, than to hurt yourself by going on in that way. Wouldn't
it be much nicer, now, to have him all to yourself on good terms, in a company− keeping,
love−making, pleasant sort of manner?'
'I don't know but what it would,' sobbed Miss Squeers. 'Oh! 'Tilda, how could you have
acted so mean and dishonourable! I wouldn't have believed it of you, if anybody had told
me.'
'Heyday!' exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. 'One would suppose I had been murdering
somebody at least.'
'Very nigh as bad,' said Miss Squeers passionately.
'And all this because I happen to have enough of good looks to make people civil to me,'
cried Miss Price. 'Persons don't make their own faces, and it's no more my fault if mine is a
good one than it is other people's fault if theirs is a bad one.'
'Hold your tongue,' shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrillest tone; 'or you'll make me slap
you, 'Tilda, and afterwards I should be sorry for it!'
It is needless to say, that, by this time, the temper of each young lady was in some slight
degree affected by the tone of her conversation, and that a dash of personality was infused
into the altercation, in consequence. Indeed, the quarrel, from slight beginnings, rose to a
considerable height, and was assuming a very violent complexion, when both parties, falling
into a great passion of tears, exclaimed simultaneously, that they had never thought of being
spoken to in that way: which exclamation, leading to a remonstrance, gradually brought on
an explanation: and the upshot was, that they fell into each other's arms and vowed eternal
friendship; the occasion in question making the fifty−second time of repeating the same
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,136
impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth.
Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally ensued upon the number
and nature of the garments which would be indispensable for Miss Price's entrance into the
holy state of matrimony, when Miss Squeers clearly showed that a great many more than the
miller could, or would, afford, were absolutely necessary, and could not decently be
dispensed with. The young lady then, by an easy digression, led the discourse to her own
wardrobe, and after recounting its principal beauties at some length, took her friend upstairs
to make inspection thereof. The treasures of two drawers and a closet having been displayed,
and all the smaller articles tried on, it was time for Miss Price to return home; and as she had
been in raptures with all the frocks, and had been stricken quite dumb with admiration of a
new pink scarf, Miss Squeers said in high good humour, that she would walk part of the way
with her, for the pleasure of her company; and off they went together: Miss Squeers dilating,
as they walked along, upon her father's accomplishments: and multiplying his income by
ten, to give her friend some faint notion of the vast importance and superiority of her family.
It happened that that particular time, comprising the short daily interval which was
suffered to elapse between what was pleasantly called the dinner of Mr Squeers's pupils, and
their return to the pursuit of useful knowledge, was precisely the hour when Nicholas was
accustomed to issue forth for a melancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered listlessly
through the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this perfectly well, but had
perhaps forgotten it, for when she caught sight of that young gentleman advancing towards
them, she evinced many symptoms of surprise and consternation, and assured her friend that
she 'felt fit to drop into the earth.'
'Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage?' asked Miss Price. 'He don't see us yet.'
'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, 'it is my duty to go through with it, and I will!'
As Miss Squeers said this, in the tone of one who has made a high moral resolution, and
was, besides, taken with one or two chokes and catchings of breath, indicative of feelings at
a high pressure, her friend made no further remark, and they bore straight down upon
Nicholas, who, walking with his eyes bent upon the ground, was not aware of their approach
until they were close upon him; otherwise, he might, perhaps, have taken shelter himself.
'Good−morning,' said Nicholas, bowing and passing by.
'He is going,' murmured Miss Squeers. 'I shall choke, 'Tilda.'
'Come back, Mr Nickleby, do!' cried Miss Price, affecting alarm at her friend's threat,
but really actuated by a malicious wish to hear what Nicholas would say; 'come back, Mr
Nickleby!'
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,137
Mr Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might be, as he inquired whether the
ladies had any commands for him.
'Don't stop to talk,' urged Miss Price, hastily; 'but support her on the other side. How do
you feel now, dear?'
'Better,' sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of a reddish brown with a green
veil attached, on Mr Nickleby's shoulder. 'This foolish faintness!'
'Don't call it foolish, dear,' said Miss Price: her bright eye dancing with merriment as
she saw the perplexity of Nicholas; 'you have no reason to be ashamed of it. It's those who
are too proud to come round again, without all this to−do, that ought to be ashamed.'
'You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,' said Nicholas, smiling, 'although I told you,
last night, it was not my fault.'
'There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,' remarked the wicked Miss Price. 'Perhaps
you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it was not his fault. You hear; I think
that's apology enough.'
'You will not understand me,' said Nicholas. 'Pray dispense with this jesting, for I have
no time, and really no inclination, to be the subject or promoter of mirth just now.'
'What do you mean?' asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.
'Don't ask him, 'Tilda,' cried Miss Squeers; 'I forgive him.'
'Dear me,' said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder again, 'this is
more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have the goodness to hear me speak?'
Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned astonishment a
look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach
of the fair burden, and went on to say:
'I am very sorry – truly and sincerely sorry – for having been the cause of any difference
among you, last night. I reproach myself, most bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to
cause the dissension that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and
heedlessly.'
'Well; that's not all you have got to say surely,' exclaimed Miss Price as Nicholas
paused.
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,138
'I fear there is something more,' stammered Nicholas with a half− smile, and looking
towards Miss Squeers, 'it is a most awkward thing to say – but – the very mention of such a
supposition makes one look like a puppy – still – may I ask if that lady supposes that I
entertain any – in short, does she think that I am in love with her?'
'Delightful embarrassment,' thought Miss Squeers, 'I have brought him to it, at last.
Answer for me, dear,' she whispered to her friend.
'Does she think so?' rejoined Miss Price; 'of course she does.'
'She does!' exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as might have been, for
the moment, mistaken for rapture.
'Certainly,' replied Miss Price
'If Mr Nickleby has doubted that, 'Tilda,' said the blushing Miss Squeers in soft accents,
'he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments are recipro – '
'Stop,' cried Nicholas hurriedly; 'pray hear me. This is the grossest and wildest delusion,
the completest and most signal mistake, that ever human being laboured under, or
committed. I have scarcely seen the young lady half−a−dozen times, but if I had seen her
sixty times, or am destined to see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely the
same. I have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her, unless it be – and I say this,
not to hurt her feelings, but to impress her with the real state of my own – unless it be the
one object, dear to my heart as life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon this
accursed place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it – even think of it – but with
loathing and disgust.'
With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which he made with all the
vehemence that his indignant and excited feelings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas
waiting to hear no more, retreated.
But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid succession of bitter and
passionate feelings that whirled through her mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused
by a teacher, picked up by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at
indefinite periods, and 'found' in food and lodging like the very boys themselves; and this
too in the presence of a little chit of a miller's daughter of eighteen, who was going to be
married, in three weeks' time, to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her.
She could have choked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.
But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and that was, that she
hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness of mind and littleness of purpose
worthy a descendant of the house of Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and that was,
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,139
that every hour in every day she could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction of
some slight, or insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some effect on the most
insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so sensitive as Nicholas. With these two
reflections uppermost in her mind, Miss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend,
by observing that Mr Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper, that
she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from her.
And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her affections (or
whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything better, represented them) on Nicholas
Nickleby, had never once seriously contemplated the possibility of his being of a different
opinion from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and
beautiful, and that her father was master, and Nicholas man, and that her father had saved
money, and Nicholas had none, all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the
young man should feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed to
recollect, either, how much more agreeable she could render his situation if she were his
friend, and how much more disagreeable if she were his enemy; and, doubtless, many less
scrupulous young gentlemen than Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it
been only for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he had thought proper to
do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.
'Let him see,' said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her own room, and
eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, 'if I don't set mother against him a little
more when she comes back!'
It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as her word; and
poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging, and the being compelled to witness
one dull unvarying round of squalid misery, was treated with every special indignity that
malice could suggest, or the most grasping cupidity put upon him.
Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which made his
heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and cruelty.
The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in the
schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an ever−restless desire to serve or help him;
anticipating such little wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near
him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face; and a word would
brighten up his care−worn visage, and call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He
was an altered being; he had an object now; and that object was, to show his attachment to
the only person – that person a stranger – who had treated him, not to say with kindness, but
like a human creature.
Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill−humour that could not be vented on
Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been nothing – Smike was well
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,140
used to that. Buffetings inflicted without cause, would have been equally a matter of course;
for to them also he had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner
observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and blows, stripes and blows,
morning, noon, and night, were his only portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which
his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas
saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as he paced up and
down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost bursting to think that his protection
and countenance should have increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar
destitution had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the
object of his thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of recent tears still
upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some task which a child of nine years old,
possessed of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled
brain of the crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat,
patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for he was the
common jest and scoff even of the uncouth objects that congregated about him, but inspired
by the one eager desire to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
'I can't do it,' said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter disappointment in every
feature. 'No, no.'
'Do not try,' replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked vacantly round, and
laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
'Do not for God's sake,' said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; 'I cannot bear to see you.'
'They are more hard with me than ever,' sobbed the boy.
'I know it,' rejoined Nicholas. 'They are.'
'But for you,' said the outcast, 'I should die. They would kill me; they would; I know
they would.'
'You will do better, poor fellow,' replied Nicholas, shaking his head mournfully, 'when I
am gone.'
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,141
'Gone!' cried the other, looking intently in his face.
'Softly!' rejoined Nicholas. 'Yes.'
'Are you going?' demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
'I cannot say,' replied Nicholas. 'I was speaking more to my own thoughts, than to you.'
'Tell me,' said the boy imploringly, 'oh do tell me, WILL you go – WILL you?'
'I shall be driven to that at last!' said Nicholas. 'The world is before me, after all.'
'Tell me,' urged Smike, 'is the world as bad and dismal as this place?'
'Heaven forbid,' replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own thoughts; 'its hardest,
coarsest toil, were happiness to this.'
'Should I ever meet you there?' demanded the boy, speaking with unusual wildness and
volubility.
'Yes,' replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.
'No, no!' said the other, clasping him by the hand. 'Should I – should I – tell me that
again. Say I should be sure to find you.'
'You would,' replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, 'and I would help and
aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done here.'
The boy caught both the young man's hands passionately in his, and, hugging them to
his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the
moment, and he shrunk back into his old corner.
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CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,142
CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall
by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,
w
hich leads to Consequences of some Importance
The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the windows of the
common sleeping−room, when Nicholas, raising himself on his arm, looked among the
prostrate forms which on every side surrounded him, as though in search of some particular
object.
It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of sleepers, the form of
any given individual. As they lay closely packed together, covered, for warmth's sake, with
their patched and ragged clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale
faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour; with, here and there, a
gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all
its shrunken ugliness. There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and
clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect of dead bodies than of
living creatures; and there were others coiled up into strange and fantastic postures, such as
might have been taken for the uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather
than the freaks of slumber. A few – and these were among the youngest of the children –
slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming perhaps of home; but ever and
again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the stillness of the room, announced that some new
sleeper had awakened to the misery of another day; and, as morning took the place of night,
the smiles gradually faded away, with the friendly darkness which had given them birth.
Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in the night
season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality
on their daily pilgrimage through the world.
Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who gazes upon a scene
which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its sorrowful effect in consequence; and,
afterwards, with a more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed
something his eye was accustomed to meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still
occupied in this search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his quest, when
the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
'Now then,' cried that gentleman, 'are you going to sleep all day, up there – '
'You lazy hounds?' added Mrs Squeers, finishing the sentence, and producing, at the
same time, a sharp sound, like that which is occasioned by the lacing of stays.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,143
'We shall be down directly, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'Down directly!' said Squeers. 'Ah! you had better be down directly, or I'll be down
upon some of you in less. Where's that Smike?'
Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.
'Smike!' shouted Squeers.
'Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike?' demanded his amiable lady in
the same key.
Still there was no reply, and still Nicholas stared about him, as did the greater part of
the boys, who were by this time roused.
'Confound his impudence!' muttered Squeers, rapping the stair−rail impatiently with his
cane. 'Nickleby!'
'Well, sir.'
'Send that obstinate scoundrel down; don't you hear me calling?'
'He is not here, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'Don't tell me a lie,' retorted the schoolmaster. 'He is.'
'He is not,' retorted Nicholas angrily, 'don't tell me one.'
'We shall soon see that,' said Mr Squeers, rushing upstairs. 'I'll find him, I warrant you.'
With which assurance, Mr Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and, swinging his cane
in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner where the lean body of the drudge was
usually stretched at night. The cane descended harmlessly upon the ground. There was
nobody there.
'What does this mean?' said Squeers, turning round with a very pale face. 'Where have
you hid him?'
'I have seen nothing of him since last night,' replied Nicholas.
'Come,' said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he endeavoured to look otherwise,
'you won't save him this way. Where is he?'
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,144
'At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,' rejoined Nicholas in a low voice,
and fixing his eyes full on the master's face.
'Damn you, what do you mean by that?' retorted Squeers in great perturbation. Without
waiting for a reply, he inquired of the boys whether any one among them knew anything of
their missing schoolmate.
There was a general hum of anxious denial, in the midst of which, one shrill voice was
heard to say (as, indeed, everybody thought):
'Please, sir, I think Smike's run away, sir.'
'Ha!' cried Squeers, turning sharp round. 'Who said that?'
'Tomkins, please sir,' rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr Squeers made a plunge into the
crowd, and at one dive, caught a very little boy, habited still in his night−gear, and the
perplexed expression of whose countenance, as he was brought forward, seemed to intimate
that he was as yet uncertain whether he was about to be punished or rewarded for the
suggestion. He was not long in doubt.
'You think he has run away, do you, sir?' demanded Squeers.
'Yes, please sir,' replied the little boy.
'And what, sir,' said Squeers, catching the little boy suddenly by the arms and whisking
up his drapery in a most dexterous manner, 'what reason have you to suppose that any boy
would want to run away from this establishment? Eh, sir?'
The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr Squeers, throwing himself into
the most favourable attitude for exercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in his
writhings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifully allowed him to roll away, as
he best could.
'There,' said Squeers. 'Now if any other boy thinks Smike has run away, I shall be glad
to have a talk with him.'
There was, of course, a profound silence, during which Nicholas showed his disgust as
plainly as looks could show it.
'Well, Nickleby,' said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. 'YOU think he has run away, I
suppose?'
'I think it extremely likely,' replied Nicholas, in a quiet manner.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,145
'Oh, you do, do you?' sneered Squeers. 'Maybe you know he has?'
'I know nothing of the kind.'
'He didn't tell you he was going, I suppose, did he?' sneered Squeers.
'He did not,' replied Nicholas; 'I am very glad he did not, for it would then have been
my duty to have warned you in time.'
'Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to do,' said Squeers in a taunting
fashion.
'I should indeed,' replied Nicholas. 'You interpret my feelings with great accuracy.'
Mrs Squeers had listened to this conversation, from the bottom of the stairs; but, now
losing all patience, she hastily assumed her night−jacket, and made her way to the scene of
action.
'What's all this here to−do?' said the lady, as the boys fell off right and left, to save her
the trouble of clearing a passage with her brawny arms. 'What on earth are you a talking to
him for, Squeery!'
'Why, my dear,' said Squeers, 'the fact is, that Smike is not to be found.'
'Well, I know that,' said the lady, 'and where's the wonder? If you get a parcel of
proud−stomached teachers that set the young dogs a rebelling, what else can you look for?
Now, young man, you just have the kindness to take yourself off to the schoolroom, and take
the boys off with you, and don't you stir out of there till you have leave given you, or you
and I may fall out in a way that'll spoil your beauty, handsome as you think yourself, and so
I tell you.'
'Indeed!' said Nicholas.
'Yes; and indeed and indeed again, Mister Jackanapes,' said the excited lady; 'and I
wouldn't keep such as you in the house another hour, if I had my way.'
'Nor would you if I had mine,' replied Nicholas. 'Now, boys!'
'Ah! Now, boys,' said Mrs Squeers, mimicking, as nearly as she could, the voice and
manner of the usher. 'Follow your leader, boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare. See
what he'll get for himself, when he is brought back; and, mind! I tell you that you shall have
as bad, and twice as bad, if you so much as open your mouths about him.'
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,146
'If I catch him,' said Squeers, 'I'll only stop short of flaying him alive. I give you notice,
boys.'
'IF you catch him,' retorted Mrs Squeers, contemptuously; 'you are sure to; you can't
help it, if you go the right way to work. Come! Away with you!'
With these words, Mrs Squeers dismissed the boys, and after a little light skirmishing
with those in the rear who were pressing forward to get out of the way, but were detained for
a few moments by the throng in front, succeeded in clearing the room, when she confronted
her spouse alone.
'He is off,' said Mrs Squeers. 'The cow−house and stable are locked up, so he can't be
there; and he's not downstairs anywhere, for the girl has looked. He must have gone York
way, and by a public road too.'
'Why must he?' inquired Squeers.
'Stupid!' said Mrs Squeers angrily. 'He hadn't any money, had he?'
'Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,' replied Squeers.
'To be sure,' rejoined Mrs Squeers, 'and he didn't take anything to eat with him; that I'll
answer for. Ha! ha! ha!'
'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Squeers.
'Then, of course,' said Mrs S., 'he must beg his way, and he could do that, nowhere, but
on the public road.'
'That's true,' exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
'True! Yes; but you would never have thought of it, for all that, if I hadn't said so,'
replied his wife. 'Now, if you take the chaise and go one road, and I borrow Swallow's
chaise, and go the other, what with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or
other of us is pretty certain to lay hold of him.'
The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a moment's delay.
After a very hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result
of which seemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony−
chaise, intent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Squeers, arrayed in
the white top−coat, and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, issued forth in another
chaise and another direction, taking with her a good−sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of
strong cord, and a stout labouring man: all provided and carried upon the expedition, with
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,147
the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the safe custody of the
unfortunate Smike.
Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever might be the
upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and deplorable consequences were likely to
ensue from it. Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be
expected from the protracted wandering of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and
unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to
choose between this fate and a return to the tender mercies of the Yorkshire school; but the
unhappy being had established a hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his
heart ache at the prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on, in
restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening of next day, when
Squeers returned, alone, and unsuccessful.
'No news of the scamp!' said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been stretching his
legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the journey. 'I'll have consolation for this
out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs Squeers don't hunt him down; so I give you warning.'
'It is not in my power to console you, sir,' said Nicholas. 'It is nothing to me.'
'Isn't it?' said Squeers in a threatening manner. 'We shall see!'
'We shall,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home with a hack cob,
that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,' said Squeers; 'who's to pay for that, do
you hear?'
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
'I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you,' said Squeers, his usual harsh crafty manner
changed to open bullying 'None of your whining vapourings here, Mr Puppy, but be off to
your kennel, for it's past your bedtime! Come! Get out!'
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his fingerends tingled to avenge
the insult; but remembering that the man was drunk, and that it could come to little but a
noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant, and
walked, as majestically as he could, upstairs: not a little nettled, however, to observe that
Miss Squeers and Master Squeers, and the servant girl, were enjoying the scene from a snug
corner; the two former indulging in many edifying remarks about the presumption of poor
upstarts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even the most miserable of all
miserable servant girls joined: while Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his head such
bedclothes as he had, and sternly resolved that the outstanding account between himself and
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,148
Mr Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the wheels of a
chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs Squeers was heard, and in
exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that
something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window;
but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was the wretched Smike: so
bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but for his garments
being such as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then,
of his identity.
'Lift him out,' said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes, in silence, upon the
culprit. 'Bring him in; bring him in!'
'Take care,' cried Mrs Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance. 'We tied his legs
under the apron and made'em fast to the chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.'
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and Smike, to all
appearance more dead than alive, was brought into the house and securely locked up in a
cellar, until such time as Mr Squeers should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in
presence of the assembled school.
Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may be matter of surprise to some
persons, that Mr and Mrs Squeers should have taken so much trouble to repossess
themselves of an incumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; but their
surprise will cease when they are informed that the manifold services of the drudge, if
performed by anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings
per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, that all runaways were, as a matter of
policy, made severe examples of, at Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in consequence of the
limited extent of its attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful
impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs and the power of
using them, to remain.
The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran like wild−fire
through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it
was destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself
with his dinner, and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of portentous import,
and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax−ended, and new, – in short,
purchased that morning, expressly for the occasion.
'Is every boy here?' asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,149
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers glared along the
lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so.
'Each boy keep his place,' said Squeers, administering his favourite blow to the desk,
and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start which it never failed to occasion.
'Nickleby! to your desk, sir.'
It was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very curious and
unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat, without opening his lips in reply.
Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive
despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the
collar – or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar
would have been, had he boasted such a decoration.
In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless object would have
occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It had some effect, even there; for
the lookers−on moved uneasily in their seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal
looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the luckless Smike, as
he inquired, according to custom in such cases, whether he had anything to say for himself.
'Nothing, I suppose?' said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas, as if he had
expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his desk.
'Have you anything to say?' demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm two or three
flourishes to try its power and suppleness. 'Stand a little out of the way, Mrs Squeers, my
dear; I've hardly got room enough.'
'Spare me, sir!' cried Smike.
'Oh! that's all, is it?' said Squeers. 'Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and
spare you that.'
'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed Mrs Squeers, 'that's a good 'un!'
'I was driven to do it,' said Smike faintly; and casting another imploring look about him.
'Driven to do it, were you?' said Squeers. 'Oh! it wasn't your fault; it was mine, I
suppose – eh?'
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,150
'A nasty, ungrateful, pig−headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,' exclaimed Mrs
Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet; 'what
does he mean by that?'
'Stand aside, my dear,' replied Squeers. 'We'll try and find out.'
Mrs Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy
firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body – he was wincing from the lash
and uttering a scream of pain – it was raised again, and again about to fall – when Nicholas
Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried 'Stop!' in a voice that made the rafters ring.
'Who cried stop?' said Squeers, turning savagely round.
'I,' said Nicholas, stepping forward. 'This must not go on.'
'Must not go on!' cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
'No!' thundered Nicholas.
Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of
Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively
frightful.
'I say must not,' repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; 'shall not. I will prevent it.'
Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but
astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech.
'You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's behalf,' said
Nicholas; 'you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him,
and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this
public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.'
'Sit down, beggar!' screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing
Smike as he spoke.
'Wretch,' rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, 'touch him at your peril! I will not stand by, and
see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to
yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you, if you drive me on!'
'Stand back,' cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,151
'I have a long series of insults to avenge,' said Nicholas, flushed with passion; 'and my
indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul
den. Have a care; for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily
upon your own head!'
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry
like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his
instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with
the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn,
and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning
him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.
The boys – with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his father's
assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear – moved not, hand or foot; but Mrs Squeers, with
many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat, and endeavoured to drag him
from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the
keyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of the
attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her
heart's content; animating herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused
her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after
her mother in this respect) was, at no time, one of the weakest.
Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more than if they had been
dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm
grew weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half−a−dozen finishing cuts, and
flung Squeers from him with all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall
precipitated Mrs Squeers completely over an adjacent form; and Squeers striking his head
against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to his thorough
satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had had
some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore him, and retired to
consider what course he had better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left
the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.
After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small leathern valise, and,
finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front−door,
and shortly afterwards, struck into the road which led to Greta Bridge.
When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his present circumstances some
little reflection, they did not appear in a very encouraging light; he had only four shillings
and a few pence in his pocket, and was something more than two hundred and fifty miles
from London, whither he resolved to direct his steps, that he might ascertain, among other
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,152
things, what account of the morning's proceedings Mr Squeers transmitted to his most
affectionate uncle.
Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that there was no remedy for this
unfortunate state of things, he beheld a horseman coming towards him, whom, on nearer
approach, he discovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no other than Mr John Browdie, who,
clad in cords and leather leggings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash
stick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout sapling.
'I am in no mood for more noise and riot,' thought Nicholas, 'and yet, do what I will, I
shall have an altercation with this honest blockhead, and perhaps a blow or two from yonder
staff.'
In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such a result would follow from the
encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas advancing, than he reined in his horse
by the footpath, and waited until such time as he should come up; looking meanwhile, very
sternly between the horse's ears, at Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure.
'Servant, young genelman,' said John.
'Yours,' said Nicholas.
'Weel; we ha' met at last,' observed John, making the stirrup ring under a smart touch of
the ash stick.
'Yes,' replied Nicholas, hesitating. 'Come!' he said, frankly, after a moment's pause, 'we
parted on no very good terms the last time we met; it was my fault, I believe; but I had no
intention of offending you, and no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it,
afterwards. Will you shake hands?'
'Shake honds!' cried the good−humoured Yorkshireman; 'ah! that I weel;' at the same
time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas's fist a huge wrench: 'but wa'at be the
matther wi' thy feace, mun? it be all brokken loike.'
'It is a cut,' said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke, – 'a blow; but I returned it to the
giver, and with good interest too.'
'Noa, did 'ee though?' exclaimed John Browdie. 'Well deane! I loike 'un for thot.'
'The fact is,' said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to make the avowal, 'the fact is,
that I have been ill−treated.'
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,153
'Noa!' interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compassion; for he was a giant in strength
and stature, and Nicholas, very likely, in his eyes, seemed a mere dwarf; 'dean't say thot.'
'Yes, I have,' replied Nicholas, 'by that man Squeers, and I have beaten him soundly,
and am leaving this place in consequence.'
'What!' cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout, that the horse quite shied at it.
'Beatten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten the schoolmeasther! who ever heard o' the
loike o' that noo! Giv' us thee hond agean, yoongster. Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I
loov' thee for't.'
With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed and laughed again – so loud
that the echoes, far and wide, sent back nothing but jovial peals of merriment – and shook
Nicholas by the hand meanwhile, no less heartily. When his mirth had subsided, he inquired
what Nicholas meant to do; on his informing him, to go straight to London, he shook his
head doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches charged to carry passengers
so far.
'No, I do not,' said Nicholas; 'but it is of no great consequence to me, for I intend
walking.'
'Gang awa' to Lunnun afoot!' cried John, in amazement.
'Every step of the way,' replied Nicholas. 'I should be many steps further on by this
time, and so goodbye!'
'Nay noo,' replied the honest countryman, reining in his impatient horse, 'stan' still,
tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee gotten?'
'Not much,' said Nicholas, colouring, 'but I can make it enough. Where there's a will,
there's a way, you know.'
John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but putting his hand in his pocket,
pulled out an old purse of solid leather, and insisted that Nicholas should borrow from him
whatever he required for his present necessities.
'Dean't be afeard, mun,' he said; 'tak' eneaf to carry thee whoam. Thee'lt pay me yan
day, a' warrant.'
Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow more than a sovereign, with
which loan Mr Browdie, after many entreaties that he would accept of more (observing, with
a touch of Yorkshire caution, that if he didn't spend it all, he could put the surplus by, till he
had an opportunity of remitting it carriage free), was fain to content himself.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,154
'Tak' that bit o' timber to help thee on wi', mun,' he added, pressing his stick on
Nicholas, and giving his hand another squeeze; 'keep a good heart, and bless thee. Beatten
the schoolmeasther! 'Cod it's the best thing a've heerd this twonty year!'
So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might have been expected from him,
in another series of loud laughs, for the purpose of avoiding the thanks which Nicholas
poured forth, John Browdie set spurs to his horse, and went off at a smart canter: looking
back, from time to time, as Nicholas stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily,
as if to encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and rider until they
disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and then set forward on his journey.
He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was nearly dark, and there had
been a heavy fall of snow, which not only rendered the way toilsome, but the track uncertain
and difficult to find, after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. He lay, that night, at a
cottage, where beds were let at a cheap rate to the more humble class of travellers; and,
rising betimes next morning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge. Passing through
that town in search of some cheap resting−place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a
couple of hundred yards of the roadside; in a warm corner of which, he stretched his weary
limbs, and soon fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his dreams, which had been all
connected with his recent sojourn at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes and stared –
not with the most composed countenance possible – at some motionless object which
seemed to be stationed within a few yards in front of him.
'Strange!' cried Nicholas; 'can this be some lingering creation of the visions that have
scarcely left me! It cannot be real – and yet I – I am awake! Smike!'
The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its knees at his feet. It was Smike
indeed.
'Why do you kneel to me?' said Nicholas, hastily raising him.
'To go with you – anywhere – everywhere – to the world's end – to the churchyard
grave,' replied Smike, clinging to his hand. 'Let me, oh do let me. You are my home – my
kind friend – take me with you, pray.'
'I am a friend who can do little for you,' said Nicholas, kindly. 'How came you here?'
He had followed him, it seemed; had never lost sight of him all the way; had watched
while he slept, and when he halted for refreshment; and had feared to appear before, lest he
should be sent back. He had not intended to appear now, but Nicholas had awakened more
suddenly than he looked for, and he had had no time to conceal himself.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,155
'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, 'your hard fate denies you any friend but one, and he is
nearly as poor and helpless as yourself.'
'May I – may I go with you?' asked Smike, timidly. 'I will be your faithful
hard−working servant, I will, indeed. I want no clothes,' added the poor creature, drawing
his rags together; 'these will do very well. I only want to be near you.'
'And you shall,' cried Nicholas. 'And the world shall deal by you as it does by me, till
one or both of us shall quit it for a better. Come!'
With these words, he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and, taking his stick in one
hand, extended the other to his delighted charge; and so they passed out of the old barn,
together.
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CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and remarkable proceeding,156
CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but
Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.
I
n that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated, there is a bygone, faded,
tumble−down street, with two irregular rows of tall meagre houses, which seem to have
stared each other out of countenance years ago. The very chimneys appear to have grown
dismal and melancholy, from having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over
the way. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with smoke; and, here and there,
some taller stack than the rest, inclining heavily to one side, and toppling over the roof,
seems to mediate taking revenge for half a century's neglect, by crushing the inhabitants of
the garrets beneath.
The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies hither and thither with a gait
which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt, and which any country cock or hen would
be puzzled to understand, are perfectly in keeping with the crazy habitations of their owners.
Dingy, ill−plumed, drowsy flutterers, sent, like many of the neighbouring children, to get a
livelihood in the streets, they hop, from stone to stone, in forlorn search of some hidden
eatable in the mud, and can scarcely raise a crow among them. The only one with anything
approaching to a voice, is an aged bantam at the baker's; and even he is hoarse, in
consequence of bad living in his last place.
To judge from the size of the houses, they have been, at one time, tenanted by persons
of better condition than their present occupants; but they are now let off, by the week, in
floors or rooms, and every door has almost as many plates or bell−handles as there are
apartments within. The windows are, for the same reason, sufficiently diversified in
appearance, being ornamented with every variety of common blind and curtain that can
easily be imagined; while every doorway is blocked up, and rendered nearly impassable, by
a motley collection of children and porter pots of all sizes, from the baby in arms and the
half−pint pot, to the full−grown girl and half−gallon can.
In the parlour of one of these houses, which was perhaps a thought dirtier than any of its
neighbours; which exhibited more bell− handles, children, and porter pots, and caught in all
its freshness the first gust of the thick black smoke that poured forth, night and day, from a
large brewery hard by; hung a bill, announcing that there was yet one room to let within its
walls, though on what story the vacant room could be – regard being had to the outward
tokens of many lodgers which the whole front displayed, from the mangle in the kitchen
window to the flower−pots on the parapet – it would have been beyond the power of a
calculating boy to discover.
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The common stairs of this mansion were bare and carpetless; but a curious visitor who
had to climb his way to the top, might have observed that there were not wanting indications
of the progressive poverty of the inmates, although their rooms were shut. Thus, the
first−floor lodgers, being flush of furniture, kept an old mahogany table – real mahogany –
on the landing−place outside, which was only taken in, when occasion required. On the
second story, the spare furniture dwindled down to a couple of old deal chairs, of which one,
belonging to the back−room, was shorn of a leg, and bottomless. The story above, boasted
no greater excess than a worm−eaten wash− tub; and the garret landing−place displayed no
costlier articles than two crippled pitchers, and some broken blacking−bottles.
It was on this garret landing−place that a hard−featured square− faced man, elderly and
shabby, stopped to unlock the door of the front attic, into which, having surmounted the task
of turning the rusty key in its still more rusty wards, he walked with the air of legal owner.
This person wore a wig of short, coarse, red hair, which he took off with his hat, and
hung upon a nail. Having adopted in its place a dirty cotton nightcap, and groped about in
the dark till he found a remnant of candle, he knocked at the partition which divided the two
garrets, and inquired, in a loud voice, whether Mr Noggs had a light.
The sounds that came back were stifled by the lath and plaster, and it seemed moreover
as though the speaker had uttered them from the interior of a mug or other drinking vessel;
but they were in the voice of Newman, and conveyed a reply in the affirmative.
'A nasty night, Mr Noggs!' said the man in the nightcap, stepping in to light his candle.
'Does it rain?' asked Newman.
'Does it?' replied the other pettishly. 'I am wet through.'
'It doesn't take much to wet you and me through, Mr Crowl,' said Newman, laying his
hand upon the lappel of his threadbare coat.
'Well; and that makes it the more vexatious,' observed Mr Crowl, in the same pettish
tone.
Uttering a low querulous growl, the speaker, whose harsh countenance was the very
epitome of selfishness, raked the scanty fire nearly out of the grate, and, emptying the glass
which Noggs had pushed towards him, inquired where he kept his coals.
Newman Noggs pointed to the bottom of a cupboard, and Mr Crowl, seizing the shovel,
threw on half the stock: which Noggs very deliberately took off again, without saying a
word.
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'You have not turned saving, at this time of day, I hope?' said Crowl.
Newman pointed to the empty glass, as though it were a sufficient refutation of the
charge, and briefly said that he was going downstairs to supper.
'To the Kenwigses?' asked Crowl.
Newman nodded assent.
'Think of that now!' said Crowl. 'If I didn't – thinking that you were certain not to go,
because you said you wouldn't – tell Kenwigs I couldn't come, and make up my mind to
spend the evening with you!'
'I was obliged to go,' said Newman. 'They would have me.'
'Well; but what's to become of me?' urged the selfish man, who never thought of
anybody else. 'It's all your fault. I'll tell you what – I'll sit by your fire till you come back
again.'
Newman cast a despairing glance at his small store of fuel, but, not having the courage
to say no – a word which in all his life he never had said at the right time, either to himself
or anyone else – gave way to the proposed arrangement. Mr Crowl immediately went about
making himself as comfortable, with Newman Nogg's means, as circumstances would admit
of his being made.
The lodgers to whom Crowl had made allusion under the designation of 'the
Kenwigses,' were the wife and olive branches of one Mr Kenwigs, a turner in ivory, who
was looked upon as a person of some consideration on the premises, inasmuch as he
occupied the whole of the first floor, comprising a suite of two rooms. Mrs Kenwigs, too,
was quite a lady in her manners, and of a very genteel family, having an uncle who collected
a water−rate; besides which distinction, the two eldest of her little girls went twice a week to
a dancing school in the neighbourhood, and had flaxen hair, tied with blue ribbons, hanging
in luxuriant pigtails down their backs; and wore little white trousers with frills round the
ankles – for all of which reasons, and many more equally valid but too numerous to
mention, Mrs Kenwigs was considered a very desirable person to know, and was the
constant theme of all the gossips in the street, and even three or four doors round the corner
at both ends.
It was the anniversary of that happy day on which the Church of England as by law
established, had bestowed Mrs Kenwigs upon Mr Kenwigs; and in grateful commemoration
of the same, Mrs Kenwigs had invited a few select friends to cards and a supper in the first
floor, and had put on a new gown to receive them in: which gown, being of a flaming colour
and made upon a juvenile principle, was so successful that Mr Kenwigs said the eight years
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of matrimony and the five children seemed all a dream, and Mrs Kenwigs younger and more
blooming than on the very first Sunday he had kept company with her.
Beautiful as Mrs Kenwigs looked when she was dressed though, and so stately that you
would have supposed she had a cook and housemaid at least, and nothing to do but order
them about, she had a world of trouble with the preparations; more, indeed, than she, being
of a delicate and genteel constitution, could have sustained, had not the pride of housewifery
upheld her. At last, however, all the things that had to be got together were got together, and
all the things that had to be got out of the way were got out of the way, and everything was
ready, and the collector himself having promised to come, fortune smiled upon the occasion.
The party was admirably selected. There were, first of all, Mr Kenwigs and Mrs
Kenwigs, and four olive Kenwigses who sat up to supper; firstly, because it was but right
that they should have a treat on such a day; and secondly, because their going to bed, in
presence of the company, would have been inconvenient, not to say improper. Then, there
was a young lady who had made Mrs Kenwigs's dress, and who – it was the most convenient
thing in the world – living in the two−pair back, gave up her bed to the baby, and got a little
girl to watch it. Then, to match this young lady, was a young man, who had known Mr
Kenwigs when he was a bachelor, and was much esteemed by the ladies, as bearing the
reputation of a rake. To these were added a newly−married couple, who had visited Mr and
Mrs Kenwigs in their courtship; and a sister of Mrs Kenwigs's, who was quite a beauty;
besides whom, there was another young man, supposed to entertain honourable designs
upon the lady last mentioned; and Mr Noggs, who was a genteel person to ask, because he
had been a gentleman once. There were also an elderly lady from the back−parlour, and one
more young lady, who, next to the collector, perhaps was the great lion of the party, being
the daughter of a theatrical fireman, who 'went on' in the pantomime, and had the greatest
turn for the stage that was ever known, being able to sing and recite in a manner that brought
the tears into Mrs Kenwigs's eyes. There was only one drawback upon the pleasure of seeing
such friends, and that was, that the lady in the back−parlour, who was very fat, and turned of
sixty, came in a low book−muslin dress and short kid gloves, which so exasperated Mrs
Kenwigs, that that lady assured her visitors, in private, that if it hadn't happened that the
supper was cooking at the back−parlour grate at that moment, she certainly would have
requested its representative to withdraw.
'My dear,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'wouldn't it be better to begin a round game?'
'Kenwigs, my dear,' returned his wife, 'I am surprised at you. Would you begin without
my uncle?'
'I forgot the collector,' said Kenwigs; 'oh no, that would never do.'
'He's so particular,' said Mrs Kenwigs, turning to the other married lady, 'that if we
began without him, I should be out of his will for ever.'
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'Dear!' cried the married lady.
'You've no idea what he is,' replied Mrs Kenwigs; 'and yet as good a creature as ever
breathed.'
'The kindest−hearted man as ever was,' said Kenwigs.
'It goes to his heart, I believe, to be forced to cut the water off, when the people don't
pay,' observed the bachelor friend, intending a joke.
'George,' said Mr Kenwigs, solemnly, 'none of that, if you please.'
'It was only my joke,' said the friend, abashed.
'George,' rejoined Mr Kenwigs, 'a joke is a wery good thing – a wery good thing – but
when that joke is made at the expense of Mrs Kenwigs's feelings, I set my face against it. A
man in public life expects to be sneered at – it is the fault of his elewated sitiwation, and not
of himself. Mrs Kenwigs's relation is a public man, and that he knows, George, and that he
can bear; but putting Mrs Kenwigs out of the question (if I COULD put Mrs Kenwigs out of
the question on such an occasion as this), I have the honour to be connected with the
collector by marriage; and I cannot allow these remarks in my – ' Mr Kenwigs was going to
say 'house,' but he rounded the sentence with 'apartments'.
At the conclusion of these observations, which drew forth evidences of acute feeling
from Mrs Kenwigs, and had the intended effect of impressing the company with a deep
sense of the collector's dignity, a ring was heard at the bell.
'That's him,' whispered Mr Kenwigs, greatly excited. 'Morleena, my dear, run down and
let your uncle in, and kiss him directly you get the door open. Hem! Let's be talking.'
Adopting Mr Kenwigs's suggestion, the company spoke very loudly, to look easy and
unembarrassed; and almost as soon as they had begun to do so, a short old gentleman in
drabs and gaiters, with a face that might have been carved out of LIGNUM VITAE, for
anything that appeared to the contrary, was led playfully in by Miss Morleena Kenwigs,
regarding whose uncommon Christian name it may be here remarked that it had been
invented and composed by Mrs Kenwigs previous to her first lying−in, for the special
distinction of her eldest child, in case it should prove a daughter.
'Oh, uncle, I am SO glad to see you,' said Mrs Kenwigs, kissing the collector
affectionately on both cheeks. 'So glad!'
'Many happy returns of the day, my dear,' replied the collector, returning the
compliment.
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CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.161
Now, this was an interesting thing. Here was a collector of water− rates, without his
book, without his pen and ink, without his double knock, without his intimidation, kissing –
actually kissing – an agreeable female, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices that he had
called, or announcements that he would never call again, for two quarters' due, wholly out of
the question. It was pleasant to see how the company looked on, quite absorbed in the sight,
and to behold the nods and winks with which they expressed their gratification at finding so
much humanity in a tax−gatherer.
'Where will you sit, uncle?' said Mrs Kenwigs, in the full glow of family pride, which
the appearance of her distinguished relation occasioned.
'Anywheres, my dear,' said the collector, 'I am not particular.'
Not particular! What a meek collector! If he had been an author, who knew his place, he
couldn't have been more humble.
'Mr Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, addressing the collector, 'some friends here, sir, are very
anxious for the honour of – thank you – Mr and Mrs Cutler, Mr Lillyvick.'
'Proud to know you, sir,' said Mr Cutler; 'I've heerd of you very often.' These were not
mere words of ceremony; for, Mr Cutler, having kept house in Mr Lillyvick's parish, had
heard of him very often indeed. His attention in calling had been quite extraordinary.
'George, you know, I think, Mr Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs; 'lady from downstairs – Mr
Lillyvick. Mr Snewkes – Mr Lillyvick. Miss Green – Mr Lillyvick. Mr Lillyvick – Miss
Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Very glad to make two public characters
acquainted! Mrs Kenwigs, my dear, will you sort the counters?'
Mrs Kenwigs, with the assistance of Newman Noggs, (who, as he performed sundry
little acts of kindness for the children, at all times and seasons, was humoured in his request
to be taken no notice of, and was merely spoken about, in a whisper, as the decayed
gentleman), did as he was desired; and the greater part of the guests sat down to speculation,
while Newman himself, Mrs Kenwigs, and Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane,
looked after the supper−table.
While the ladies were thus busying themselves, Mr Lillyvick was intent upon the game
in progress, and as all should be fish that comes to a water−collector's net, the dear old
gentleman was by no means scrupulous in appropriating to himself the property of his
neighbours, which, on the contrary, he abstracted whenever an opportunity presented itself,
smiling good−humouredly all the while, and making so many condescending speeches to the
owners, that they were delighted with his amiability, and thought in their hearts that he
deserved to be Chancellor of the Exchequer at least.
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CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.162
After a great deal of trouble, and the administration of many slaps on the head to the
infant Kenwigses, whereof two of the most rebellious were summarily banished, the cloth
was laid with much elegance, and a pair of boiled fowls, a large piece of pork, apple− pie,
potatoes and greens, were served; at sight of which, the worthy Mr Lillyvick vented a great
many witticisms, and plucked up amazingly: to the immense delight and satisfaction of the
whole body of admirers.
Very well and very fast the supper went off; no more serious difficulties occurring, than
those which arose from the incessant demand for clean knives and forks; which made poor
Mrs Kenwigs wish, more than once, that private society adopted the principle of schools,
and required that every guest should bring his own knife, fork, and spoon; which doubtless
would be a great accommodation in many cases, and to no one more so than to the lady and
gentleman of the house, especially if the school principle were carried out to the full extent,
and the articles were expected, as a matter of delicacy, not to be taken away again.
Everybody having eaten everything, the table was cleared in a most alarming hurry, and
with great noise; and the spirits, whereat the eyes of Newman Noggs glistened, being
arranged in order, with water both hot and cold, the party composed themselves for
conviviality; Mr Lillyvick being stationed in a large armchair by the fireside, and the four
little Kenwigses disposed on a small form in front of the company with their flaxen tails
towards them, and their faces to the fire; an arrangement which was no sooner perfected,
than Mrs Kenwigs was overpowered by the feelings of a mother, and fell upon the left
shoulder of Mr Kenwigs dissolved in tears.
'They are so beautiful!' said Mrs Kenwigs, sobbing.
'Oh, dear,' said all the ladies, 'so they are! it's very natural you should feel proud of that;
but don't give way, don't.'
'I can – not help it, and it don't signify,' sobbed Mrs Kenwigs; 'oh! they're too beautiful
to live, much too beautiful!'
On hearing this alarming presentiment of their being doomed to an early death in the
flower of their infancy, all four little girls raised a hideous cry, and burying their heads in
their mother's lap simultaneously, screamed until the eight flaxen tails vibrated again; Mrs
Kenwigs meanwhile clasping them alternately to her bosom, with attitudes expressive of
distraction, which Miss Petowker herself might have copied.
At length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothed into a more tranquil state,
and the little Kenwigses, being also composed, were distributed among the company, to
prevent the possibility of Mrs Kenwigs being again overcome by the blaze of their combined
beauty. This done, the ladies and gentlemen united in prophesying that they would live for
many, many years, and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs Kenwigs to distress herself;
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CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.163
which, in good truth, there did not appear to be; the loveliness of the children by no means
justifying her apprehensions.
'This day eight year,' said Mr Kenwigs after a pause. 'Dear me – ah!'
This reflection was echoed by all present, who said 'Ah!' first, and 'dear me,' afterwards.
'I was younger then,' tittered Mrs Kenwigs.
'No,' said the collector.
'Certainly not,' added everybody.
'I remember my niece,' said Mr Lillyvick, surveying his audience with a grave air; 'I
remember her, on that very afternoon, when she first acknowledged to her mother a
partiality for Kenwigs. «Mother,» she says, «I love him.»'
'«Adore him,» I said, uncle,' interposed Mrs Kenwigs.
'«Love him,» I think, my dear,' said the collector, firmly.
'Perhaps you are right, uncle,' replied Mrs Kenwigs, submissively. 'I thought it was
«adore.»'
'«Love,» my dear,' retorted Mr Lillyvick. '«Mother,» she says, «I love him!» «What do I
hear?» cries her mother; and instantly falls into strong conwulsions.'
A general exclamation of astonishment burst from the company.
'Into strong conwulsions,' repeated Mr Lillyvick, regarding them with a rigid look.
'Kenwigs will excuse my saying, in the presence of friends, that there was a very great
objection to him, on the ground that he was beneath the family, and would disgrace it. You
remember, Kenwigs?'
'Certainly,' replied that gentleman, in no way displeased at the reminiscence, inasmuch
as it proved, beyond all doubt, what a high family Mrs Kenwigs came of.
'I shared in that feeling,' said Mr Lillyvick: 'perhaps it was natural; perhaps it wasn't.'
A gentle murmur seemed to say, that, in one of Mr Lillyvick's station, the objection was
not only natural, but highly praiseworthy.
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CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.164
'I came round to him in time,' said Mr Lillyvick. 'After they were married, and there was
no help for it, I was one of the first to say that Kenwigs must be taken notice of. The family
DID take notice of him, in consequence, and on my representation; and I am bound to say –
and proud to say – that I have always found him a very honest, well−behaved, upright,
respectable sort of man. Kenwigs, shake hands.'
'I am proud to do it, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs.
'So am I, Kenwigs,' rejoined Mr Lillyvick.
'A very happy life I have led with your niece, sir,' said Kenwigs.
'It would have been your own fault if you had not, sir,' remarked Mr Lillyvick.
'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, at this crisis, much affected, 'kiss your dear
uncle!'
The young lady did as she was requested, and the three other little girls were
successively hoisted up to the collector's countenance, and subjected to the same process,
which was afterwards repeated on them by the majority of those present.
'Oh dear, Mrs Kenwigs,' said Miss Petowker, 'while Mr Noggs is making that punch to
drink happy returns in, do let Morleena go through that figure dance before Mr Lillyvick.'
'No, no, my dear,' replied Mrs Kenwigs, 'it will only worry my uncle.'
'It can't worry him, I am sure,' said Miss Petowker. 'You will be very much pleased,
won't you, sir?'
'That I am sure I shall' replied the collector, glancing at the punch−mixer.
'Well then, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'Morleena shall do the steps, if uncle
can persuade Miss Petowker to recite us the Blood−Drinker's Burial, afterwards.'
There was a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet, at this proposition; the
subject whereof, gently inclined her head several times, in acknowledgment of the reception.
'You know,' said Miss Petowker, reproachfully, 'that I dislike doing anything
professional in private parties.'
'Oh, but not here!' said Mrs Kenwigs. 'We are all so very friendly and pleasant, that you
might as well be going through it in your own room; besides, the occasion – '
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'I can't resist that,' interrupted Miss Petowker; 'anything in my humble power I shall be
delighted to do.'
Mrs Kenwigs and Miss Petowker had arranged a small PROGRAMME of the
entertainments between them, of which this was the prescribed order, but they had settled to
have a little pressing on both sides, because it looked more natural. The company being all
ready, Miss Petowker hummed a tune, and Morleena danced a dance; having previously had
the soles of her shoes chalked, with as much care as if she were going on the tight−rope. It
was a very beautiful figure, comprising a great deal of work for the arms, and was received
with unbounded applause.
'If I was blessed with a – a child – ' said Miss Petowker, blushing, 'of such genius as
that, I would have her out at the Opera instantly.'
Mrs Kenwigs sighed, and looked at Mr Kenwigs, who shook his head, and observed
that he was doubtful about it.
'Kenwigs is afraid,' said Mrs K.
'What of?' inquired Miss Petowker, 'not of her failing?'
'Oh no,' replied Mrs Kenwigs, 'but if she grew up what she is now, – only think of the
young dukes and marquises.'
'Very right,' said the collector.
'Still,' submitted Miss Petowker, 'if she took a proper pride in herself, you know – '
'There's a good deal in that,' observed Mrs Kenwigs, looking at her husband.
'I only know – ' faltered Miss Petowker, – 'it may be no rule to be sure – but I have
never found any inconvenience or unpleasantness of that sort.'
Mr Kenwigs, with becoming gallantry, said that settled the question at once, and that he
would take the subject into his serious consideration. This being resolved upon, Miss
Petowker was entreated to begin the Blood−Drinker's Burial; to which end, that young lady
let down her back hair, and taking up her position at the other end of the room, with the
bachelor friend posted in a corner, to rush out at the cue 'in death expire,' and catch her in his
arms when she died raving mad, went through the performance with extraordinary spirit, and
to the great terror of the little Kenwigses, who were all but frightened into fits.
The ecstasies consequent upon the effort had not yet subsided, and Newman (who had
not been thoroughly sober at so late an hour for a long long time,) had not yet been able to
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put in a word of announcement, that the punch was ready, when a hasty knock was heard at
the room−door, which elicited a shriek from Mrs Kenwigs, who immediately divined that
the baby had fallen out of bed.
'Who is that?' demanded Mr Kenwigs, sharply.
'Don't be alarmed, it's only me,' said Crowl, looking in, in his nightcap. 'The baby is
very comfortable, for I peeped into the room as I came down, and it's fast asleep, and so is
the girl; and I don't think the candle will set fire to the bed−curtain, unless a draught was to
get into the room – it's Mr Noggs that's wanted.'
'Me!' cried Newman, much astonished.
'Why, it IS a queer hour, isn't it?' replied Crowl, who was not best pleased at the
prospect of losing his fire; 'and they are queer− looking people, too, all covered with rain
and mud. Shall I tell them to go away?'
'No,' said Newman, rising. 'People? How many?'
'Two,' rejoined Crowl.
'Want me? By name?' asked Newman.
'By name,' replied Crowl. 'Mr Newman Noggs, as pat as need be.'
Newman reflected for a few seconds, and then hurried away, muttering that he would be
back directly. He was as good as his word; for, in an exceedingly short time, he burst into
the room, and seizing, without a word of apology or explanation, a lighted candle and
tumbler of hot punch from the table, darted away like a madman.
'What the deuce is the matter with him?' exclaimed Crowl, throwing the door open.
'Hark! Is there any noise above?'
The guests rose in great confusion, and, looking in each other's faces with much
perplexity and some fear, stretched their necks forward, and listened attentively.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.167
CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin
of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,
a
nd with some other Matters necessary to be known.
Newman Noggs scrambled in violent haste upstairs with the steaming beverage, which
he had so unceremoniously snatched from the table of Mr Kenwigs, and indeed from the
very grasp of the water−rate collector, who was eyeing the contents of the tumbler, at the
moment of its unexpected abstraction, with lively marks of pleasure visible in his
countenance. He bore his prize straight to his own back− garret, where, footsore and nearly
shoeless, wet, dirty, jaded, and disfigured with every mark of fatiguing travel, sat Nicholas
and Smike, at once the cause and partner of his toil; both perfectly worn out by their
unwonted and protracted exertion.
Newman's first act was to compel Nicholas, with gentle force, to swallow half of the
punch at a breath, nearly boiling as it was; and his next, to pour the remainder down the
throat of Smike, who, never having tasted anything stronger than aperient medicine in his
whole life, exhibited various odd manifestations of surprise and delight, during the passage
of the liquor down his throat, and turned up his eyes most emphatically when it was all gone.
'You are wet through,' said Newman, passing his hand hastily over the coat which
Nicholas had thrown off; 'and I – I – haven't even a change,' he added, with a wistful glance
at the shabby clothes he wore himself.
'I have dry clothes, or at least such as will serve my turn well, in my bundle,' replied
Nicholas. 'If you look so distressed to see me, you will add to the pain I feel already, at
being compelled, for one night, to cast myself upon your slender means for aid and shelter.'
Newman did not look the less distressed to hear Nicholas talking in this strain; but,
upon his young friend grasping him heartily by the hand, and assuring him that nothing but
implicit confidence in the sincerity of his professions, and kindness of feeling towards
himself, would have induced him, on any consideration, even to have made him acquainted
with his arrival in London, Mr Noggs brightened up again, and went about making such
arrangements as were in his power for the comfort of his visitors, with extreme alacrity.
These were simple enough; poor Newman's means halting at a very considerable
distance short of his inclinations; but, slight as they were, they were not made without much
bustling and running about. As Nicholas had husbanded his scanty stock of money, so well
that it was not yet quite expended, a supper of bread and cheese, with some cold beef from
the cook's shop, was soon placed upon the table; and these viands being flanked by a bottle
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of spirits and a pot of porter, there was no ground for apprehension on the score of hunger or
thirst, at all events. Such preparations as Newman had it in his power to make, for the
accommodation of his guests during the night, occupied no very great time in completing;
and as he had insisted, as an express preliminary, that Nicholas should change his clothes,
and that Smike should invest himself in his solitary coat (which no entreaties would
dissuade him from stripping off for the purpose), the travellers partook of their frugal fare,
with more satisfaction than one of them at least had derived from many a better meal.
They then drew near the fire, which Newman Noggs had made up as well as he could,
after the inroads of Crowl upon the fuel; and Nicholas, who had hitherto been restrained by
the extreme anxiety of his friend that he should refresh himself after his journey, now
pressed him with earnest questions concerning his mother and sister.
'Well,' replied Newman, with his accustomed taciturnity; 'both well.'
'They are living in the city still?' inquired Nicholas.
'They are,' said Newman.
'And my sister,' – added Nicholas. 'Is she still engaged in the business which she wrote
to tell me she thought she should like so much?'
Newman opened his eyes rather wider than usual, but merely replied by a gasp, which,
according to the action of the head that accompanied it, was interpreted by his friends as
meaning yes or no. In the present instance, the pantomime consisted of a nod, and not a
shake; so Nicholas took the answer as a favourable one.
'Now listen to me,' said Nicholas, laying his hand on Newman's shoulder. 'Before I
would make an effort to see them, I deemed it expedient to come to you, lest, by gratifying
my own selfish desire, I should inflict an injury upon them which I can never repair. What
has my uncle heard from Yorkshire?'
Newman opened and shut his mouth, several times, as though he were trying his utmost
to speak, but could make nothing of it, and finally fixed his eyes on Nicholas with a grim
and ghastly stare.
'What has he heard?' urged Nicholas, colouring. 'You see that I am prepared to hear the
very worst that malice can have suggested. Why should you conceal it from me? I must
know it sooner or later; and what purpose can be gained by trifling with the matter for a few
minutes, when half the time would put me in possession of all that has occurred? Tell me at
once, pray.'
'Tomorrow morning,' said Newman; 'hear it tomorrow.'
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,169
'What purpose would that answer?' urged Nicholas.
'You would sleep the better,' replied Newman.
'I should sleep the worse,' answered Nicholas, impatiently. 'Sleep! Exhausted as I am,
and standing in no common need of rest, I cannot hope to close my eyes all night, unless you
tell me everything.'
'And if I should tell you everything,' said Newman, hesitating.
'Why, then you may rouse my indignation or wound my pride,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but
you will not break my rest; for if the scene were acted over again, I could take no other part
than I have taken; and whatever consequences may accrue to myself from it, I shall never
regret doing as I have done – never, if I starve or beg in consequence. What is a little
poverty or suffering, to the disgrace of the basest and most inhuman cowardice! I tell you, if
I had stood by, tamely and passively, I should have hated myself, and merited the contempt
of every man in existence. The black−hearted scoundrel!'
With this gentle allusion to the absent Mr Squeers, Nicholas repressed his rising wrath,
and relating to Newman exactly what had passed at Dotheboys Hall, entreated him to speak
out without more pressing. Thus adjured, Mr Noggs took, from an old trunk, a sheet of
paper, which appeared to have been scrawled over in great haste; and after sundry
extraordinary demonstrations of reluctance, delivered himself in the following terms.
'My dear young man, you mustn't give way to – this sort of thing will never do, you
know – as to getting on in the world, if you take everybody's part that's ill−treated – Damn
it, I am proud to hear of it; and would have done it myself!'
Newman accompanied this very unusual outbreak with a violent blow upon the table, as
if, in the heat of the moment, he had mistaken it for the chest or ribs of Mr Wackford
Squeers. Having, by this open declaration of his feelings, quite precluded himself from
offering Nicholas any cautious worldly advice (which had been his first intention), Mr
Noggs went straight to the point.
'The day before yesterday,' said Newman, 'your uncle received this letter. I took a hasty
copy of it, while he was out. Shall I read it?'
'If you please,' replied Nicholas. Newman Noggs accordingly read as follows:
'DOTHEBOYS HALL, 'THURSDAY MORNING.
'SIR,
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,170
'My pa requests me to write to you, the doctors considering it doubtful whether he will
ever recuvver the use of his legs which prevents his holding a pen.
'We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and my pa is one mask of brooses both
blue and green likewise two forms are steepled in his Goar. We were kimpelled to have him
carried down into the kitchen where he now lays. You will judge from this that he has been
brought very low.
'When your nevew that you recommended for a teacher had done this to my pa and
jumped upon his body with his feet and also langwedge which I will not pollewt my pen
with describing, he assaulted my ma with dreadful violence, dashed her to the earth, and
drove her back comb several inches into her head. A very little more and it must have
entered her skull. We have a medical certifiket that if it had, the tortershell would have
affected the brain.
'Me and my brother were then the victims of his feury since which we have suffered
very much which leads us to the arrowing belief that we have received some injury in our
insides, especially as no marks of violence are visible externally. I am screaming out loud all
the time I write and so is my brother which takes off my attention rather and I hope will
excuse mistakes.
'The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran away, taking with him a boy of
desperate caracter that he had excited to rebellyon, and a garnet ring belonging to my ma,
and not having been apprehended by the constables is supposed to have been took up by
some stage−coach. My pa begs that if he comes to you the ring may be returned, and that
you will let the thief and assassin go, as if we prosecuted him he would only be transported,
and if he is let go he is sure to be hung before long which will save us trouble and be much
more satisfactory. Hoping to hear from you when convenient
'I remain 'Yours and cetrer 'FANNY SQUEERS.
'P.S. I pity his ignorance and despise him.'
A profound silence succeeded to the reading of this choice epistle, during which
Newman Noggs, as he folded it up, gazed with a kind of grotesque pity at the boy of
desperate character therein referred to; who, having no more distinct perception of the
matter in hand, than that he had been the unfortunate cause of heaping trouble and falsehood
upon Nicholas, sat mute and dispirited, with a most woe−begone and heart−stricken look.
'Mr Noggs,' said Nicholas, after a few moments' reflection, 'I must go out at once.'
'Go out!' cried Newman.
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,171
'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'to Golden Square. Nobody who knows me would believe this story
of the ring; but it may suit the purpose, or gratify the hatred of Mr Ralph Nickleby to feign
to attach credence to it. It is due – not to him, but to myself – that I should state the truth;
and moreover, I have a word or two to exchange with him, which will not keep cool.'
'They must,' said Newman.
'They must not, indeed,' rejoined Nicholas firmly, as he prepared to leave the house.
'Hear me speak,' said Newman, planting himself before his impetuous young friend. 'He
is not there. He is away from town. He will not be back for three days; and I know that letter
will not be answered before he returns.'
'Are you sure of this?' asked Nicholas, chafing violently, and pacing the narrow room
with rapid strides.
'Quite,' rejoined Newman. 'He had hardly read it when he was called away. Its contents
are known to nobody but himself and us.'
'Are you certain?' demanded Nicholas, precipitately; 'not even to my mother or sister? If
I thought that they – I will go there – I must see them. Which is the way? Where is it?'
'Now, be advised by me,' said Newman, speaking for the moment, in his earnestness,
like any other man – 'make no effort to see even them, till he comes home. I know the man.
Do not seem to have been tampering with anybody. When he returns, go straight to him, and
speak as boldly as you like. Guessing at the real truth, he knows it as well as you or I. Trust
him for that.'
'You mean well to me, and should know him better than I can,' replied Nicholas, after
some consideration. 'Well; let it be so.'
Newman, who had stood during the foregoing conversation with his back planted
against the door, ready to oppose any egress from the apartment by force, if necessary,
resumed his seat with much satisfaction; and as the water in the kettle was by this time
boiling, made a glassful of spirits and water for Nicholas, and a cracked mug−full for the
joint accommodation of himself and Smike, of which the two partook in great harmony,
while Nicholas, leaning his head upon his hand, remained buried in melancholy meditation.
Meanwhile, the company below stairs, after listening attentively and not hearing any
noise which would justify them in interfering for the gratification of their curiosity, returned
to the chamber of the Kenwigses, and employed themselves in hazarding a great variety of
conjectures relative to the cause of Mr Noggs' sudden disappearance and detention.
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,172
'Lor, I'll tell you what,' said Mrs Kenwigs. 'Suppose it should be an express sent up to
say that his property has all come back again!'
'Dear me,' said Mr Kenwigs; 'it's not impossible. Perhaps, in that case, we'd better send
up and ask if he won't take a little more punch.'
'Kenwigs!' said Mr Lillyvick, in a loud voice, 'I'm surprised at you.'
'What's the matter, sir?' asked Mr Kenwigs, with becoming submission to the collector
of water−rates.
'Making such a remark as that, sir,' replied Mr Lillyvick, angrily. 'He has had punch
already, has he not, sir? I consider the way in which that punch was cut off, if I may use the
expression, highly disrespectful to this company; scandalous, perfectly scandalous. It may
be the custom to allow such things in this house, but it's not the kind of behaviour that I've
been used to see displayed, and so I don't mind telling you, Kenwigs. A gentleman has a
glass of punch before him to which he is just about to set his lips, when another gentleman
comes and collars that glass of punch, without a «with your leave», or «by your leave», and
carries that glass of punch away. This may be good manners – I dare say it is – but I don't
understand it, that's all; and what's more, I don't care if I never do. It's my way to speak my
mind, Kenwigs, and that is my mind; and if you don't like it, it's past my regular time for
going to bed, and I can find my way home without making it later.'
Here was an untoward event! The collector had sat swelling and fuming in offended
dignity for some minutes, and had now fairly burst out. The great man – the rich relation –
the unmarried uncle – who had it in his power to make Morleena an heiress, and the very
baby a legatee – was offended. Gracious Powers, where was this to end!
'I am very sorry, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs, humbly.
'Don't tell me you're sorry,' retorted Mr Lillyvick, with much sharpness. 'You should
have prevented it, then.'
The company were quite paralysed by this domestic crash. The back− parlour sat with
her mouth wide open, staring vacantly at the collector, in a stupor of dismay; the other
guests were scarcely less overpowered by the great man's irritation. Mr Kenwigs, not being
skilful in such matters, only fanned the flame in attempting to extinguish it.
'I didn't think of it, I am sure, sir,' said that gentleman. 'I didn't suppose that such a little
thing as a glass of punch would have put you out of temper.'
'Out of temper! What the devil do you mean by that piece of impertinence, Mr
Kenwigs?' said the collector. 'Morleena, child – give me my hat.'
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,173
'Oh, you're not going, Mr Lillyvick, sir,' interposed Miss Petowker, with her most
bewitching smile.
But still Mr Lillyvick, regardless of the siren, cried obdurately, 'Morleena, my hat!'
upon the fourth repetition of which demand, Mrs Kenwigs sunk back in her chair, with a cry
that might have softened a water−butt, not to say a water−collector; while the four little girls
(privately instructed to that effect) clasped their uncle's drab shorts in their arms, and prayed
him, in imperfect English, to remain.
'Why should I stop here, my dears?' said Mr Lillyvick; 'I'm not wanted here.'
'Oh, do not speak so cruelly, uncle,' sobbed Mrs Kenwigs, 'unless you wish to kill me.'
'I shouldn't wonder if some people were to say I did,' replied Mr Lillyvick, glancing
angrily at Kenwigs. 'Out of temper!'
'Oh! I cannot bear to see him look so, at my husband,' cried Mrs Kenwigs. 'It's so
dreadful in families. Oh!'
'Mr Lillyvick,' said Kenwigs, 'I hope, for the sake of your niece, that you won't object to
be reconciled.'
The collector's features relaxed, as the company added their entreaties to those of his
nephew−in−law. He gave up his hat, and held out his hand.
'There, Kenwigs,' said Mr Lillyvick; 'and let me tell you, at the same time, to show you
how much out of temper I was, that if I had gone away without another word, it would have
made no difference respecting that pound or two which I shall leave among your children
when I die.'
'Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, in a torrent of affection. 'Go down upon your
knees to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his life through, for he's more a angel
than a man, and I've always said so.'
Miss Morleena approaching to do homage, in compliance with this injunction, was
summarily caught up and kissed by Mr Lillyvick; and thereupon Mrs Kenwigs darted
forward and kissed the collector, and an irrepressible murmur of applause broke from the
company who had witnessed his magnanimity.
The worthy gentleman then became once more the life and soul of the society; being
again reinstated in his old post of lion, from which high station the temporary distraction of
their thoughts had for a moment dispossessed him. Quadruped lions are said to be savage,
only when they are hungry; biped lions are rarely sulky longer than when their appetite for
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,174
distinction remains unappeased. Mr Lillyvick stood higher than ever; for he had shown his
power; hinted at his property and testamentary intentions; gained great credit for
disinterestedness and virtue; and, in addition to all, was finally accommodated with a much
larger tumbler of punch than that which Newman Noggs had so feloniously made off with.
'I say! I beg everybody's pardon for intruding again,' said Crowl, looking in at this
happy juncture; 'but what a queer business this is, isn't it? Noggs has lived in this house, now
going on for five years, and nobody has ever been to see him before, within the memory of
the oldest inhabitant.'
'It's a strange time of night to be called away, sir, certainly,' said the collector; 'and the
behaviour of Mr Noggs himself, is, to say the least of it, mysterious.'
'Well, so it is,' rejoined Growl; 'and I'll tell you what's more – I think these two
geniuses, whoever they are, have run away from somewhere.'
'What makes you think that, sir?' demanded the collector, who seemed, by a tacit
understanding, to have been chosen and elected mouthpiece to the company. 'You have no
reason to suppose that they have run away from anywhere without paying the rates and taxes
due, I hope?'
Mr Crowl, with a look of some contempt, was about to enter a general protest against
the payment of rates or taxes, under any circumstances, when he was checked by a timely
whisper from Kenwigs, and several frowns and winks from Mrs K., which providentially
stopped him.
'Why the fact is,' said Crowl, who had been listening at Newman's door with all his
might and main; 'the fact is, that they have been talking so loud, that they quite disturbed me
in my room, and so I couldn't help catching a word here, and a word there; and all I heard,
certainly seemed to refer to their having bolted from some place or other. I don't wish to
alarm Mrs Kenwigs; but I hope they haven't come from any jail or hospital, and brought
away a fever or some unpleasantness of that sort, which might be catching for the children.'
Mrs Kenwigs was so overpowered by this supposition, that it needed all the tender
attentions of Miss Petowker, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, to restore her to anything
like a state of calmness; not to mention the assiduity of Mr Kenwigs, who held a fat
smelling− bottle to his lady's nose, until it became matter of some doubt whether the tears
which coursed down her face were the result of feelings or SAL VOLATILE.
The ladies, having expressed their sympathy, singly and separately, fell, according to
custom, into a little chorus of soothing expressions, among which, such condolences as 'Poor
dear!' – 'I should feel just the same, if I was her' – 'To be sure, it's a very trying thing' – and
'Nobody but a mother knows what a mother's feelings is,' were among the most prominent,
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,175
and most frequently repeated. In short, the opinion of the company was so clearly
manifested, that Mr Kenwigs was on the point of repairing to Mr Noggs's room, to demand
an explanation, and had indeed swallowed a preparatory glass of punch, with great
inflexibility and steadiness of purpose, when the attention of all present was diverted by a
new and terrible surprise.
This was nothing less than the sudden pouring forth of a rapid succession of the shrillest
and most piercing screams, from an upper story; and to all appearance from the very
two−pair back, in which the infant Kenwigs was at that moment enshrined. They were no
sooner audible, than Mrs Kenwigs, opining that a strange cat had come in, and sucked the
baby's breath while the girl was asleep, made for the door, wringing her hands, and shrieking
dismally; to the great consternation and confusion of the company.
'Mr Kenwigs, see what it is; make haste!' cried the sister, laying violent hands upon Mrs
Kenwigs, and holding her back by force. 'Oh don't twist about so, dear, or I can never hold
you.'
'My baby, my blessed, blessed, blessed, blessed baby!' screamed Mrs Kenwigs, making
every blessed louder than the last. 'My own darling, sweet, innocent Lillyvick – Oh let me
go to him. Let me go− o−o−o!'
Pending the utterance of these frantic cries, and the wails and lamentations of the four
little girls, Mr Kenwigs rushed upstairs to the room whence the sounds proceeded; at the
door of which, he encountered Nicholas, with the child in his arms, who darted out with
such violence, that the anxious father was thrown down six stairs, and alighted on the
nearest landing−place, before he had found time to open his mouth to ask what was the
matter.
'Don't be alarmed,' cried Nicholas, running down; 'here it is; it's all out, it's all over; pray
compose yourselves; there's no harm done;' and with these, and a thousand other assurances,
he delivered the baby (whom, in his hurry, he had carried upside down), to Mrs Kenwigs,
and ran back to assist Mr Kenwigs, who was rubbing his head very hard, and looking much
bewildered by his tumble.
Reassured by this cheering intelligence, the company in some degree recovered from
their fears, which had been productive of some most singular instances of a total want of
presence of mind; thus, the bachelor friend had, for a long time, supported in his arms Mrs
Kenwigs's sister, instead of Mrs Kenwigs; and the worthy Mr Lillyvick had been actually
seen, in the perturbation of his spirits, to kiss Miss Petowker several times, behind the
room−door, as calmly as if nothing distressing were going forward.
'It is a mere nothing,' said Nicholas, returning to Mrs Kenwigs; 'the little girl, who was
watching the child, being tired I suppose, fell asleep, and set her hair on fire.'
Nicholas Nickleby
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'Oh you malicious little wretch!' cried Mrs Kenwigs, impressively shaking her
forefinger at the small unfortunate, who might be thirteen years old, and was looking on
with a singed head and a frightened face.
'I heard her cries,' continued Nicholas, 'and ran down, in time to prevent her setting fire
to anything else. You may depend upon it that the child is not hurt; for I took it off the bed
myself, and brought it here to convince you.'
This brief explanation over, the infant, who, as he was christened after the collector!
rejoiced in the names of Lillyvick Kenwigs, was partially suffocated under the caresses of
the audience, and squeezed to his mother's bosom, until he roared again. The attention of the
company was then directed, by a natural transition, to the little girl who had had the audacity
to burn her hair off, and who, after receiving sundry small slaps and pushes from the more
energetic of the ladies, was mercifully sent home: the ninepence, with which she was to have
been rewarded, being escheated to the Kenwigs family.
'And whatever we are to say to you, sir,' exclaimed Mrs Kenwigs, addressing young
Lillyvick's deliverer, 'I am sure I don't know.'
'You need say nothing at all,' replied Nicholas. 'I have done nothing to found any very
strong claim upon your eloquence, I am sure.'
'He might have been burnt to death, if it hadn't been for you, sir,' simpered Miss
Petowker.
'Not very likely, I think,' replied Nicholas; 'for there was abundance of assistance here,
which must have reached him before he had been in any danger.'
'You will let us drink your health, anyvays, sir!' said Mr Kenwigs motioning towards
the table.
' – In my absence, by all means,' rejoined Nicholas, with a smile. 'I have had a very
fatiguing journey, and should be most indifferent company – a far greater check upon your
merriment, than a promoter of it, even if I kept awake, which I think very doubtful. If you
will allow me, I'll return to my friend, Mr Noggs, who went upstairs again, when he found
nothing serious had occurred. Good−night.'
Excusing himself, in these terms, from joining in the festivities, Nicholas took a most
winning farewell of Mrs Kenwigs and the other ladies, and retired, after making a very
extraordinary impression upon the company.
'What a delightful young man!' cried Mrs Kenwigs.
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,177
'Uncommon gentlemanly, really,' said Mr Kenwigs. 'Don't you think so, Mr Lillyvick?'
'Yes,' said the collector, with a dubious shrug of his shoulders, 'He is gentlemanly, very
gentlemanly – in appearance.'
'I hope you don't see anything against him, uncle?' inquired Mrs Kenwigs.
'No, my dear,' replied the collector, 'no. I trust he may not turn out – well – no matter –
my love to you, my dear, and long life to the baby!'
'Your namesake,' said Mrs Kenwigs, with a sweet smile.
'And I hope a worthy namesake,' observed Mr Kenwigs, willing to propitiate the
collector. 'I hope a baby as will never disgrace his godfather, and as may be considered, in
arter years, of a piece with the Lillyvicks whose name he bears. I do say – and Mrs Kenwigs
is of the same sentiment, and feels it as strong as I do – that I consider his being called
Lillyvick one of the greatest blessings and Honours of my existence.'
'THE greatest blessing, Kenwigs,' murmured his lady.
'THE greatest blessing,' said Mr Kenwigs, correcting himself. 'A blessing that I hope,
one of these days, I may be able to deserve.'
This was a politic stroke of the Kenwigses, because it made Mr Lillyvick the great head
and fountain of the baby's importance. The good gentleman felt the delicacy and dexterity of
the touch, and at once proposed the health of the gentleman, name unknown, who had
signalised himself, that night, by his coolness and alacrity.
'Who, I don't mind saying,' observed Mr Lillyvick, as a great concession, 'is a
good−looking young man enough, with manners that I hope his character may be equal to.'
'He has a very nice face and style, really,' said Mrs Kenwigs.
'He certainly has,' added Miss Petowker. 'There's something in his appearance quite –
dear, dear, what's that word again?'
'What word?' inquired Mr Lillyvick.
'Why – dear me, how stupid I am,' replied Miss Petowker, hesitating. 'What do you call
it, when Lords break off door−knockers and beat policemen, and play at coaches with other
people's money, and all that sort of thing?'
'Aristocratic?' suggested the collector.
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,178
'Ah! aristocratic,' replied Miss Petowker; 'something very aristocratic about him, isn't
there?'
The gentleman held their peace, and smiled at each other, as who should say, 'Well!
there's no accounting for tastes;' but the ladies resolved unanimously that Nicholas had an
aristocratic air; and nobody caring to dispute the position, it was established triumphantly.
The punch being, by this time, drunk out, and the little Kenwigses (who had for some
time previously held their little eyes open with their little forefingers) becoming fractious,
and requesting rather urgently to be put to bed, the collector made a move by pulling out his
watch, and acquainting the company that it was nigh two o'clock; whereat some of the
guests were surprised and others shocked, and hats and bonnets being groped for under the
tables, and in course of time found, their owners went away, after a vast deal of shaking of
hands, and many remarks how they had never spent such a delightful evening, and how they
marvelled to find it so late, expecting to have heard that it was half−past ten at the very
latest, and how they wished that Mr and Mrs Kenwigs had a wedding−day once a week, and
how they wondered by what hidden agency Mrs Kenwigs could possibly have managed so
well; and a great deal more of the same kind. To all of which flattering expressions, Mr and
Mrs Kenwigs replied, by thanking every lady and gentleman, SERIATIM, for the favour of
their company, and hoping they might have enjoyed themselves only half as well as they
said they had.
As to Nicholas, quite unconscious of the impression he had produced, he had long since
fallen asleep, leaving Mr Newman Noggs and Smike to empty the spirit bottle between
them; and this office they performed with such extreme good−will, that Newman was
equally at a loss to determine whether he himself was quite sober, and whether he had ever
seen any gentleman so heavily, drowsily, and completely intoxicated as his new
acquaintance.
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CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption described in the last Chapter,179
CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New
Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as
Tutor in a Private Family.
T
he first care of Nicholas, next morning, was, to look after some room in which, until
better times dawned upon him, he could contrive to exist, without trenching upon the
hospitality of Newman Noggs, who would have slept upon the stairs with pleasure, so that
his young friend was accommodated.
The vacant apartment to which the bill in the parlour window bore reference, appeared,
on inquiry, to be a small back−room on the second floor, reclaimed from the leads, and
overlooking a soot− bespeckled prospect of tiles and chimney−pots. For the letting of this
portion of the house from week to week, on reasonable terms, the parlour lodger was
empowered to treat; he being deputed by the landlord to dispose of the rooms as they
became vacant, and to keep a sharp look−out that the lodgers didn't run away. As a means of
securing the punctual discharge of which last service he was permitted to live rent−free, lest
he should at any time be tempted to run away himself.
Of this chamber, Nicholas became the tenant; and having hired a few common articles
of furniture from a neighbouring broker, and paid the first week's hire in advance, out of a
small fund raised by the conversion of some spare clothes into ready money, he sat himself
down to ruminate upon his prospects, which, like the prospect outside his window, were
sufficiently confined and dingy. As they by no means improved on better acquaintance, and
as familiarity breeds contempt, he resolved to banish them from his thoughts by dint of hard
walking. So, taking up his hat, and leaving poor Smike to arrange and rearrange the room
with as much delight as if it had been the costliest palace, he betook himself to the streets,
and mingled with the crowd which thronged them.
Although a man may lose a sense of his own importance when he is a mere unit among
a busy throng, all utterly regardless of him, it by no means follows that he can dispossess
himself, with equal facility, of a very strong sense of the importance and magnitude of his
cares. The unhappy state of his own affairs was the one idea which occupied the brain of
Nicholas, walk as fast as he would; and when he tried to dislodge it by speculating on the
situation and prospects of the people who surrounded him, he caught himself, in a few
seconds, contrasting their condition with his own, and gliding almost imperceptibly back
into his old train of thought again.
Occupied in these reflections, as he was making his way along one of the great public
thoroughfares of London, he chanced to raise his eyes to a blue board, whereon was
inscribed, in characters of gold, 'General Agency Office; for places and situations of all
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.180
kinds inquire within.' It was a shop−front, fitted up with a gauze blind and an inner door;
and in the window hung a long and tempting array of written placards, announcing vacant
places of every grade, from a secretary's to a foot−boy's.
Nicholas halted, instinctively, before this temple of promise, and ran his eye over the
capital−text openings in life which were so profusely displayed. When he had completed his
survey he walked on a little way, and then back, and then on again; at length, after pausing
irresolutely several times before the door of the General Agency Office, he made up his
mind, and stepped in.
He found himself in a little floor−clothed room, with a high desk railed off in one
corner, behind which sat a lean youth with cunning eyes and a protruding chin, whose
performances in capital−text darkened the window. He had a thick ledger lying open before
him, and with the fingers of his right hand inserted between the leaves, and his eyes fixed on
a very fat old lady in a mob−cap – evidently the proprietress of the establishment – who was
airing herself at the fire, seemed to be only waiting her directions to refer to some entries
contained within its rusty clasps.
As there was a board outside, which acquainted the public that servants−of−all−work
were perpetually in waiting to be hired from ten till four, Nicholas knew at once that some
half−dozen strong young women, each with pattens and an umbrella, who were sitting upon
a form in one corner, were in attendance for that purpose: especially as the poor things
looked anxious and weary. He was not quite so certain of the callings and stations of two
smart young ladies who were in conversation with the fat lady before the fire, until – having
sat himself down in a corner, and remarked that he would wait until the other customers had
been served – the fat lady resumed the dialogue which his entrance had interrupted.
'Cook, Tom,' said the fat lady, still airing herself as aforesaid.
'Cook,' said Tom, turning over some leaves of the ledger. 'Well!'
'Read out an easy place or two,' said the fat lady.
'Pick out very light ones, if you please, young man,' interposed a genteel female, in
shepherd's−plaid boots, who appeared to be the client.
'«Mrs Marker,»' said Tom, reading, '«Russell Place, Russell Square; offers eighteen
guineas; tea and sugar found. Two in family, and see very little company. Five servants kept.
No man. No followers.»'
'Oh Lor!' tittered the client. 'THAT won't do. Read another, young man, will you?'
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.181
'«Mrs Wrymug,»' said Tom, '«Pleasant Place, Finsbury. Wages, twelve guineas. No tea,
no sugar. Serious family – »'
'Ah! you needn't mind reading that,' interrupted the client.
'«Three serious footmen,»' said Tom, impressively.
'Three? did you say?' asked the client in an altered tone.
'Three serious footmen,' replied Tom. '«Cook, housemaid, and nursemaid; each female
servant required to join the Little Bethel Congregation three times every Sunday – with a
serious footman. If the cook is more serious than the footman, she will be expected to
improve the footman; if the footman is more serious than the cook, he will be expected to
improve the cook.»'
'I'll take the address of that place,' said the client; 'I don't know but what it mightn't suit
me pretty well.'
'Here's another,' remarked Tom, turning over the leaves. '«Family of Mr Gallanbile, MP.
Fifteen guineas, tea and sugar, and servants allowed to see male cousins, if godly. Note.
Cold dinner in the kitchen on the Sabbath, Mr Gallanbile being devoted to the Observance
question. No victuals whatever cooked on the Lord's Day, with the exception of dinner for
Mr and Mrs Gallanbile, which, being a work of piety and necessity, is exempted. Mr
Gallanbile dines late on the day of rest, in order to prevent the sinfulness of the cook's
dressing herself.»'
'I don't think that'll answer as well as the other,' said the client, after a little whispering
with her friend. 'I'll take the other direction, if you please, young man. I can but come back
again, if it don't do.'
Tom made out the address, as requested, and the genteel client, having satisfied the fat
lady with a small fee, meanwhile, went away accompanied by her friend.
As Nicholas opened his mouth, to request the young man to turn to letter S, and let him
know what secretaryships remained undisposed of, there came into the office an applicant,
in whose favour he immediately retired, and whose appearance both surprised and interested
him.
This was a young lady who could be scarcely eighteen, of very slight and delicate
figure, but exquisitely shaped, who, walking timidly up to the desk, made an inquiry, in a
very low tone of voice, relative to some situation as governess, or companion to a lady. She
raised her veil, for an instant, while she preferred the inquiry, and disclosed a countenance
of most uncommon beauty, though shaded by a cloud of sadness, which, in one so young,
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.182
was doubly remarkable. Having received a card of reference to some person on the books,
she made the usual acknowledgment, and glided away.
She was neatly, but very quietly attired; so much so, indeed, that it seemed as though
her dress, if it had been worn by one who imparted fewer graces of her own to it, might have
looked poor and shabby. Her attendant – for she had one – was a red−faced, round− eyed,
slovenly girl, who, from a certain roughness about the bare arms that peeped from under her
draggled shawl, and the half−washed− out traces of smut and blacklead which tattooed her
countenance, was clearly of a kin with the servants−of−all−work on the form: between
whom and herself there had passed various grins and glances, indicative of the freemasonry
of the craft.
This girl followed her mistress; and, before Nicholas had recovered from the first
effects of his surprise and admiration, the young lady was gone. It is not a matter of such
complete and utter improbability as some sober people may think, that he would have
followed them out, had he not been restrained by what passed between the fat lady and her
book−keeper.
'When is she coming again, Tom?' asked the fat lady.
'Tomorrow morning,' replied Tom, mending his pen.
'Where have you sent her to?' asked the fat lady.
'Mrs Clark's,' replied Tom.
'She'll have a nice life of it, if she goes there,' observed the fat lady, taking a pinch of
snuff from a tin box.
Tom made no other reply than thrusting his tongue into his cheek, and pointing the
feather of his pen towards Nicholas – reminders which elicited from the fat lady an inquiry,
of 'Now, sir, what can we do for YOU?'
Nicholas briefly replied, that he wanted to know whether there was any such post to be
had, as secretary or amanuensis to a gentleman.
'Any such!' rejoined the mistress; 'a−dozen−such. An't there, Tom?'
'I should think so,' answered that young gentleman; and as he said it, he winked towards
Nicholas, with a degree of familiarity which he, no doubt, intended for a rather flattering
compliment, but with which Nicholas was most ungratefully disgusted.
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Upon reference to the book, it appeared that the dozen secretaryships had dwindled
down to one. Mr Gregsbury, the great member of parliament, of Manchester Buildings,
Westminster, wanted a young man, to keep his papers and correspondence in order; and
Nicholas was exactly the sort of young man that Mr Gregsbury wanted.
'I don't know what the terms are, as he said he'd settle them himself with the party,'
observed the fat lady; 'but they must be pretty good ones, because he's a member of
parliament.'
Inexperienced as he was, Nicholas did not feel quite assured of the force of this
reasoning, or the justice of this conclusion; but without troubling himself to question it, he
took down the address, and resolved to wait upon Mr Gregsbury without delay.
'I don't know what the number is,' said Tom; 'but Manchester Buildings isn't a large
place; and if the worst comes to the worst it won't take you very long to knock at all the
doors on both sides of the way till you find him out. I say, what a good−looking gal that
was, wasn't she?'
'What girl?' demanded Nicholas, sternly.
'Oh yes. I know – what gal, eh?' whispered Tom, shutting one eye, and cocking his chin
in the air. 'You didn't see her, you didn't – I say, don't you wish you was me, when she
comes tomorrow morning?'
Nicholas looked at the ugly clerk, as if he had a mind to reward his admiration of the
young lady by beating the ledger about his ears, but he refrained, and strode haughtily out of
the office; setting at defiance, in his indignation, those ancient laws of chivalry, which not
only made it proper and lawful for all good knights to hear the praise of the ladies to whom
they were devoted, but rendered it incumbent upon them to roam about the world, and knock
at head all such matter−of−fact and un−poetical characters, as declined to exalt, above all
the earth, damsels whom they had never chanced to look upon or hear of – as if that were
any excuse!
Thinking no longer of his own misfortunes, but wondering what could be those of the
beautiful girl he had seen, Nicholas, with many wrong turns, and many inquiries, and almost
as many misdirections, bent his steps towards the place whither he had been directed.
Within the precincts of the ancient city of Westminster, and within half a quarter of a
mile of its ancient sanctuary, is a narrow and dirty region, the sanctuary of the smaller
members of Parliament in modern days. It is all comprised in one street of gloomy lodging−
houses, from whose windows, in vacation−time, there frown long melancholy rows of bills,
which say, as plainly as did the countenances of their occupiers, ranged on ministerial and
opposition benches in the session which slumbers with its fathers, 'To Let', 'To Let'. In
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.184
busier periods of the year these bills disappear, and the houses swarm with legislators. There
are legislators in the parlours, in the first floor, in the second, in the third, in the garrets; the
small apartments reek with the breath of deputations and delegates. In damp weather, the
place is rendered close, by the steams of moist acts of parliament and frouzy petitions;
general postmen grow faint as they enter its infected limits, and shabby figures in quest of
franks, flit restlessly to and fro like the troubled ghosts of Complete Letter−writers departed.
This is Manchester Buildings; and here, at all hours of the night, may be heard the rattling of
latch−keys in their respective keyholes: with now and then – when a gust of wind sweeping
across the water which washes the Buildings' feet, impels the sound towards its entrance –
the weak, shrill voice of some young member practising tomorrow's speech. All the livelong
day, there is a grinding of organs and clashing and clanging of little boxes of music; for
Manchester Buildings is an eel−pot, which has no outlet but its awkward mouth – a
case−bottle which has no thoroughfare, and a short and narrow neck – and in this respect it
may be typical of the fate of some few among its more adventurous residents, who, after
wriggling themselves into Parliament by violent efforts and contortions, find that it, too, is
no thoroughfare for them; that, like Manchester Buildings, it leads to nothing beyond itself;
and that they are fain at last to back out, no wiser, no richer, not one whit more famous, than
they went in.
Into Manchester Buildings Nicholas turned, with the address of the great Mr Gregsbury
in his hand. As there was a stream of people pouring into a shabby house not far from the
entrance, he waited until they had made their way in, and then making up to the servant,
ventured to inquire if he knew where Mr Gregsbury lived.
The servant was a very pale, shabby boy, who looked as if he had slept underground
from his infancy, as very likely he had. 'Mr Gregsbury?' said he; 'Mr Gregsbury lodges here.
It's all right. Come in!'
Nicholas thought he might as well get in while he could, so in he walked; and he had no
sooner done so, than the boy shut the door, and made off.
This was odd enough: but what was more embarrassing was, that all along the passage,
and all along the narrow stairs, blocking up the window, and making the dark entry darker
still, was a confused crowd of persons with great importance depicted in their looks; who
were, to all appearance, waiting in silent expectation of some coming event. From time to
time, one man would whisper his neighbour, or a little group would whisper together, and
then the whisperers would nod fiercely to each other, or give their heads a relentless shake,
as if they were bent upon doing something very desperate, and were determined not to be
put off, whatever happened.
As a few minutes elapsed without anything occurring to explain this phenomenon, and
as he felt his own position a peculiarly uncomfortable one, Nicholas was on the point of
seeking some information from the man next him, when a sudden move was visible on the
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.185
stairs, and a voice was heard to cry, 'Now, gentleman, have the goodness to walk up!'
So far from walking up, the gentlemen on the stairs began to walk down with great
alacrity, and to entreat, with extraordinary politeness, that the gentlemen nearest the street
would go first; the gentlemen nearest the street retorted, with equal courtesy, that they
couldn't think of such a thing on any account; but they did it, without thinking of it,
inasmuch as the other gentlemen pressing some half−dozen (among whom was Nicholas)
forward, and closing up behind, pushed them, not merely up the stairs, but into the very
sitting−room of Mr Gregsbury, which they were thus compelled to enter with most
unseemly precipitation, and without the means of retreat; the press behind them, more than
filling the apartment.
'Gentlemen,' said Mr Gregsbury, 'you are welcome. I am rejoiced to see you.'
For a gentleman who was rejoiced to see a body of visitors, Mr Gregsbury looked as
uncomfortable as might be; but perhaps this was occasioned by senatorial gravity, and a
statesmanlike habit of keeping his feelings under control. He was a tough, burly, thick−
headed gentleman, with a loud voice, a pompous manner, a tolerable command of sentences
with no meaning in them, and, in short, every requisite for a very good member indeed.
'Now, gentlemen,' said Mr Gregsbury, tossing a great bundle of papers into a wicker
basket at his feet, and throwing himself back in his chair with his arms over the elbows, 'you
are dissatisfied with my conduct, I see by the newspapers.'
'Yes, Mr Gregsbury, we are,' said a plump old gentleman in a violent heat, bursting out
of the throng, and planting himself in the front.
'Do my eyes deceive me,' said Mr Gregsbury, looking towards the speaker, 'or is that
my old friend Pugstyles?'
'I am that man, and no other, sir,' replied the plump old gentleman.
'Give me your hand, my worthy friend,' said Mr Gregsbury. 'Pugstyles, my dear friend, I
am very sorry to see you here.'
'I am very sorry to be here, sir,' said Mr Pugstyles; 'but your conduct, Mr Gregsbury, has
rendered this deputation from your constituents imperatively necessary.'
'My conduct, Pugstyles,' said Mr Gregsbury, looking round upon the deputation with
gracious magnanimity – 'my conduct has been, and ever will be, regulated by a sincere
regard for the true and real interests of this great and happy country. Whether I look at
home, or abroad; whether I behold the peaceful industrious communities of our island home:
her rivers covered with steamboats, her roads with locomotives, her streets with cabs, her
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.186
skies with balloons of a power and magnitude hitherto unknown in the history of aeronautics
in this or any other nation – I say, whether I look merely at home, or, stretching my eyes
farther, contemplate the boundless prospect of conquest and possession – achieved by
British perseverance and British valour – which is outspread before me, I clasp my hands,
and turning my eyes to the broad expanse above my head, exclaim, «Thank Heaven, I am a
Briton!»'
The time had been, when this burst of enthusiasm would have been cheered to the very
echo; but now, the deputation received it with chilling coldness. The general impression
seemed to be, that as an explanation of Mr Gregsbury's political conduct, it did not enter
quite enough into detail; and one gentleman in the rear did not scruple to remark aloud, that,
for his purpose, it savoured rather too much of a 'gammon' tendency.
'The meaning of that term – gammon,' said Mr Gregsbury, 'is unknown to me. If it
means that I grow a little too fervid, or perhaps even hyperbolical, in extolling my native
land, I admit the full justice of the remark. I AM proud of this free and happy country. My
form dilates, my eye glistens, my breast heaves, my heart swells, my bosom burns, when I
call to mind her greatness and her glory.'
'We wish, sir,' remarked Mr Pugstyles, calmly, 'to ask you a few questions.'
'If you please, gentlemen; my time is yours – and my country's – and my country's – '
said Mr Gregsbury.
This permission being conceded, Mr Pugstyles put on his spectacles, and referred to a
written paper which he drew from his pocket; whereupon nearly every other member of the
deputation pulled a written paper from HIS pocket, to check Mr Pugstyles off, as he read the
questions.
This done, Mr Pugstyles proceeded to business.
'Question number one. – Whether, sir, you did not give a voluntary pledge previous to
your election, that in event of your being returned, you would immediately put down the
practice of coughing and groaning in the House of Commons. And whether you did not
submit to be coughed and groaned down in the very first debate of the session, and have
since made no effort to effect a reform in this respect? Whether you did not also pledge
yourself to astonish the government, and make them shrink in their shoes? And whether you
have astonished them, and made them shrink in their shoes, or not?'
'Go on to the next one, my dear Pugstyles,' said Mr Gregsbury.
'Have you any explanation to offer with reference to that question, sir?' asked Mr
Pugstyles.
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.187
'Certainly not,' said Mr Gregsbury.
The members of the deputation looked fiercely at each other, and afterwards at the
member. 'Dear Pugstyles' having taken a very long stare at Mr Gregsbury over the tops of
his spectacles, resumed his list of inquiries.
'Question number two. – Whether, sir, you did not likewise give a voluntary pledge that
you would support your colleague on every occasion; and whether you did not, the night
before last, desert him and vote upon the other side, because the wife of a leader on that
other side had invited Mrs Gregsbury to an evening party?'
'Go on,' said Mr Gregsbury.
'Nothing to say on that, either, sir?' asked the spokesman.
'Nothing whatever,' replied Mr Gregsbury. The deputation, who had only seen him at
canvassing or election time, were struck dumb by his coolness. He didn't appear like the
same man; then he was all milk and honey; now he was all starch and vinegar. But men
ARE so different at different times!
'Question number three – and last,' said Mr Pugstyles, emphatically. 'Whether, sir, you
did not state upon the hustings, that it was your firm and determined intention to oppose
everything proposed; to divide the house upon every question, to move for returns on every
subject, to place a motion on the books every day, and, in short, in your own memorable
words, to play the very devil with everything and everybody?' With this comprehensive
inquiry, Mr Pugstyles folded up his list of questions, as did all his backers.
Mr Gregsbury reflected, blew his nose, threw himself further back in his chair, came
forward again, leaning his elbows on the table, made a triangle with his two thumbs and his
two forefingers, and tapping his nose with the apex thereof, replied (smiling as he said it), 'I
deny everything.'
At this unexpected answer, a hoarse murmur arose from the deputation; and the same
gentleman who had expressed an opinion relative to the gammoning nature of the
introductory speech, again made a monosyllabic demonstration, by growling out 'Resign!'
Which growl being taken up by his fellows, swelled into a very earnest and general
remonstrance.
'I am requested, sir, to express a hope,' said Mr Pugstyles, with a distant bow, 'that on
receiving a requisition to that effect from a great majority of your constituents, you will not
object at once to resign your seat in favour of some candidate whom they think they can
better trust.'
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To this, Mr Gregsbury read the following reply, which, anticipating the request, he had
composed in the form of a letter, whereof copies had been made to send round to the
newspapers.
'MY DEAR MR PUGSTYLES,
'Next to the welfare of our beloved island – this great and free and happy country,
whose powers and resources are, I sincerely believe, illimitable – I value that noble
independence which is an Englishman's proudest boast, and which I fondly hope to bequeath
to my children, untarnished and unsullied. Actuated by no personal motives, but moved only
by high and great constitutional considerations; which I will not attempt to explain, for they
are really beneath the comprehension of those who have not made themselves masters, as I
have, of the intricate and arduous study of politics; I would rather keep my seat, and intend
doing so.
'Will you do me the favour to present my compliments to the constituent body, and
acquaint them with this circumstance?
'With great esteem, 'My dear Mr Pugstyles, '
'Then you will not resign, under any circumstances?' asked the spokesman.
Mr Gregsbury smiled, and shook his head.
'Then, good−morning, sir,' said Pugstyles, angrily.
'Heaven bless you!' said Mr Gregsbury. And the deputation, with many growls and
scowls, filed off as quickly as the narrowness of the staircase would allow of their getting
down.
The last man being gone, Mr Gregsbury rubbed his hands and chuckled, as merry
fellows will, when they think they have said or done a more than commonly good thing; he
was so engrossed in this self− congratulation, that he did not observe that Nicholas had been
left behind in the shadow of the window−curtains, until that young gentleman, fearing he
might otherwise overhear some soliloquy intended to have no listeners, coughed twice or
thrice, to attract the member's notice.
'What's that?' said Mr Gregsbury, in sharp accents.
Nicholas stepped forward, and bowed.
'What do you do here, sir?' asked Mr Gregsbury; 'a spy upon my privacy! A concealed
voter! You have heard my answer, sir. Pray follow the deputation.'
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'I should have done so, if I had belonged to it, but I do not,' said Nicholas.
'Then how came you here, sir?' was the natural inquiry of Mr Gregsbury, MP. 'And
where the devil have you come from, sir?' was the question which followed it.
'I brought this card from the General Agency Office, sir,' said Nicholas, 'wishing to
offer myself as your secretary, and understanding that you stood in need of one.'
'That's all you have come for, is it?' said Mr Gregsbury, eyeing him in some doubt.
Nicholas replied in the affirmative.
'You have no connection with any of those rascally papers have you?' said Mr
Gregsbury. 'You didn't get into the room, to hear what was going forward, and put it in print,
eh?'
'I have no connection, I am sorry to say, with anything at present,' rejoined Nicholas, –
politely enough, but quite at his ease.
'Oh!' said Mr Gregsbury. 'How did you find your way up here, then?'
Nicholas related how he had been forced up by the deputation.
'That was the way, was it?' said Mr Gregsbury. 'Sit down.'
Nicholas took a chair, and Mr Gregsbury stared at him for a long time, as if to make
certain, before he asked any further questions, that there were no objections to his outward
appearance.
'You want to be my secretary, do you?' he said at length.
'I wish to be employed in that capacity, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'Well,' said Mr Gregsbury; 'now what can you do?'
'I suppose,' replied Nicholas, smiling, 'that I can do what usually falls to the lot of other
secretaries.'
'What's that?' inquired Mr Gregsbury.
'What is it?' replied Nicholas.
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'Ah! What is it?' retorted the member, looking shrewdly at him, with his head on one
side.
'A secretary's duties are rather difficult to define, perhaps,' said Nicholas, considering.
'They include, I presume, correspondence?'
'Good,' interposed Mr Gregsbury.
'The arrangement of papers and documents?'
'Very good.'
'Occasionally, perhaps, the writing from your dictation; and possibly, sir,' said Nicholas,
with a half−smile, 'the copying of your speech for some public journal, when you have made
one of more than usual importance.'
'Certainly,' rejoined Mr Gregsbury. 'What else?'
'Really,' said Nicholas, after a moment's reflection, 'I am not able, at this instant, to
recapitulate any other duty of a secretary, beyond the general one of making himself as
agreeable and useful to his employer as he can, consistently with his own respectability, and
without overstepping that line of duties which he undertakes to perform, and which the
designation of his office is usually understood to imply.'
Mr Gregsbury looked fixedly at Nicholas for a short time, and then glancing warily
round the room, said in a suppressed voice:
'This is all very well, Mr – what is your name?'
'Nickleby.'
'This is all very well, Mr Nickleby, and very proper, so far as it goes – so far as it goes,
but it doesn't go far enough. There are other duties, Mr Nickleby, which a secretary to a
parliamentary gentleman must never lose sight of. I should require to be crammed, sir.'
'I beg your pardon,' interposed Nicholas, doubtful whether he had heard aright.
' – To be crammed, sir,' repeated Mr Gregsbury.
'May I beg your pardon again, if I inquire what you mean, sir?' said Nicholas.
'My meaning, sir, is perfectly plain,' replied Mr Gregsbury with a solemn aspect. 'My
secretary would have to make himself master of the foreign policy of the world, as it is
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mirrored in the newspapers; to run his eye over all accounts of public meetings, all leading
articles, and accounts of the proceedings of public bodies; and to make notes of anything
which it appeared to him might be made a point of, in any little speech upon the question of
some petition lying on the table, or anything of that kind. Do you understand?'
'I think I do, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'Then,' said Mr Gregsbury, 'it would be necessary for him to make himself acquainted,
from day to day, with newspaper paragraphs on passing events; such as «Mysterious
disappearance, and supposed suicide of a potboy,» or anything of that sort, upon which I
might found a question to the Secretary of State for the Home Department. Then, he would
have to copy the question, and as much as I remembered of the answer (including a little
compliment about independence and good sense); and to send the manuscript in a frank to
the local paper, with perhaps half−a−dozen lines of leader, to the effect, that I was always to
be found in my place in parliament, and never shrunk from the responsible and arduous
duties, and so forth. You see?'
Nicholas bowed.
'Besides which,' continued Mr Gregsbury, 'I should expect him, now and then, to go
through a few figures in the printed tables, and to pick out a few results, so that I might
come out pretty well on timber duty questions, and finance questions, and so on; and I
should like him to get up a few little arguments about the disastrous effects of a return to
cash payments and a metallic currency, with a touch now and then about the exportation of
bullion, and the Emperor of Russia, and bank notes, and all that kind of thing, which it's only
necessary to talk fluently about, because nobody understands it. Do you take me?'
'I think I understand,' said Nicholas.
'With regard to such questions as are not political,' continued Mr Gregsbury, warming;
'and which one can't be expected to care a curse about, beyond the natural care of not
allowing inferior people to be as well off as ourselves – else where are our privileges? – I
should wish my secretary to get together a few little flourishing speeches, of a patriotic cast.
For instance, if any preposterous bill were brought forward, for giving poor grubbing devils
of authors a right to their own property, I should like to say, that I for one would never
consent to opposing an insurmountable bar to the diffusion of literature among THE
PEOPLE, – you understand? – that the creations of the pocket, being man's, might belong
to one man, or one family; but that the creations of the brain, being God's, ought as a matter
of course to belong to the people at large – and if I was pleasantly disposed, I should like to
make a joke about posterity, and say that those who wrote for posterity should be content to
be rewarded by the approbation OF posterity; it might take with the house, and could never
do me any harm, because posterity can't be expected to know anything about me or my jokes
either – do you see?'
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'I see that, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'You must always bear in mind, in such cases as this, where our interests are not
affected,' said Mr Gregsbury, 'to put it very strong about the people, because it comes out
very well at election− time; and you could be as funny as you liked about the authors;
because I believe the greater part of them live in lodgings, and are not voters. This is a hasty
outline of the chief things you'd have to do, except waiting in the lobby every night, in case I
forgot anything, and should want fresh cramming; and, now and then, during great debates,
sitting in the front row of the gallery, and saying to the people about – 'You see that
gentleman, with his hand to his face, and his arm twisted round the pillar – that's Mr
Gregsbury – the celebrated Mr Gregsbury,' – with any other little eulogium that might strike
you at the moment. And for salary,' said Mr Gregsbury, winding up with great rapidity; for
he was out of breath – 'and for salary, I don't mind saying at once in round numbers, to
prevent any dissatisfaction – though it's more than I've been accustomed to give – fifteen
shillings a week, and find yourself. There!'
With this handsome offer, Mr Gregsbury once more threw himself back in his chair, and
looked like a man who had been most profligately liberal, but is determined not to repent of
it notwithstanding.
'Fifteen shillings a week is not much,' said Nicholas, mildly.
'Not much! Fifteen shillings a week not much, young man?' cried Mr Gregsbury.
'Fifteen shillings a – '
'Pray do not suppose that I quarrel with the sum, sir,' replied Nicholas; 'for I am not
ashamed to confess, that whatever it may be in itself, to me it is a great deal. But the duties
and responsibilities make the recompense small, and they are so very heavy that I fear to
undertake them.'
'Do you decline to undertake them, sir?' inquired Mr Gregsbury, with his hand on the
bell−rope.
'I fear they are too great for my powers, however good my will may be, sir,' replied
Nicholas.
'That is as much as to say that you had rather not accept the place, and that you consider
fifteen shillings a week too little,' said Mr Gregsbury, ringing. 'Do you decline it, sir?'
'I have no alternative but to do so,' replied Nicholas.
'Door, Matthews!' said Mr Gregsbury, as the boy appeared.
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'I am sorry I have troubled you unnecessarily, sir,' said Nicholas,
'I am sorry you have,' rejoined Mr Gregsbury, turning his back upon him. 'Door,
Matthews!'
'Good−morning, sir,' said Nicholas.
'Door, Matthews!' cried Mr Gregsbury.
The boy beckoned Nicholas, and tumbling lazily downstairs before him, opened the
door, and ushered him into the street. With a sad and pensive air, he retraced his steps
homewards.
Smike had scraped a meal together from the remnant of last night's supper, and was
anxiously awaiting his return. The occurrences of the morning had not improved Nicholas's
appetite, and, by him, the dinner remained untasted. He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude,
with the plate which the poor fellow had assiduously filled with the choicest morsels,
untouched, by his side, when Newman Noggs looked into the room.
'Come back?' asked Newman.
'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'tired to death: and, what is worse, might have remained at home
for all the good I have done.'
'Couldn't expect to do much in one morning,' said Newman.
'Maybe so, but I am sanguine, and did expect,' said Nicholas, 'and am proportionately
disappointed.' Saying which, he gave Newman an account of his proceedings.
'If I could do anything,' said Nicholas, 'anything, however slight, until Ralph Nickleby
returns, and I have eased my mind by confronting him, I should feel happier. I should think
it no disgrace to work, Heaven knows. Lying indolently here, like a half− tamed sullen
beast, distracts me.'
'I don't know,' said Newman; 'small things offer – they would pay the rent, and more –
but you wouldn't like them; no, you could hardly be expected to undergo it – no, no.'
'What could I hardly be expected to undergo?' asked Nicholas, raising his eyes. 'Show
me, in this wide waste of London, any honest means by which I could even defray the
weekly hire of this poor room, and see if I shrink from resorting to them! Undergo! I have
undergone too much, my friend, to feel pride or squeamishness now. Except – ' added
Nicholas hastily, after a short silence, 'except such squeamishness as is common honesty,
and so much pride as constitutes self−respect. I see little to choose, between assistant to a
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.194
brutal pedagogue, and toad−eater to a mean and ignorant upstart, be he member or no
member.'
'I hardly know whether I should tell you what I heard this morning, or not,' said
Newman.
'Has it reference to what you said just now?' asked Nicholas.
'It has.'
'Then in Heaven's name, my good friend, tell it me,' said Nicholas. 'For God's sake
consider my deplorable condition; and, while I promise to take no step without taking
counsel with you, give me, at least, a vote in my own behalf.'
Moved by this entreaty, Newman stammered forth a variety of most unaccountable and
entangled sentences, the upshot of which was, that Mrs Kenwigs had examined him, at great
length that morning, touching the origin of his acquaintance with, and the whole life,
adventures, and pedigree of, Nicholas; that Newman had parried these questions as long as
he could, but being, at length, hard pressed and driven into a corner, had gone so far as to
admit, that Nicholas was a tutor of great accomplishments, involved in some misfortunes
which he was not at liberty to explain, and bearing the name of Johnson. That Mrs Kenwigs,
impelled by gratitude, or ambition, or maternal pride, or maternal love, or all four powerful
motives conjointly, had taken secret conference with Mr Kenwigs, and had finally returned
to propose that Mr Johnson should instruct the four Miss Kenwigses in the French language
as spoken by natives, at the weekly stipend of five shillings, current coin of the realm; being
at the rate of one shilling per week, per each Miss Kenwigs, and one shilling over, until such
time as the baby might be able to take it out in grammar.
'Which, unless I am very much mistaken,' observed Mrs Kenwigs in making the
proposition, 'will not be very long; for such clever children, Mr Noggs, never were born into
this world, I do believe.'
'There,' said Newman, 'that's all. It's beneath you, I know; but I thought that perhaps you
might – '
'Might!' cried Nicholas, with great alacrity; 'of course I shall. I accept the offer at once.
Tell the worthy mother so, without delay, my dear fellow; and that I am ready to begin
whenever she pleases.'
Newman hastened, with joyful steps, to inform Mrs Kenwigs of his friend's
acquiescence, and soon returning, brought back word that they would be happy to see him in
the first floor as soon as convenient; that Mrs Kenwigs had, upon the instant, sent out to
secure a second−hand French grammar and dialogues, which had long been fluttering in the
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sixpenny box at the bookstall round the corner; and that the family, highly excited at the
prospect of this addition to their gentility, wished the initiatory lesson to come off
immediately.
And here it may be observed, that Nicholas was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a
young man of high spirit. He would resent an affront to himself, or interpose to redress a
wrong offered to another, as boldly and freely as any knight that ever set lance in rest; but he
lacked that peculiar excess of coolness and great− minded selfishness, which invariably
distinguish gentlemen of high spirit. In truth, for our own part, we are disposed to look upon
such gentleman as being rather incumbrances than otherwise in rising families: happening to
be acquainted with several whose spirit prevents their settling down to any grovelling
occupation, and only displays itself in a tendency to cultivate moustachios, and look fierce;
and although moustachios and ferocity are both very pretty things in their way, and very
much to be commended, we confess to a desire to see them bred at the owner's proper cost,
rather than at the expense of low−spirited people.
Nicholas, therefore, not being a high−spirited young man according to common
parlance, and deeming it a greater degradation to borrow, for the supply of his necessities,
from Newman Noggs, than to teach French to the little Kenwigses for five shillings a week,
accepted the offer with the alacrity already described, and betook himself to the first floor
with all convenient speed.
Here, he was received by Mrs Kenwigs with a genteel air, kindly intended to assure him
of her protection and support; and here, too, he found Mr Lillyvick and Miss Petowker; the
four Miss Kenwigses on their form of audience; and the baby in a dwarf porter's chair with a
deal tray before it, amusing himself with a toy horse without a head; the said horse being
composed of a small wooden cylinder, not unlike an Italian iron, supported on four crooked
pegs, and painted in ingenious resemblance of red wafers set in blacking.
'How do you do, Mr Johnson?' said Mrs Kenwigs. 'Uncle – Mr Johnson.'
'How do you do, sir?' said Mr Lillyvick – rather sharply; for he had not known what
Nicholas was, on the previous night, and it was rather an aggravating circumstance if a tax
collector had been too polite to a teacher.
'Mr Johnson is engaged as private master to the children, uncle,' said Mrs Kenwigs.
'So you said just now, my dear,' replied Mr Lillyvick.
'But I hope,' said Mrs Kenwigs, drawing herself up, 'that that will not make them proud;
but that they will bless their own good fortune, which has born them superior to common
people's children. Do you hear, Morleena?'
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CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.196
'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs.
'And when you go out in the streets, or elsewhere, I desire that you don't boast of it to
the other children,' said Mrs Kenwigs; 'and that if you must say anything about it, you don't
say no more than «We've got a private master comes to teach us at home, but we ain't proud,
because ma says it's sinful.» Do you hear, Morleena?'
'Yes, ma,' replied Miss Kenwigs again.
'Then mind you recollect, and do as I tell you,' said Mrs Kenwigs. 'Shall Mr Johnson
begin, uncle?'
'I am ready to hear, if Mr Johnson is ready to commence, my dear,' said the collector,
assuming the air of a profound critic. 'What sort of language do you consider French, sir?'
'How do you mean?' asked Nicholas.
'Do you consider it a good language, sir?' said the collector; 'a pretty language, a
sensible language?'
'A pretty language, certainly,' replied Nicholas; 'and as it has a name for everything, and
admits of elegant conversation about everything, I presume it is a sensible one.'
'I don't know,' said Mr Lillyvick, doubtfully. 'Do you call it a cheerful language, now?'
'Yes,' replied Nicholas, 'I should say it was, certainly.'
'It's very much changed since my time, then,' said the collector, 'very much.'
'Was it a dismal one in your time?' asked Nicholas, scarcely able to repress a smile.
'Very,' replied Mr Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. 'It's the war time that I
speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language. I should be sorry to contradict
anybody; but I can only say that I've heard the French prisoners, who were natives, and
ought to know how to speak it, talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable
to hear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir – fifty times!'
Mr Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs Kenwigs thought it expedient to motion to
Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss Petowker had practised several
blandishments, to soften the excellent old gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by
asking,
'What's the water in French, sir?'
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'L'EAU,' replied Nicholas.
'Ah!' said Mr Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, 'I thought as much. Lo, eh? I don't
think anything of that language – nothing at all.'
'I suppose the children may begin, uncle?' said Mrs Kenwigs.
'Oh yes; they may begin, my dear,' replied the collector, discontentedly. 'I have no wish
to prevent them.'
This permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row, with their tails
all one way, and Morleena at the top: while Nicholas, taking the book, began his preliminary
explanations. Miss Petowker and Mrs Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only
by the whispered assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by heart in no
time; and Mr Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and attentive eyes, lying in wait
for something upon which he could open a fresh discussion on the language.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby.
I
t was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort could banish, that
Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the commencement of her engagement with
Madame Mantalini, left the city when its clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and
threaded her way alone, amid the noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west end of
London.
At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the poor worm, is to
produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our
streets, making towards the scene of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their
hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight which cheer their
monotonous existence during the long train of hours that make a working day. As she drew
nigh to the more fashionable quarter of the town, Kate marked many of this class as they
passed by, hurrying like herself to their painful occupation, and saw, in their unhealthy looks
and feeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her misgivings were not wholly groundless.
She arrived at Madame Mantalini's some minutes before the appointed hour, and after
walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some other female might arrive and spare
her the embarrassment of stating her business to the servant, knocked timidly at the door:
which, after some delay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped
jacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.
'Is Madame Mantalini in?' faltered Kate.
'Not often out at this time, miss,' replied the man in a tone which rendered «Miss,»
something more offensive than «My dear.»
'Can I see her?' asked Kate.
'Eh?' replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the inquirer with a
stare and a broad grin, 'Lord, no.'
'I came by her own appointment,' said Kate; 'I am – I am – to be employed here.'
'Oh! you should have rung the worker's bell,' said the footman, touching the handle of
one in the door−post. 'Let me see, though, I forgot – Miss Nickleby, is it?'
'Yes,' replied Kate.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 199
'You're to walk upstairs then, please,' said the man. 'Madame Mantalini wants to see you
– this way – take care of these things on the floor.'
Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter of pastry−cook's
trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of rout seats which were strewn about the hall,
plainly bespeaking a late party on the previous night, the man led the way to the second
story, and ushered Kate into a back−room, communicating by folding−doors with the
apartment in which she had first seen the mistress of the establishment.
'If you'll wait here a minute,' said the man, 'I'll tell her presently.' Having made this
promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate alone.
There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive feature was, a
half−length portrait in oil, of Mr Mantalini, whom the artist had depicted scratching his head
in an easy manner, and thus displaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame
Mantalini before her marriage. There was, however, the sound of voices in conversation in
the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the partition thin, Kate could not help
discovering that they belonged to Mr and Mrs Mantalini.
'If you will be odiously, demnebly, outrIgeously jealous, my soul,' said Mr Mantalini,
'you will be very miserable – horrid miserable – demnition miserable.' And then, there was a
sound as though Mr Mantalini were sipping his coffee.
'I AM miserable,' returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.
'Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,' said Mr Mantalini.
'I am not,' returned Madame, with a sob.
'Do not put itself out of humour,' said Mr Mantalini, breaking an egg. 'It is a pretty,
bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not be out of humour, for it spoils its
loveliness, and makes it cross and gloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.'
'I am not to be brought round in that way, always,' rejoined Madame, sulkily.
'It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought round at all if it likes
that better,' retorted Mr Mantalini, with his egg−spoon in his mouth.
'It's very easy to talk,' said Mrs Mantalini.
'Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,' replied Mr Mantalini; 'for the yolk
runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match any waistcoat but a yellow
waistcoat, demmit.'
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 200
'You were flirting with her during the whole night,' said Madame Mantalini, apparently
desirous to lead the conversation back to the point from which it had strayed.
'No, no, my life.'
'You were,' said Madame; 'I had my eye upon you all the time.'
'Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!' cried Mantalini, in a
sort of lazy rapture. 'Oh, demmit!'
'And I say once more,' resumed Madame, 'that you ought not to waltz with anybody but
your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini, if I take poison first.'
'She will not take poison and have horrid pains, will she?' said Mantalini; who, by the
altered sound of his voice, seemed to have moved his chair, and taken up his position nearer
to his wife. 'She will not take poison, because she had a demd fine husband who might have
married two countesses and a dowager – '
'Two countesses,' interposed Madame. 'You told me one before!'
'Two!' cried Mantalini. 'Two demd fine women, real countesses and splendid fortunes,
demmit.'
'And why didn't you?' asked Madame, playfully.
'Why didn't I!' replied her husband. 'Had I not seen, at a morning concert, the demdest
little fascinator in all the world, and while that little fascinator is my wife, may not all the
countesses and dowagers in England be – '
Mr Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave Madame Mantalini a very loud
kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned; after which, there seemed to be some more kissing
mixed up with the progress of the breakfast.
'And what about the cash, my existence's jewel?' said Mantalini, when these
endearments ceased. 'How much have we in hand?'
'Very little indeed,' replied Madame.
'We must have some more,' said Mantalini; 'we must have some discount out of old
Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.'
'You can't want any more just now,' said Madame coaxingly.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 201
'My life and soul,' returned her husband, 'there is a horse for sale at Scrubbs's, which it
would be a sin and a crime to lose – going, my senses' joy, for nothing.'
'For nothing,' cried Madame, 'I am glad of that.'
'For actually nothing,' replied Mantalini. 'A hundred guineas down will buy him; mane,
and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest beauty. I will ride him in the park before the
very chariots of the rejected countesses. The demd old dowager will faint with grief and
rage; the other two will say «He is married, he has made away with himself, it is a demd
thing, it is all up!» They will hate each other demnebly, and wish you dead and buried. Ha!
ha! Demmit.'
Madame Mantalini's prudence, if she had any, was not proof against these triumphal
pictures; after a little jingling of keys, she observed that she would see what her desk
contained, and rising for that purpose, opened the folding−door, and walked into the room
where Kate was seated.
'Dear me, child!' exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling in surprise. 'How came you
here?'
'Child!' cried Mantalini, hurrying in. 'How came – eh! – oh – demmit, how d'ye do?'
'I have been waiting, here some time, ma'am,' said Kate, addressing Madame Mantalini.
'The servant must have forgotten to let you know that I was here, I think.'
'You really must see to that man,' said Madame, turning to her husband. 'He forgets
everything.'
'I will twist his demd nose off his countenance for leaving such a very pretty creature all
alone by herself,' said her husband.
'Mantalini,' cried Madame, 'you forget yourself.'
'I don't forget you, my soul, and never shall, and never can,' said Mantalini, kissing his
wife's hand, and grimacing aside, to Miss Nickleby, who turned away.
Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the business took some papers from her desk
which she handed over to Mr Mantalini, who received them with great delight. She then
requested Kate to follow her, and after several feints on the part of Mr Mantalini to attract
the young lady's attention, they went away: leaving that gentleman extended at full length on
the sofa, with his heels in the air and a newspaper in his hand.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 202
Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, and through a passage, to a large
room at the back of the premises where were a number of young women employed in
sewing, cutting out, making up, altering, and various other processes known only to those
who are cunning in the arts of millinery and dressmaking. It was a close room with a
skylight, and as dull and quiet as a room need be.
On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short, bustling, over−dressed
female, full of importance, presented herself, and all the young ladies suspending their
operations for the moment, whispered to each other sundry criticisms upon the make and
texture of Miss Nickleby's dress, her complexion, cast of features, and personal appearance,
with as much good breeding as could have been displayed by the very best society in a
crowded ball−room.
'Oh, Miss Knag,' said Madame Mantalini, 'this is the young person I spoke to you
about.'
Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon Madame Mantalini, which she
dexterously transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and said that certainly, although it was
a great deal of trouble to have young people who were wholly unused to the business, still,
she was sure the young person would try to do her best – impressed with which conviction
she (Miss Knag) felt an interest in her, already.
'I think that, for the present at all events, it will be better for Miss Nickleby to come into
the show−room with you, and try things on for people,' said Madame Mantalini. 'She will
not be able for the present to be of much use in any other way; and her appearance will – '
'Suit very well with mine, Madame Mantalini,' interrupted Miss Knag. 'So it will; and to
be sure I might have known that you would not be long in finding that out; for you have so
much taste in all those matters, that really, as I often say to the young ladies, I do not know
how, when, or where, you possibly could have acquired all you know – hem – Miss
Nickleby and I are quite a pair, Madame Mantalini, only I am a little darker than Miss
Nickleby, and – hem – I think my foot may be a little smaller. Miss Nickleby, I am sure, will
not be offended at my saying that, when she hears that our family always have been
celebrated for small feet ever since – hem – ever since our family had any feet at all, indeed,
I think. I had an uncle once, Madame Mantalini, who lived in Cheltenham, and had a most
excellent business as a tobacconist – hem – who had such small feet, that they were no
bigger than those which are usually joined to wooden legs – the most symmetrical feet,
Madame Mantalini, that even you can imagine.'
'They must have had something of the appearance of club feet, Miss Knag,' said
Madame.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 203
'Well now, that is so like you,' returned Miss Knag, 'Ha! ha! ha! Of club feet! Oh very
good! As I often remark to the young ladies, «Well I must say, and I do not care who knows
it, of all the ready humour – hem – I ever heard anywhere» – and I have heard a good deal;
for when my dear brother was alive (I kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we had to supper
once a week two or three young men, highly celebrated in those days for their humour,
Madame Mantalini – «Of all the ready humour,» I say to the young ladies, «I ever heard,
Madame Mantalini's is the most remarkable – hem. It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so
good−natured (as I was observing to Miss Simmonds only this morning), that how, or when,
or by what means she acquired it, is to me a mystery indeed.»'
Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may be observed – not
that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously deferential to Madame Mantalini,
since these are facts which require no comment; but that every now and then, she was
accustomed, in the torrent of her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear 'hem!' the import
and meaning of which, was variously interpreted by her acquaintance; some holding that
Miss Knag dealt in exaggeration, and introduced the monosyllable when any fresh invention
was in course of coinage in her brain; others, that when she wanted a word, she threw it in to
gain time, and prevent anybody else from striking into the conversation. It may be further
remarked, that Miss Knag still aimed at youth, although she had shot beyond it, years ago;
and that she was weak and vain, and one of those people who are best described by the
axiom, that you may trust them as far as you can see them, and no farther.
'You'll take care that Miss Nickleby understands her hours, and so forth,' said Madame
Mantalini; 'and so I'll leave her with you. You'll not forget my directions, Miss Knag?'
Miss Knag of course replied, that to forget anything Madame Mantalini had directed,
was a moral impossibility; and that lady, dispensing a general good−morning among her
assistants, sailed away.
'Charming creature, isn't she, Miss Nickleby?' said Miss Knag, rubbing her hands
together.
'I have seen very little of her,' said Kate. 'I hardly know yet.'
'Have you seen Mr Mantalini?' inquired Miss Knag.
'Yes; I have seen him twice.'
'Isn't HE a charming creature?'
'Indeed he does not strike me as being so, by any means,' replied Kate.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 204
'No, my dear!' cried Miss Knag, elevating her hands. 'Why, goodness gracious mercy,
where's your taste? Such a fine tall, full− whiskered dashing gentlemanly man, with such
teeth and hair, and – hem – well now, you DO astonish me.'
'I dare say I am very foolish,' replied Kate, laying aside her bonnet; 'but as my opinion is
of very little importance to him or anyone else, I do not regret having formed it, and shall be
slow to change it, I think.'
'He is a very fine man, don't you think so?' asked one of the young ladies.
'Indeed he may be, for anything I could say to the contrary,' replied Kate.
'And drives very beautiful horses, doesn't he?' inquired another.
'I dare say he may, but I never saw them,' answered Kate.
'Never saw them!' interposed Miss Knag. 'Oh, well! There it is at once you know; how
can you possibly pronounce an opinion about a gentleman – hem – if you don't see him as he
turns out altogether?'
There was so much of the world – even of the little world of the country girl – in this
idea of the old milliner, that Kate, who was anxious, for every reason, to change the subject,
made no further remark, and left Miss Knag in possession of the field.
After a short silence, during which most of the young people made a closer inspection
of Kate's appearance, and compared notes respecting it, one of them offered to help her off
with her shawl, and the offer being accepted, inquired whether she did not find black very
uncomfortable wear.
'I do indeed,' replied Kate, with a bitter sigh.
'So dusty and hot,' observed the same speaker, adjusting her dress for her.
Kate might have said, that mourning is sometimes the coldest wear which mortals can
assume; that it not only chills the breasts of those it clothes, but extending its influence to
summer friends, freezes up their sources of good−will and kindness, and withering all the
buds of promise they once so liberally put forth, leaves nothing but bared and rotten hearts
exposed. There are few who have lost a friend or relative constituting in life their sole
dependence, who have not keenly felt this chilling influence of their sable garb. She had felt
it acutely, and feeling it at the moment, could not quite restrain her tears.
'I am very sorry to have wounded you by my thoughtless speech,' said her companion. 'I
did not think of it. You are in mourning for some near relation?'
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 205
'For my father,' answered Kate.
'For what relation, Miss Simmonds?' asked Miss Knag, in an audible voice.
'Her father,' replied the other softly.
'Her father, eh?' said Miss Knag, without the slightest depression of her voice. 'Ah! A
long illness, Miss Simmonds?'
'Hush,' replied the girl; 'I don't know.'
'Our misfortune was very sudden,' said Kate, turning away, 'or I might perhaps, at a time
like this, be enabled to support it better.'
There had existed not a little desire in the room, according to invariable custom, when
any new 'young person' came, to know who Kate was, and what she was, and all about her;
but, although it might have been very naturally increased by her appearance and emotion,
the knowledge that it pained her to be questioned, was sufficient to repress even this
curiosity; and Miss Knag, finding it hopeless to attempt extracting any further particulars
just then, reluctantly commanded silence, and bade the work proceed.
In silence, then, the tasks were plied until half−past one, when a baked leg of mutton,
with potatoes to correspond, were served in the kitchen. The meal over, and the young ladies
having enjoyed the additional relaxation of washing their hands, the work began again, and
was again performed in silence, until the noise of carriages rattling through the streets, and
of loud double knocks at doors, gave token that the day's work of the more fortunate
members of society was proceeding in its turn.
One of these double knocks at Madame Mantalini's door, announced the equipage of
some great lady – or rather rich one, for there is occasionally a distinction between riches
and greatness – who had come with her daughter to approve of some court−dresses which
had been a long time preparing, and upon whom Kate was deputed to wait, accompanied by
Miss Knag, and officered of course by Madame Mantalini.
Kate's part in the pageant was humble enough, her duties being limited to holding
articles of costume until Miss Knag was ready to try them on, and now and then tying a
string, or fastening a hook− and−eye. She might, not unreasonably, have supposed herself
beneath the reach of any arrogance, or bad humour; but it happened that the lady and
daughter were both out of temper that day, and the poor girl came in for her share of their
revilings. She was awkward – her hands were cold – dirty – coarse – she could do nothing
right; they wondered how Madame Mantalini could have such people about her; requested
they might see some other young woman the next time they came; and so forth.
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CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 206
So common an occurrence would be hardly deserving of mention, but for its effect.
Kate shed many bitter tears when these people were gone, and felt, for the first time,
humbled by her occupation. She had, it is true, quailed at the prospect of drudgery and hard
service; but she had felt no degradation in working for her bread, until she found herself
exposed to insolence and pride. Philosophy would have taught her that the degradation was
on the side of those who had sunk so low as to display such passions habitually, and without
cause: but she was too young for such consolation, and her honest feeling was hurt. May not
the complaint, that common people are above their station, often take its rise in the fact of
UNcommon people being below theirs?
In such scenes and occupations the time wore on until nine o'clock, when Kate, jaded
and dispirited with the occurrences of the day, hastened from the confinement of the
workroom, to join her mother at the street corner, and walk home: – the more sadly, from
having to disguise her real feelings, and feign to participate in all the sanguine visions of her
companion.
'Bless my soul, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'I've been thinking all day what a delightful
thing it would be for Madame Mantalini to take you into partnership – such a likely thing
too, you know! Why, your poor dear papa's cousin's sister−in−law – a Miss Browndock –
was taken into partnership by a lady that kept a school at Hammersmith, and made her
fortune in no time at all. I forget, by−the−bye, whether that Miss Browndock was the same
lady that got the ten thousand pounds prize in the lottery, but I think she was; indeed, now I
come to think of it, I am sure she was. «Mantalini and Nickleby», how well it would sound!
– and if Nicholas has any good fortune, you might have Doctor Nickleby, the head−master
of Westminster School, living in the same street.'
'Dear Nicholas!' cried Kate, taking from her reticule her brother's letter from Dotheboys
Hall. 'In all our misfortunes, how happy it makes me, mama, to hear he is doing well, and to
find him writing in such good spirits! It consoles me for all we may undergo, to think that he
is comfortable and happy.'
Poor Kate! she little thought how weak her consolation was, and how soon she would
be undeceived.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby. 207
CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for
three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore.
The Causes which led Miss
K
nag to form this Resolution
There are many lives of much pain, hardship, and suffering, which, having no stirring
interest for any but those who lead them, are disregarded by persons who do not want
thought or feeling, but who pamper their compassion and need high stimulants to rouse it.
There are not a few among the disciples of charity who require, in their vocation,
scarcely less excitement than the votaries of pleasure in theirs; and hence it is that diseased
sympathy and compassion are every day expended on out−of−the−way objects, when only
too many demands upon the legitimate exercise of the same virtues in a healthy state, are
constantly within the sight and hearing of the most unobservant person alive. In short,
charity must have its romance, as the novelist or playwright must have his. A thief in fustian
is a vulgar character, scarcely to be thought of by persons of refinement; but dress him in
green velvet, with a high−crowned hat, and change the scene of his operations, from a
thickly−peopled city, to a mountain road, and you shall find in him the very soul of poetry
and adventure. So it is with the one great cardinal virtue, which, properly nourished and
exercised, leads to, if it does not necessarily include, all the others. It must have its romance;
and the less of real, hard, struggling work−a−day life there is in that romance, the better.
The life to which poor Kate Nickleby was devoted, in consequence of the unforeseen
train of circumstances already developed in this narrative, was a hard one; but lest the very
dulness, unhealthy confinement, and bodily fatigue, which made up its sum and substance,
should deprive it of any interest with the mass of the charitable and sympathetic, I would
rather keep Miss Nickleby herself in view just now, than chill them in the outset, by a
minute and lengthened description of the establishment presided over by Madame Mantalini.
'Well, now, indeed, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, as Kate was taking her weary
way homewards on the first night of her novitiate; 'that Miss Nickleby is a very creditable
young person – a very creditable young person indeed – hem – upon my word, Madame
Mantalini, it does very extraordinary credit even to your discrimination that you should have
found such a very excellent, very well−behaved, very – hem – very unassuming young
woman to assist in the fitting on. I have seen some young women when they had the
opportunity of displaying before their betters, behave in such a – oh, dear – well – but you're
always right, Madame Mantalini, always; and as I very often tell the young ladies, how you
do contrive to be always right, when so many people are so often wrong, is to me a mystery
indeed.'
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss208
'Beyond putting a very excellent client out of humour, Miss Nickleby has not done
anything very remarkable today – that I am aware of, at least,' said Madame Mantalini in
reply.
'Oh, dear!' said Miss Knag; 'but you must allow a great deal for inexperience, you
know.'
'And youth?' inquired Madame.
'Oh, I say nothing about that, Madame Mantalini,' replied Miss Knag, reddening;
'because if youth were any excuse, you wouldn't have – '
'Quite so good a forewoman as I have, I suppose,' suggested Madame.
'Well, I never did know anybody like you, Madame Mantalini,' rejoined Miss Knag
most complacently, 'and that's the fact, for you know what one's going to say, before it has
time to rise to one's lips. Oh, very good! Ha, ha, ha!'
'For myself,' observed Madame Mantalini, glancing with affected carelessness at her
assistant, and laughing heartily in her sleeve, 'I consider Miss Nickleby the most awkward
girl I ever saw in my life.'
'Poor dear thing,' said Miss Knag, 'it's not her fault. If it was, we might hope to cure it;
but as it's her misfortune, Madame Mantalini, why really you know, as the man said about
the blind horse, we ought to respect it.'
'Her uncle told me she had been considered pretty,' remarked Madame Mantalini. 'I
think her one of the most ordinary girls I ever met with.'
'Ordinary!' cried Miss Knag with a countenance beaming delight; 'and awkward! Well,
all I can say is, Madame Mantalini, that I quite love the poor girl; and that if she was twice
as indifferent− looking, and twice as awkward as she is, I should be only so much the more
her friend, and that's the truth of it.'
In fact, Miss Knag had conceived an incipient affection for Kate Nickleby, after
witnessing her failure that morning, and this short conversation with her superior increased
the favourable prepossession to a most surprising extent; which was the more remarkable, as
when she first scanned that young lady's face and figure, she had entertained certain inward
misgivings that they would never agree.
'But now,' said Miss Knag, glancing at the reflection of herself in a mirror at no great
distance, 'I love her – I quite love her – I declare I do!'
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss209
Of such a highly disinterested quality was this devoted friendship, and so superior was
it to the little weaknesses of flattery or ill− nature, that the kind−hearted Miss Knag candidly
informed Kate Nickleby, next day, that she saw she would never do for the business, but that
she need not give herself the slightest uneasiness on this account, for that she (Miss Knag),
by increased exertions on her own part, would keep her as much as possible in the
background, and that all she would have to do, would be to remain perfectly quiet before
company, and to shrink from attracting notice by every means in her power. This last
suggestion was so much in accordance with the timid girl's own feelings and wishes, that she
readily promised implicit reliance on the excellent spinster's advice: without questioning, or
indeed bestowing a moment's reflection upon, the motives that dictated it.
'I take quite a lively interest in you, my dear soul, upon my word,' said Miss Knag; 'a
sister's interest, actually. It's the most singular circumstance I ever knew.'
Undoubtedly it was singular, that if Miss Knag did feel a strong interest in Kate
Nickleby, it should not rather have been the interest of a maiden aunt or grandmother; that
being the conclusion to which the difference in their respective ages would have naturally
tended. But Miss Knag wore clothes of a very youthful pattern, and perhaps her feelings
took the same shape.
'Bless you!' said Miss Knag, bestowing a kiss upon Kate at the conclusion of the second
day's work, 'how very awkward you have been all day.'
'I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more painfully
conscious of my own defects, has not improved me,' sighed Kate.
'No, no, I dare say not,' rejoined Miss Knag, in a most uncommon flow of good humour.
'But how much better that you should know it at first, and so be able to go on, straight and
comfortable! Which way are you walking, my love?'
'Towards the city,' replied Kate.
'The city!' cried Miss Knag, regarding herself with great favour in the glass as she tied
her bonnet. 'Goodness gracious me! now do you really live in the city?'
'Is it so very unusual for anybody to live there?' asked Kate, half smiling.
'I couldn't have believed it possible that any young woman could have lived there, under
any circumstances whatever, for three days together,' replied Miss Knag.
'Reduced – I should say poor people,' answered Kate, correcting herself hastily, for she
was afraid of appearing proud, 'must live where they can.'
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss210
'Ah! very true, so they must; very proper indeed!' rejoined Miss Knag with that sort of
half−sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight nods of the head, is pity's small change
in general society; 'and that's what I very often tell my brother, when our servants go away
ill, one after another, and he thinks the back−kitchen's rather too damp for 'em to sleep in.
These sort of people, I tell him, are glad to sleep anywhere! Heaven suits the back to the
burden. What a nice thing it is to think that it should be so, isn't it?'
'Very,' replied Kate.
'I'll walk with you part of the way, my dear,' said Miss Knag, 'for you must go very near
our house; and as it's quite dark, and our last servant went to the hospital a week ago, with St
Anthony's fire in her face, I shall be glad of your company.'
Kate would willingly have excused herself from this flattering companionship; but Miss
Knag having adjusted her bonnet to her entire satisfaction, took her arm with an air which
plainly showed how much she felt the compliment she was conferring, and they were in the
street before she could say another word.
'I fear,' said Kate, hesitating, 'that mama – my mother, I mean – is waiting for me.'
'You needn't make the least apology, my dear,' said Miss Knag, smiling sweetly as she
spoke; 'I dare say she is a very respectable old person, and I shall be quite – hem – quite
pleased to know her.'
As poor Mrs Nickleby was cooling – not her heels alone, but her limbs generally at the
street corner, Kate had no alternative but to make her known to Miss Knag, who, doing the
last new carriage customer at second−hand, acknowledged the introduction with
condescending politeness. The three then walked away, arm in arm: with Miss Knag in the
middle, in a special state of amiability.
'I have taken such a fancy to your daughter, Mrs Nickleby, you can't think,' said Miss
Knag, after she had proceeded a little distance in dignified silence.
'I am delighted to hear it,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'though it is nothing new to me, that even
strangers should like Kate.'
'Hem!' cried Miss Knag.
'You will like her better when you know how good she is,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'It is a
great blessing to me, in my misfortunes, to have a child, who knows neither pride nor vanity,
and whose bringing−up might very well have excused a little of both at first. You don't
know what it is to lose a husband, Miss Knag.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss211
As Miss Knag had never yet known what it was to gain one, it followed, very nearly as
a matter of course, that she didn't know what it was to lose one; so she said, in some haste,
'No, indeed I don't,' and said it with an air intending to signify that she should like to catch
herself marrying anybody – no, no, she knew better than that.
'Kate has improved even in this little time, I have no doubt,' said Mrs Nickleby,
glancing proudly at her daughter.
'Oh! of course,' said Miss Knag.
'And will improve still more,' added Mrs Nickleby.
'That she will, I'll be bound,' replied Miss Knag, squeezing Kate's arm in her own, to
point the joke.
'She always was clever,' said poor Mrs Nickleby, brightening up, 'always, from a baby. I
recollect when she was only two years and a half old, that a gentleman who used to visit
very much at our house – Mr Watkins, you know, Kate, my dear, that your poor papa went
bail for, who afterwards ran away to the United States, and sent us a pair of snow shoes,
with such an affectionate letter that it made your poor dear father cry for a week. You
remember the letter? In which he said that he was very sorry he couldn't repay the fifty
pounds just then, because his capital was all out at interest, and he was very busy making his
fortune, but that he didn't forget you were his god−daughter, and he should take it very
unkind if we didn't buy you a silver coral and put it down to his old account? Dear me, yes,
my dear, how stupid you are! and spoke so affectionately of the old port wine that he used to
drink a bottle and a half of every time he came. You must remember, Kate?'
'Yes, yes, mama; what of him?'
'Why, that Mr Watkins, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby slowly, as if she were making a
tremendous effort to recollect something of paramount importance; 'that Mr Watkins – he
wasn't any relation, Miss Knag will understand, to the Watkins who kept the Old Boar in the
village; by− the−bye, I don't remember whether it was the Old Boar or the George the Third,
but it was one of the two, I know, and it's much the same – that Mr Watkins said, when you
were only two years and a half old, that you were one of the most astonishing children he
ever saw. He did indeed, Miss Knag, and he wasn't at all fond of children, and couldn't have
had the slightest motive for doing it. I know it was he who said so, because I recollect, as
well as if it was only yesterday, his borrowing twenty pounds of her poor dear papa the very
moment afterwards.'
Having quoted this extraordinary and most disinterested testimony to her daughter's
excellence, Mrs Nickleby stopped to breathe; and Miss Knag, finding that the discourse was
turning upon family greatness, lost no time in striking in, with a small reminiscence on her
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss212
own account.
'Don't talk of lending money, Mrs Nickleby,' said Miss Knag, 'or you'll drive me crazy,
perfectly crazy. My mama – hem – was the most lovely and beautiful creature, with the most
striking and exquisite – hem – the most exquisite nose that ever was put upon a human face,
I do believe, Mrs Nickleby (here Miss Knag rubbed her own nose sympathetically); the most
delightful and accomplished woman, perhaps, that ever was seen; but she had that one
failing of lending money, and carried it to such an extent that she lent – hem – oh! thousands
of pounds, all our little fortunes, and what's more, Mrs Nickleby, I don't think, if we were to
live till – till – hem – till the very end of time, that we should ever get them back again. I
don't indeed.'
After concluding this effort of invention without being interrupted, Miss Knag fell into
many more recollections, no less interesting than true, the full tide of which, Mrs Nickleby
in vain attempting to stem, at length sailed smoothly down by adding an under−current of
her own recollections; and so both ladies went on talking together in perfect contentment;
the only difference between them being, that whereas Miss Knag addressed herself to Kate,
and talked very loud, Mrs Nickleby kept on in one unbroken monotonous flow, perfectly
satisfied to be talking and caring very little whether anybody listened or not.
In this manner they walked on, very amicably, until they arrived at Miss Knag's
brother's, who was an ornamental stationer and small circulating library keeper, in a
by−street off Tottenham Court Road; and who let out by the day, week, month, or year, the
newest old novels, whereof the titles were displayed in pen−and−ink characters on a sheet of
pasteboard, swinging at his door−post. As Miss Knag happened, at the moment, to be in the
middle of an account of her twenty−second offer from a gentleman of large property, she
insisted upon their all going in to supper together; and in they went.
'Don't go away, Mortimer,' said Miss Knag as they entered the shop. 'It's only one of our
young ladies and her mother. Mrs and Miss Nickleby.'
'Oh, indeed!' said Mr Mortimer Knag. 'Ah!'
Having given utterance to these ejaculations with a very profound and thoughtful air,
Mr Knag slowly snuffed two kitchen candles on the counter, and two more in the window,
and then snuffed himself from a box in his waistcoat pocket.
There was something very impressive in the ghostly air with which all this was done;
and as Mr Knag was a tall lank gentleman of solemn features, wearing spectacles, and
garnished with much less hair than a gentleman bordering on forty, or thereabouts, usually
boasts, Mrs Nickleby whispered her daughter that she thought he must be literary.
'Past ten,' said Mr Knag, consulting his watch. 'Thomas, close the warehouse.'
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss213
Thomas was a boy nearly half as tall as a shutter, and the warehouse was a shop about
the size of three hackney coaches.
'Ah!' said Mr Knag once more, heaving a deep sigh as he restored to its parent shelf the
book he had been reading. 'Well – yes – I believe supper is ready, sister.'
With another sigh Mr Knag took up the kitchen candles from the counter, and preceded
the ladies with mournful steps to a back− parlour, where a charwoman, employed in the
absence of the sick servant, and remunerated with certain eighteenpences to be deducted
from her wages due, was putting the supper out.
'Mrs Blockson,' said Miss Knag, reproachfully, 'how very often I have begged you not
to come into the room with your bonnet on!'
'I can't help it, Miss Knag,' said the charwoman, bridling up on the shortest notice.
'There's been a deal o'cleaning to do in this house, and if you don't like it, I must trouble you
to look out for somebody else, for it don't hardly pay me, and that's the truth, if I was to be
hung this minute.'
'I don't want any remarks if YOU please,' said Miss Knag, with a strong emphasis on
the personal pronoun. 'Is there any fire downstairs for some hot water presently?'
'No there is not, indeed, Miss Knag,' replied the substitute; 'and so I won't tell you no
stories about it.'
'Then why isn't there?' said Miss Knag.
'Because there arn't no coals left out, and if I could make coals I would, but as I can't I
won't, and so I make bold to tell you, Mem,' replied Mrs Blockson.
'Will you hold your tongue – female?' said Mr Mortimer Knag, plunging violently into
this dialogue.
'By your leave, Mr Knag,' retorted the charwoman, turning sharp round. 'I'm only too
glad not to speak in this house, excepting when and where I'm spoke to, sir; and with regard
to being a female, sir, I should wish to know what you considered yourself?'
'A miserable wretch,' exclaimed Mr Knag, striking his forehead. 'A miserable wretch.'
'I'm very glad to find that you don't call yourself out of your name, sir,' said Mrs
Blockson; 'and as I had two twin children the day before yesterday was only seven weeks,
and my little Charley fell down a airy and put his elber out, last Monday, I shall take it as a
favour if you'll send nine shillings, for one week's work, to my house, afore the clock strikes
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss214
ten tomorrow.'
With these parting words, the good woman quitted the room with great ease of manner,
leaving the door wide open; Mr Knag, at the same moment, flung himself into the
'warehouse,' and groaned aloud.
'What is the matter with that gentleman, pray?' inquired Mrs Nickleby, greatly disturbed
by the sound.
'Is he ill?' inquired Kate, really alarmed.
'Hush!' replied Miss Knag; 'a most melancholy history. He was once most devotedly
attached to – hem – to Madame Mantalini.'
'Bless me!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby.
'Yes,' continued Miss Knag, 'and received great encouragement too, and confidently
hoped to marry her. He has a most romantic heart, Mrs Nickleby, as indeed – hem – as
indeed all our family have, and the disappointment was a dreadful blow. He is a wonderfully
accomplished man – most extraordinarily accomplished – reads – hem – reads every novel
that comes out; I mean every novel that – hem – that has any fashion in it, of course. The
fact is, that he did find so much in the books he read, applicable to his own misfortunes, and
did find himself in every respect so much like the heroes – because of course he is conscious
of his own superiority, as we all are, and very naturally – that he took to scorning
everything, and became a genius; and I am quite sure that he is, at this very present moment,
writing another book.'
'Another book!' repeated Kate, finding that a pause was left for somebody to say
something.
'Yes,' said Miss Knag, nodding in great triumph; 'another book, in three volumes post
octavo. Of course it's a great advantage to him, in all his little fashionable descriptions, to
have the benefit of my – hem – of my experience, because, of course, few authors who write
about such things can have such opportunities of knowing them as I have. He's so wrapped
up in high life, that the least allusion to business or worldly matters – like that woman just
now, for instance – quite distracts him; but, as I often say, I think his disappointment a great
thing for him, because if he hadn't been disappointed he couldn't have written about blighted
hopes and all that; and the fact is, if it hadn't happened as it has, I don't believe his genius
would ever have come out at all.'
How much more communicative Miss Knag might have become under more favourable
circumstances, it is impossible to divine, but as the gloomy one was within ear−shot, and the
fire wanted making up, her disclosures stopped here. To judge from all appearances, and the
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss215
difficulty of making the water warm, the last servant could not have been much accustomed
to any other fire than St Anthony's; but a little brandy and water was made at last, and the
guests, having been previously regaled with cold leg of mutton and bread and cheese, soon
afterwards took leave; Kate amusing herself, all the way home, with the recollection of her
last glimpse of Mr Mortimer Knag deeply abstracted in the shop; and Mrs Nickleby by
debating within herself whether the dressmaking firm would ultimately become 'Mantalini,
Knag, and Nickleby', or 'Mantalini, Nickleby, and Knag'.
At this high point, Miss Knag's friendship remained for three whole days, much to the
wonderment of Madame Mantalini's young ladies who had never beheld such constancy in
that quarter, before; but on the fourth, it received a check no less violent than sudden, which
thus occurred.
It happened that an old lord of great family, who was going to marry a young lady of no
family in particular, came with the young lady, and the young lady's sister, to witness the
ceremony of trying on two nuptial bonnets which had been ordered the day before, and
Madame Mantalini announcing the fact, in a shrill treble, through the speaking−pipe, which
communicated with the workroom, Miss Knag darted hastily upstairs with a bonnet in each
hand, and presented herself in the show−room, in a charming state of palpitation, intended to
demonstrate her enthusiasm in the cause. The bonnets were no sooner fairly on, than Miss
Knag and Madame Mantalini fell into convulsions of admiration.
'A most elegant appearance,' said Madame Mantalini.
'I never saw anything so exquisite in all my life,' said Miss Knag.
Now, the old lord, who was a VERY old lord, said nothing, but mumbled and chuckled
in a state of great delight, no less with the nuptial bonnets and their wearers, than with his
own address in getting such a fine woman for his wife; and the young lady, who was a very
lively young lady, seeing the old lord in this rapturous condition, chased the old lord behind
a cheval−glass, and then and there kissed him, while Madame Mantalini and the other young
lady looked, discreetly, another way.
But, pending the salutation, Miss Knag, who was tinged with curiosity, stepped
accidentally behind the glass, and encountered the lively young lady's eye just at the very
moment when she kissed the old lord; upon which the young lady, in a pouting manner,
murmured something about 'an old thing,' and 'great impertinence,' and finished by darting a
look of displeasure at Miss Knag, and smiling contemptuously.
'Madame Mantalini,' said the young lady.
'Ma'am,' said Madame Mantalini.
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss216
'Pray have up that pretty young creature we saw yesterday.'
'Oh yes, do,' said the sister.
'Of all things in the world, Madame Mantalini,' said the lord's intended, throwing herself
languidly on a sofa, 'I hate being waited upon by frights or elderly persons. Let me always
see that young creature, I beg, whenever I come.'
'By all means,' said the old lord; 'the lovely young creature, by all means.'
'Everybody is talking about her,' said the young lady, in the same careless manner; 'and
my lord, being a great admirer of beauty, must positively see her.'
'She IS universally admired,' replied Madame Mantalini. 'Miss Knag, send up Miss
Nickleby. You needn't return.'
'I beg your pardon, Madame Mantalini, what did you say last?' asked Miss Knag,
trembling.
'You needn't return,' repeated the superior, sharply. Miss Knag vanished without another
word, and in all reasonable time was replaced by Kate, who took off the new bonnets and
put on the old ones: blushing very much to find that the old lord and the two young ladies
were staring her out of countenance all the time.
'Why, how you colour, child!' said the lord's chosen bride.
'She is not quite so accustomed to her business, as she will be in a week or two,'
interposed Madame Mantalini with a gracious smile.
'I am afraid you have been giving her some of your wicked looks, my lord,' said the
intended.
'No, no, no,' replied the old lord, 'no, no, I'm going to be married, and lead a new life.
Ha, ha, ha! a new life, a new life! ha, ha, ha!'
It was a satisfactory thing to hear that the old gentleman was going to lead a new life,
for it was pretty evident that his old one would not last him much longer. The mere exertion
of protracted chuckling reduced him to a fearful ebb of coughing and gasping; it was some
minutes before he could find breath to remark that the girl was too pretty for a milliner.
'I hope you don't think good looks a disqualification for the business, my lord,' said
Madame Mantalini, simpering.
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss217
'Not by any means,' replied the old lord, 'or you would have left it long ago.'
'You naughty creature,' said the lively lady, poking the peer with her parasol; 'I won't
have you talk so. How dare you?'
This playful inquiry was accompanied with another poke, and another, and then the old
lord caught the parasol, and wouldn't give it up again, which induced the other lady to come
to the rescue, and some very pretty sportiveness ensued.
'You will see that those little alterations are made, Madame Mantalini,' said the lady.
'Nay, you bad man, you positively shall go first; I wouldn't leave you behind with that pretty
girl, not for half a second. I know you too well. Jane, my dear, let him go first, and we shall
be quite sure of him.'
The old lord, evidently much flattered by this suspicion, bestowed a grotesque leer upon
Kate as he passed; and, receiving another tap with the parasol for his wickedness, tottered
downstairs to the door, where his sprightly body was hoisted into the carriage by two stout
footmen.
'Foh!' said Madame Mantalini, 'how he ever gets into a carriage without thinking of a
hearse, I can't think. There, take the things away, my dear, take them away.'
Kate, who had remained during the whole scene with her eyes modestly fixed upon the
ground, was only too happy to avail herself of the permission to retire, and hasten joyfully
downstairs to Miss Knag's dominion.
The circumstances of the little kingdom had greatly changed, however, during the short
period of her absence. In place of Miss Knag being stationed in her accustomed seat,
preserving all the dignity and greatness of Madame Mantalini's representative, that worthy
soul was reposing on a large box, bathed in tears, while three or four of the young ladies in
close attendance upon her, together with the presence of hartshorn, vinegar, and other
restoratives, would have borne ample testimony, even without the derangement of the
head−dress and front row of curls, to her having fainted desperately.
'Bless me!' said Kate, stepping hastily forward, 'what is the matter?'
This inquiry produced in Miss Knag violent symptoms of a relapse; and several young
ladies, darting angry looks at Kate, applied more vinegar and hartshorn, and said it was 'a
shame.'
'What is a shame?' demanded Kate. 'What is the matter? What has happened? tell me.'
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss218
'Matter!' cried Miss Knag, coming, all at once, bolt upright, to the great consternation of
the assembled maidens; 'matter! Fie upon you, you nasty creature!'
'Gracious!' cried Kate, almost paralysed by the violence with which the adjective had
been jerked out from between Miss Knag's closed teeth; 'have I offended you?'
'YOU offended me!' retorted Miss Knag, 'YOU! a chit, a child, an upstart nobody! Oh,
indeed! Ha, ha!'
Now, it was evident, as Miss Knag laughed, that something struck her as being
exceedingly funny; and as the young ladies took their tone from Miss Knag – she being the
chief – they all got up a laugh without a moment's delay, and nodded their heads a little, and
smiled sarcastically to each other, as much as to say how very good that was!
'Here she is,' continued Miss Knag, getting off the box, and introducing Kate with much
ceremony and many low curtseys to the delighted throng; 'here she is – everybody is talking
about her – the belle, ladies – the beauty, the – oh, you bold−faced thing!'
At this crisis, Miss Knag was unable to repress a virtuous shudder, which immediately
communicated itself to all the young ladies; after which, Miss Knag laughed, and after that,
cried.
'For fifteen years,' exclaimed Miss Knag, sobbing in a most affecting manner, 'for
fifteen years have I been the credit and ornament of this room and the one upstairs. Thank
God,' said Miss Knag, stamping first her right foot and then her left with remarkable energy,
'I have never in all that time, till now, been exposed to the arts, the vile arts, of a creature,
who disgraces us with all her proceedings, and makes proper people blush for themselves.
But I feel it, I do feel it, although I am disgusted.'
Miss Knag here relapsed into softness, and the young ladies renewing their attentions,
murmured that she ought to be superior to such things, and that for their part they despised
them, and considered them beneath their notice; in witness whereof, they called out, more
emphatically than before, that it was a shame, and that they felt so angry, they did, they
hardly knew what to do with themselves.
'Have I lived to this day to be called a fright!' cried Miss Knag, suddenly becoming
convulsive, and making an effort to tear her front off.
'Oh no, no,' replied the chorus, 'pray don't say so; don't now!'
'Have I deserved to be called an elderly person?' screamed Miss Knag, wrestling with
the supernumeraries.
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss219
'Don't think of such things, dear,' answered the chorus.
'I hate her,' cried Miss Knag; 'I detest and hate her. Never let her speak to me again;
never let anybody who is a friend of mine speak to her; a slut, a hussy, an impudent artful
hussy!' Having denounced the object of her wrath, in these terms, Miss Knag screamed once,
hiccuped thrice, gurgled in her throat several times, slumbered, shivered, woke, came to,
composed her head−dress, and declared herself quite well again.
Poor Kate had regarded these proceedings, at first, in perfect bewilderment. She had
then turned red and pale by turns, and once or twice essayed to speak; but, as the true
motives of this altered behaviour developed themselves, she retired a few paces, and looked
calmly on without deigning a reply. Nevertheless, although she walked proudly to her seat,
and turned her back upon the group of little satellites who clustered round their ruling planet
in the remotest corner of the room, she gave way, in secret, to some such bitter tears as
would have gladdened Miss Knag's inmost soul, if she could have seen them fall.
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CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days, makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss220
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's,
and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,
b
efore Dinner, at Dinner, and after Dinner.
The bile and rancour of the worthy Miss Knag undergoing no diminution during the
remainder of the week, but rather augmenting with every successive hour; and the honest ire
of all the young ladies rising, or seeming to rise, in exact proportion to the good spinster's
indignation, and both waxing very hot every time Miss Nickleby was called upstairs; it will
be readily imagined that that young lady's daily life was none of the most cheerful or
enviable kind. She hailed the arrival of Saturday night, as a prisoner would a few delicious
hours' respite from slow and wearing torture, and felt that the poor pittance for her first
week's labour would have been dearly and hardly earned, had its amount been trebled.
When she joined her mother, as usual, at the street corner, she was not a little surprised
to find her in conversation with Mr Ralph Nickleby; but her surprise was soon redoubled, no
less by the matter of their conversation, than by the smoothed and altered manner of Mr
Nickleby himself.
'Ah! my dear!' said Ralph; 'we were at that moment talking about you.'
'Indeed!' replied Kate, shrinking, though she scarce knew why, from her uncle's cold
glistening eye.
'That instant,' said Ralph. 'I was coming to call for you, making sure to catch you before
you left; but your mother and I have been talking over family affairs, and the time has
slipped away so rapidly – '
'Well, now, hasn't it?' interposed Mrs Nickleby, quite insensible to the sarcastic tone of
Ralph's last remark. 'Upon my word, I couldn't have believed it possible, that such a – Kate,
my dear, you're to dine with your uncle at half−past six o'clock tomorrow.'
Triumphing in having been the first to communicate this extraordinary intelligence, Mrs
Nickleby nodded and smiled a great many times, to impress its full magnificence on Kate's
wondering mind, and then flew off, at an acute angle, to a committee of ways and means.
'Let me see,' said the good lady. 'Your black silk frock will be quite dress enough, my
dear, with that pretty little scarf, and a plain band in your hair, and a pair of black silk stock
– Dear, dear,' cried Mrs Nickleby, flying off at another angle, 'if I had but those unfortunate
amethysts of mine – you recollect them, Kate, my love – how they used to sparkle, you
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,221
know – but your papa, your poor dear papa – ah! there never was anything so cruelly
sacrificed as those jewels were, never!' Overpowered by this agonising thought, Mrs
Nickleby shook her head, in a melancholy manner, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
I don't want them, mama, indeed,' said Kate. 'Forget that you ever had them.'
'Lord, Kate, my dear,' rejoined Mrs Nickleby, pettishly, 'how like a child you talk!
Four−and−twenty silver tea−spoons, brother−in−law, two gravies, four salts, all the
amethysts – necklace, brooch, and ear−rings – all made away with, at the same time, and I
saying, almost on my bended knees, to that poor good soul, «Why don't you do something,
Nicholas? Why don't you make some arrangement?» I am sure that anybody who was about
us at that time, will do me the justice to own, that if I said that once, I said it fifty times a
day. Didn't I, Kate, my dear? Did I ever lose an opportunity of impressing it on your poor
papa?'
'No, no, mama, never,' replied Kate. And to do Mrs Nickleby justice, she never had lost
– and to do married ladies as a body justice, they seldom do lose – any occasion of
inculcating similar golden percepts, whose only blemish is, the slight degree of vagueness
and uncertainty in which they are usually enveloped.
'Ah!' said Mrs Nickleby, with great fervour, 'if my advice had been taken at the
beginning – Well, I have always done MY duty, and that's some comfort.'
When she had arrived at this reflection, Mrs Nickleby sighed, rubbed her hands, cast up
her eyes, and finally assumed a look of meek composure; thus importing that she was a
persecuted saint, but that she wouldn't trouble her hearers by mentioning a circumstance
which must be so obvious to everybody.
'Now,' said Ralph, with a smile, which, in common with all other tokens of emotion,
seemed to skulk under his face, rather than play boldly over it – 'to return to the point from
which we have strayed. I have a little party of – of – gentlemen with whom I am connected
in business just now, at my house tomorrow; and your mother has promised that you shall
keep house for me. I am not much used to parties; but this is one of business, and such
fooleries are an important part of it sometimes. You don't mind obliging me?'
'Mind!' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'My dear Kate, why – '
'Pray,' interrupted Ralph, motioning her to be silent. 'I spoke to my niece.'
'I shall be very glad, of course, uncle,' replied Kate; 'but I am afraid you will find me
awkward and embarrassed.'
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,222
'Oh no,' said Ralph; 'come when you like, in a hackney coach – I'll pay for it.
Good−night – a – a – God bless you.'
The blessing seemed to stick in Mr Ralph Nickleby's throat, as if it were not used to the
thoroughfare, and didn't know the way out. But it got out somehow, though awkwardly
enough; and having disposed of it, he shook hands with his two relatives, and abruptly left
them.
'What a very strongly marked countenance your uncle has!' said Mrs Nickleby, quite
struck with his parting look. 'I don't see the slightest resemblance to his poor brother.'
'Mama!' said Kate reprovingly. 'To think of such a thing!'
'No,' said Mrs Nickleby, musing. 'There certainly is none. But it's a very honest face.'
The worthy matron made this remark with great emphasis and elocution, as if it
comprised no small quantity of ingenuity and research; and, in truth, it was not unworthy of
being classed among the extraordinary discoveries of the age. Kate looked up hastily, and as
hastily looked down again.
'What has come over you, my dear, in the name of goodness?' asked Mrs Nickleby,
when they had walked on, for some time, in silence.
'I was only thinking, mama,' answered Kate.
'Thinking!' repeated Mrs Nickleby. 'Ay, and indeed plenty to think about, too. Your
uncle has taken a strong fancy to you, that's quite clear; and if some extraordinary good
fortune doesn't come to you, after this, I shall be a little surprised, that's all.'
With this she launched out into sundry anecdotes of young ladies, who had had
thousand−pound notes given them in reticules, by eccentric uncles; and of young ladies who
had accidentally met amiable gentlemen of enormous wealth at their uncles' houses, and
married them, after short but ardent courtships; and Kate, listening first in apathy, and
afterwards in amusement, felt, as they walked home, something of her mother's sanguine
complexion gradually awakening in her own bosom, and began to think that her prospects
might be brightening, and that better days might be dawning upon them. Such is hope,
Heaven's own gift to struggling mortals; pervading, like some subtle essence from the skies,
all things, both good and bad; as universal as death, and more infectious than disease!
The feeble winter's sun – and winter's suns in the city are very feeble indeed – might
have brightened up, as he shone through the dim windows of the large old house, on
witnessing the unusual sight which one half−furnished room displayed. In a gloomy corner,
where, for years, had stood a silent dusty pile of merchandise, sheltering its colony of mice,
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,223
and frowning, a dull and lifeless mass, upon the panelled room, save when, responding to
the roll of heavy waggons in the street without, it quaked with sturdy tremblings and caused
the bright eyes of its tiny citizens to grow brighter still with fear, and struck them
motionless, with attentive ear and palpitating heart, until the alarm had passed away – in this
dark corner, was arranged, with scrupulous care, all Kate's little finery for the day; each
article of dress partaking of that indescribable air of jauntiness and individuality which
empty garments – whether by association, or that they become moulded, as it were, to the
owner's form – will take, in eyes accustomed to, or picturing, the wearer's smartness. In
place of a bale of musty goods, there lay the black silk dress: the neatest possible figure in
itself. The small shoes, with toes delicately turned out, stood upon the very pressure of some
old iron weight; and a pile of harsh discoloured leather had unconsciously given place to the
very same little pair of black silk stockings, which had been the objects of Mrs Nickleby's
peculiar care. Rats and mice, and such small gear, had long ago been starved, or had
emigrated to better quarters: and, in their stead, appeared gloves, bands, scarfs, hair−pins,
and many other little devices, almost as ingenious in their way as rats and mice themselves,
for the tantalisation of mankind. About and among them all, moved Kate herself, not the
least beautiful or unwonted relief to the stern, old, gloomy building.
In good time, or in bad time, as the reader likes to take it – for Mrs Nickleby's
impatience went a great deal faster than the clocks at that end of the town, and Kate was
dressed to the very last hair− pin a full hour and a half before it was at all necessary to begin
to think about it – in good time, or in bad time, the toilet was completed; and it being at
length the hour agreed upon for starting, the milkman fetched a coach from the nearest
stand, and Kate, with many adieux to her mother, and many kind messages to Miss La
Creevy, who was to come to tea, seated herself in it, and went away in state, if ever anybody
went away in state in a hackney coach yet. And the coach, and the coachman, and the
horses, rattled, and jangled, and whipped, and cursed, and swore, and tumbled on together,
until they came to Golden Square.
The coachman gave a tremendous double knock at the door, which was opened long
before he had done, as quickly as if there had been a man behind it, with his hand tied to the
latch. Kate, who had expected no more uncommon appearance than Newman Noggs in a
clean shirt, was not a little astonished to see that the opener was a man in handsome livery,
and that there were two or three others in the hall. There was no doubt about its being the
right house, however, for there was the name upon the door; so she accepted the laced
coat−sleeve which was tendered her, and entering the house, was ushered upstairs, into a
back drawing−room, where she was left alone.
If she had been surprised at the apparition of the footman, she was perfectly absorbed in
amazement at the richness and splendour of the furniture. The softest and most elegant
carpets, the most exquisite pictures, the costliest mirrors; articles of richest ornament, quite
dazzling from their beauty and perplexing from the prodigality with which they were
scattered around; encountered her on every side. The very staircase nearly down to the
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,224
hall−door, was crammed with beautiful and luxurious things, as though the house were
brimful of riches, which, with a very trifling addition, would fairly run over into the street.
Presently, she heard a series of loud double knocks at the street− door, and after every
knock some new voice in the next room; the tones of Mr Ralph Nickleby were easily
distinguishable at first, but by degrees they merged into the general buzz of conversation,
and all she could ascertain was, that there were several gentlemen with no very musical
voices, who talked very loud, laughed very heartily, and swore more than she would have
thought quite necessary. But this was a question of taste.
At length, the door opened, and Ralph himself, divested of his boots, and ceremoniously
embellished with black silks and shoes, presented his crafty face.
'I couldn't see you before, my dear,' he said, in a low tone, and pointing, as he spoke, to
the next room. 'I was engaged in receiving them. Now – shall I take you in?'
'Pray, uncle,' said Kate, a little flurried, as people much more conversant with society
often are, when they are about to enter a room full of strangers, and have had time to think
of it previously, 'are there any ladies here?'
'No,' said Ralph, shortly, 'I don't know any.'
'Must I go in immediately?' asked Kate, drawing back a little.
'As you please,' said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders. 'They are all come, and dinner will
be announced directly afterwards – that's all.'
Kate would have entreated a few minutes' respite, but reflecting that her uncle might
consider the payment of the hackney−coach fare a sort of bargain for her punctuality, she
suffered him to draw her arm through his, and to lead her away.
Seven or eight gentlemen were standing round the fire when they went in, and, as they
were talking very loud, were not aware of their entrance until Mr Ralph Nickleby, touching
one on the coat−sleeve, said in a harsh emphatic voice, as if to attract general attention –
'Lord Frederick Verisopht, my niece, Miss Nickleby.'
The group dispersed, as if in great surprise, and the gentleman addressed, turning round,
exhibited a suit of clothes of the most superlative cut, a pair of whiskers of similar quality, a
moustache, a head of hair, and a young face.
'Eh!' said the gentleman. 'What – the – deyvle!'
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,225
With which broken ejaculations, he fixed his glass in his eye, and stared at Miss
Nickleby in great surprise.
'My niece, my lord,' said Ralph.
'Then my ears did not deceive me, and it's not wa−a−x work,' said his lordship. 'How de
do? I'm very happy.' And then his lordship turned to another superlative gentleman,
something older, something stouter, something redder in the face, and something longer
upon town, and said in a loud whisper that the girl was 'deyvlish pitty.'
'Introduce me, Nickleby,' said this second gentleman, who was lounging with his back
to the fire, and both elbows on the chimneypiece.
'Sir Mulberry Hawk,' said Ralph.
'Otherwise the most knowing card in the pa−ack, Miss Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick
Verisopht.
'Don't leave me out, Nickleby,' cried a sharp−faced gentleman, who was sitting on a low
chair with a high back, reading the paper.
'Mr Pyke,' said Ralph.
'Nor me, Nickleby,' cried a gentleman with a flushed face and a flash air, from the
elbow of Sir Mulberry Hawk.
'Mr Pluck,' said Ralph. Then wheeling about again, towards a gentleman with the neck
of a stork and the legs of no animal in particular, Ralph introduced him as the Honourable
Mr Snobb; and a white−headed person at the table as Colonel Chowser. The colonel was in
conversation with somebody, who appeared to be a make−weight, and was not introduced at
all.
There were two circumstances which, in this early stage of the party, struck home to
Kate's bosom, and brought the blood tingling to her face. One was the flippant contempt
with which the guests evidently regarded her uncle, and the other, the easy insolence of their
manner towards herself. That the first symptom was very likely to lead to the aggravation of
the second, it needed no great penetration to foresee. And here Mr Ralph Nickleby had
reckoned without his host; for however fresh from the country a young lady (by nature) may
be, and however unacquainted with conventional behaviour, the chances are, that she will
have quite as strong an innate sense of the decencies and proprieties of life as if she had run
the gauntlet of a dozen London seasons – possibly a stronger one, for such senses have been
known to blunt in this improving process.
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,226
When Ralph had completed the ceremonial of introduction, he led his blushing niece to
a seat. As he did so, he glanced warily round as though to assure himself of the impression
which her unlooked−for appearance had created.
'An unexpected playsure, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick Verisopht, taking his glass out
of his right eye, where it had, until now, done duty on Kate, and fixing it in his left, to bring
it to bear on Ralph.
'Designed to surprise you, Lord Frederick,' said Mr Pluck.
'Not a bad idea,' said his lordship, 'and one that would almost warrant the addition of an
extra two and a half per cent.'
'Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, in a thick coarse voice, 'take the hint, and tack it on
the other five−and−twenty, or whatever it is, and give me half for the advice.'
Sir Mulberry garnished this speech with a hoarse laugh, and terminated it with a
pleasant oath regarding Mr Nickleby's limbs, whereat Messrs Pyke and Pluck laughed
consumedly.
These gentlemen had not yet quite recovered the jest, when dinner was announced, and
then they were thrown into fresh ecstasies by a similar cause; for Sir Mulberry Hawk, in an
excess of humour, shot dexterously past Lord Frederick Verisopht who was about to lead
Kate downstairs, and drew her arm through his up to the elbow.
'No, damn it, Verisopht,' said Sir Mulberry, 'fair play's a jewel, and Miss Nickleby and I
settled the matter with our eyes ten minutes ago.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the honourable Mr Snobb, 'very good, very good.'
Rendered additionally witty by this applause, Sir Mulberry Hawk leered upon his
friends most facetiously, and led Kate downstairs with an air of familiarity, which roused in
her gentle breast such burning indignation, as she felt it almost impossible to repress. Nor
was the intensity of these feelings at all diminished, when she found herself placed at the top
of the table, with Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Frederick Verisopht on either side.
'Oh, you've found your way into our neighbourhood, have you?' said Sir Mulberry as his
lordship sat down.
'Of course,' replied Lord Frederick, fixing his eyes on Miss Nickleby, 'how can you
a−ask me?'
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,227
'Well, you attend to your dinner,' said Sir Mulberry, 'and don't mind Miss Nickleby and
me, for we shall prove very indifferent company, I dare say.'
'I wish you'd interfere here, Nickleby,' said Lord Frederick.
'What is the matter, my lord?' demanded Ralph from the bottom of the table, where he
was supported by Messrs Pyke and Pluck.
'This fellow, Hawk, is monopolising your niece,' said Lord Frederick.
'He has a tolerable share of everything that you lay claim to, my lord,' said Ralph with a
sneer.
''Gad, so he has,' replied the young man; 'deyvle take me if I know which is master in
my house, he or I.'
'I know,' muttered Ralph.
'I think I shall cut him off with a shilling,' said the young nobleman, jocosely.
'No, no, curse it,' said Sir Mulberry. 'When you come to the shilling – the last shilling –
I'll cut you fast enough; but till then, I'll never leave you – you may take your oath of it.'
This sally (which was strictly founded on fact) was received with a general roar, above
which, was plainly distinguishable the laughter of Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck, who were,
evidently, Sir Mulberry's toads in ordinary. Indeed, it was not difficult to see, that the
majority of the company preyed upon the unfortunate young lord, who, weak and silly as he
was, appeared by far the least vicious of the party. Sir Mulberry Hawk was remarkable for
his tact in ruining, by himself and his creatures, young gentlemen of fortune – a genteel and
elegant profession, of which he had undoubtedly gained the head. With all the boldness of
an original genius, he had struck out an entirely new course of treatment quite opposed to
the usual method; his custom being, when he had gained the ascendancy over those he took
in hand, rather to keep them down than to give them their own way; and to exercise his
vivacity upon them openly, and without reserve. Thus, he made them butts, in a double
sense, and while he emptied them with great address, caused them to ring with sundry well−
administered taps, for the diversion of society.
The dinner was as remarkable for the splendour and completeness of its appointments as
the mansion itself, and the company were remarkable for doing it ample justice, in which
respect Messrs Pyke and Pluck particularly signalised themselves; these two gentlemen
eating of every dish, and drinking of every bottle, with a capacity and perseverance truly
astonishing. They were remarkably fresh, too, notwithstanding their great exertions: for, on
the appearance of the dessert, they broke out again, as if nothing serious had taken place
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,228
since breakfast.
'Well,' said Lord Frederick, sipping his first glass of port, 'if this is a discounting dinner,
all I have to say is, deyvle take me, if it wouldn't be a good pla−an to get discount every
day.'
'You'll have plenty of it, in your time,' returned Sir Mulberry Hawk; 'Nickleby will tell
you that.'
'What do you say, Nickleby?' inquired the young man; 'am I to be a good customer?'
'It depends entirely on circumstances, my lord,' replied Ralph.
'On your lordship's circumstances,' interposed Colonel Chowser of the Militia – and the
race−courses.
The gallant colonel glanced at Messrs Pyke and Pluck as if he thought they ought to
laugh at his joke; but those gentlemen, being only engaged to laugh for Sir Mulberry Hawk,
were, to his signal discomfiture, as grave as a pair of undertakers. To add to his defeat, Sir
Mulberry, considering any such efforts an invasion of his peculiar privilege, eyed the
offender steadily, through his glass, as if astonished at his presumption, and audibly stated
his impression that it was an 'infernal liberty,' which being a hint to Lord Frederick, he put
up HIS glass, and surveyed the object of censure as if he were some extraordinary wild
animal then exhibiting for the first time. As a matter of course, Messrs Pyke and Pluck
stared at the individual whom Sir Mulberry Hawk stared at; so, the poor colonel, to hide his
confusion, was reduced to the necessity of holding his port before his right eye and affecting
to scrutinise its colour with the most lively interest.
All this while, Kate had sat as silently as she could, scarcely daring to raise her eyes,
lest they should encounter the admiring gaze of Lord Frederick Verisopht, or, what was still
more embarrassing, the bold looks of his friend Sir Mulberry. The latter gentleman was
obliging enough to direct general attention towards her.
'Here is Miss Nickleby,' observed Sir Mulberry, 'wondering why the deuce somebody
doesn't make love to her.'
'No, indeed,' said Kate, looking hastily up, 'I – ' and then she stopped, feeling it would
have been better to have said nothing at all.
'I'll hold any man fifty pounds,' said Sir Mulberry, 'that Miss Nickleby can't look in my
face, and tell me she wasn't thinking so.'
'Done!' cried the noble gull. 'Within ten minutes.'
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,229
'Done!' responded Sir Mulberry. The money was produced on both sides, and the
Honourable Mr Snobb was elected to the double office of stake−holder and time−keeper.
'Pray,' said Kate, in great confusion, while these preliminaries were in course of
completion. 'Pray do not make me the subject of any bets. Uncle, I cannot really – '
'Why not, my dear?' replied Ralph, in whose grating voice, however, there was an
unusual huskiness, as though he spoke unwillingly, and would rather that the proposition
had not been broached. 'It is done in a moment; there is nothing in it. If the gentlemen insist
on it – '
'I don't insist on it,' said Sir Mulberry, with a loud laugh. 'That is, I by no means insist
upon Miss Nickleby's making the denial, for if she does, I lose; but I shall be glad to see her
bright eyes, especially as she favours the mahogany so much.'
'So she does, and it's too ba−a−d of you, Miss Nickleby,' said the noble youth.
'Quite cruel,' said Mr Pyke.
'Horrid cruel,' said Mr Pluck.
'I don't care if I do lose,' said Sir Mulberry; 'for one tolerable look at Miss Nickleby's
eyes is worth double the money.'
'More,' said Mr Pyke.
'Far more,' said Mr Pluck.
'How goes the enemy, Snobb?' asked Sir Mulberry Hawk.
'Four minutes gone.'
'Bravo!'
'Won't you ma−ake one effort for me, Miss Nickleby?' asked Lord Frederick, after a
short interval.
'You needn't trouble yourself to inquire, my buck,' said Sir Mulberry; 'Miss Nickleby
and I understand each other; she declares on my side, and shows her taste. You haven't a
chance, old fellow. Time, Snobb?'
'Eight minutes gone.'
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,230
'Get the money ready,' said Sir Mulberry; 'you'll soon hand over.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr Pyke.
Mr Pluck, who always came second, and topped his companion if he could, screamed
outright.
The poor girl, who was so overwhelmed with confusion that she scarcely knew what she
did, had determined to remain perfectly quiet; but fearing that by so doing she might seem to
countenance Sir Mulberry's boast, which had been uttered with great coarseness and
vulgarity of manner, raised her eyes, and looked him in the face. There was something so
odious, so insolent, so repulsive in the look which met her, that, without the power to
stammer forth a syllable, she rose and hurried from the room. She restrained her tears by a
great effort until she was alone upstairs, and then gave them vent.
'Capital!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, putting the stakes in his pocket.
'That's a girl of spirit, and we'll drink her health.'
It is needless to say, that Pyke and Co. responded, with great warmth of manner, to this
proposal, or that the toast was drunk with many little insinuations from the firm, relative to
the completeness of Sir Mulberry's conquest. Ralph, who, while the attention of the other
guests was attracted to the principals in the preceding scene, had eyed them like a wolf,
appeared to breathe more freely now his niece was gone; the decanters passing quickly
round, he leaned back in his chair, and turned his eyes from speaker to speaker, as they
warmed with wine, with looks that seemed to search their hearts, and lay bare, for his
distempered sport, every idle thought within them.
Meanwhile Kate, left wholly to herself, had, in some degree, recovered her composure.
She had learnt from a female attendant, that her uncle wished to see her before she left, and
had also gleaned the satisfactory intelligence, that the gentlemen would take coffee at table.
The prospect of seeing them no more, contributed greatly to calm her agitation, and, taking
up a book, she composed herself to read.
She started sometimes, when the sudden opening of the dining−room door let loose a
wild shout of noisy revelry, and more than once rose in great alarm, as a fancied footstep on
the staircase impressed her with the fear that some stray member of the party was returning
alone. Nothing occurring, however, to realise her apprehensions, she endeavoured to fix her
attention more closely on her book, in which by degrees she became so much interested, that
she had read on through several chapters without heed of time or place, when she was
terrified by suddenly hearing her name pronounced by a man's voice close at her ear.
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,231
The book fell from her hand. Lounging on an ottoman close beside her, was Sir
Mulberry Hawk, evidently the worse – if a man be a ruffian at heart, he is never the better –
for wine.
'What a delightful studiousness!' said this accomplished gentleman. 'Was it real, now, or
only to display the eyelashes?'
Kate, looking anxiously towards the door, made no reply.
'I have looked at 'em for five minutes,' said Sir Mulberry. 'Upon my soul, they're
perfect. Why did I speak, and destroy such a pretty little picture?'
'Do me the favour to be silent now, sir,' replied Kate.
'No, don't,' said Sir Mulberry, folding his crushed hat to lay his elbow on, and bringing
himself still closer to the young lady; 'upon my life, you oughtn't to. Such a devoted slave of
yours, Miss Nickleby – it's an infernal thing to treat him so harshly, upon my soul it is.'
'I wish you to understand, sir,' said Kate, trembling in spite of herself, but speaking with
great indignation, 'that your behaviour offends and disgusts me. If you have a spark of
gentlemanly feeling remaining, you will leave me.'
'Now why,' said Sir Mulberry, 'why will you keep up this appearance of excessive
rigour, my sweet creature? Now, be more natural – my dear Miss Nickleby, be more natural
– do.'
Kate hastily rose; but as she rose, Sir Mulberry caught her dress, and forcibly detained
her.
'Let me go, sir,' she cried, her heart swelling with anger. 'Do you hear? Instantly – this
moment.'
'Sit down, sit down,' said Sir Mulberry; 'I want to talk to you.'
'Unhand me, sir, this instant,' cried Kate.
'Not for the world,' rejoined Sir Mulberry. Thus speaking, he leaned over, as if to
replace her in her chair; but the young lady, making a violent effort to disengage herself, he
lost his balance, and measured his length upon the ground. As Kate sprung forward to leave
the room, Mr Ralph Nickleby appeared in the doorway, and confronted her.
'What is this?' said Ralph.
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,232
'It is this, sir,' replied Kate, violently agitated: 'that beneath the roof where I, a helpless
girl, your dead brother's child, should most have found protection, I have been exposed to
insult which should make you shrink to look upon me. Let me pass you.'
Ralph DID shrink, as the indignant girl fixed her kindling eye upon him; but he did not
comply with her injunction, nevertheless: for he led her to a distant seat, and returning, and
approaching Sir Mulberry Hawk, who had by this time risen, motioned towards the door.
'Your way lies there, sir,' said Ralph, in a suppressed voice, that some devil might have
owned with pride.
'What do you mean by that?' demanded his friend, fiercely.
The swoln veins stood out like sinews on Ralph's wrinkled forehead, and the nerves
about his mouth worked as though some unendurable emotion wrung them; but he smiled
disdainfully, and again pointed to the door.
'Do you know me, you old madman?' asked Sir Mulberry.
'Well,' said Ralph. The fashionable vagabond for the moment quite quailed under the
steady look of the older sinner, and walked towards the door, muttering as he went.
'You wanted the lord, did you?' he said, stopping short when he reached the door, as if a
new light had broken in upon him, and confronting Ralph again. 'Damme, I was in the way,
was I?'
Ralph smiled again, but made no answer.
'Who brought him to you first?' pursued Sir Mulberry; 'and how, without me, could you
ever have wound him in your net as you have?'
'The net is a large one, and rather full,' said Ralph. 'Take care that it chokes nobody in
the meshes.'
'You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if you have not already made
a bargain with the devil,' retorted the other. 'Do you mean to tell me that your pretty niece
was not brought here as a decoy for the drunken boy downstairs?'
Although this hurried dialogue was carried on in a suppressed tone on both sides, Ralph
looked involuntarily round to ascertain that Kate had not moved her position so as to be
within hearing. His adversary saw the advantage he had gained, and followed it up.
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,233
'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked again, 'that it is not so? Do you mean to say that if he
had found his way up here instead of me, you wouldn't have been a little more blind, and a
little more deaf, and a little less flourishing, than you have been? Come, Nickleby, answer
me that.'
'I tell you this,' replied Ralph, 'that if I brought her here, as a matter of business – '
'Ay, that's the word,' interposed Sir Mulberry, with a laugh. 'You're coming to yourself
again now.'
' – As a matter of business,' pursued Ralph, speaking slowly and firmly, as a man who
has made up his mind to say no more, 'because I thought she might make some impression
on the silly youth you have taken in hand and are lending good help to ruin, I knew –
knowing him – that it would be long before he outraged her girl's feelings, and that unless he
offended by mere puppyism and emptiness, he would, with a little management, respect the
sex and conduct even of his usurer's niece. But if I thought to draw him on more gently by
this device, I did not think of subjecting the girl to the licentiousness and brutality of so old a
hand as you. And now we understand each other.'
'Especially as there was nothing to be got by it – eh?' sneered Sir Mulberry.
'Exactly so,' said Ralph. He had turned away, and looked over his shoulder to make this
last reply. The eyes of the two worthies met, with an expression as if each rascal felt that
there was no disguising himself from the other; and Sir Mulberry Hawk shrugged his
shoulders and walked slowly out.
His friend closed the door, and looked restlessly towards the spot where his niece still
remained in the attitude in which he had left her. She had flung herself heavily upon the
couch, and with her head drooping over the cushion, and her face hidden in her hands,
seemed to be still weeping in an agony of shame and grief.
Ralph would have walked into any poverty−stricken debtor's house, and pointed him
out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child's death−bed, without the smallest
concern, because it would have been a matter quite in the ordinary course of business, and
the man would have been an offender against his only code of morality. But, here was a
young girl, who had done no wrong save that of coming into the world alive; who had
patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried hard to please him – above all, who didn't
owe him money – and he felt awkward and nervous.
Ralph took a chair at some distance; then, another chair a little nearer; then, moved a
little nearer still; then, nearer again, and finally sat himself on the same sofa, and laid his
hand on Kate's arm.
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CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,234
'Hush, my dear!' he said, as she drew it back, and her sobs burst out afresh. 'Hush, hush!
Don't mind it, now; don't think of it.'
'Oh, for pity's sake, let me go home,' cried Kate. 'Let me leave this house, and go home.'
'Yes, yes,' said Ralph. 'You shall. But you must dry your eyes first, and compose
yourself. Let me raise your head. There – there.'
'Oh, uncle!' exclaimed Kate, clasping her hands. 'What have I done – what have I done –
that you should subject me to this? If I had wronged you in thought, or word, or deed, it
would have been most cruel to me, and the memory of one you must have loved in some old
time; but – '
'Only listen to me for a moment,' interrupted Ralph, seriously alarmed by the violence
of her emotions. 'I didn't know it would be so; it was impossible for me to foresee it. I did all
I could. – Come, let us walk about. You are faint with the closeness of the room, and the
heat of these lamps. You will be better now, if you make the slightest effort.'
'I will do anything,' replied Kate, 'if you will only send me home.'
'Well, well, I will,' said Ralph; 'but you must get back your own looks; for those you
have, will frighten them, and nobody must know of this but you and I. Now let us walk the
other way. There. You look better even now.'
With such encouragements as these, Ralph Nickleby walked to and fro, with his niece
leaning on his arm; actually trembling beneath her touch.
In the same manner, when he judged it prudent to allow her to depart, he supported her
downstairs, after adjusting her shawl and performing such little offices, most probably for
the first time in his life. Across the hall, and down the steps, Ralph led her too; nor did he
withdraw his hand until she was seated in the coach.
As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate's hair, close at her
uncle's feet; and as he picked it up, and returned it into her hand, the light from a
neighbouring lamp shone upon her face. The lock of hair that had escaped and curled
loosely over her brow, the traces of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of
sorrow, all fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man's breast; and the face of
his dead brother seemed present before him, with the very look it bore on some occasion of
boyish grief, of which every minutest circumstance flashed upon his mind, with the
distinctness of a scene of yesterday.
Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood and kindred – who was
steeled against every tale of sorrow and distress – staggered while he looked, and went back
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,235
into his house, as a man who had seen a spirit from some world beyond the grave.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in which the Company entertained themselves,236
CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle,
to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His
Resolution.
L
ittle Miss La Creevy trotted briskly through divers streets at the west end of the town,
early on Monday morning – the day after the dinner – charged with the important
commission of acquainting Madame Mantalini that Miss Nickleby was too unwell to attend
that day, but hoped to be enabled to resume her duties on the morrow. And as Miss La
Creevy walked along, revolving in her mind various genteel forms and elegant turns of
expression, with a view to the selection of the very best in which to couch her
communication, she cogitated a good deal upon the probable causes of her young friend's
indisposition.
'I don't know what to make of it,' said Miss La Creevy. 'Her eyes were decidedly red last
night. She said she had a headache; headaches don't occasion red eyes. She must have been
crying.'
Arriving at this conclusion, which, indeed, she had established to her perfect satisfaction
on the previous evening, Miss La Creevy went on to consider – as she had done nearly all
night – what new cause of unhappiness her young friend could possibly have had.
'I can't think of anything,' said the little portrait painter. 'Nothing at all, unless it was the
behaviour of that old bear. Cross to her, I suppose? Unpleasant brute!'
Relieved by this expression of opinion, albeit it was vented upon empty air, Miss La
Creevy trotted on to Madame Mantalini's; and being informed that the governing power was
not yet out of bed, requested an interview with the second in command; whereupon Miss
Knag appeared.
'So far as I am concerned,' said Miss Knag, when the message had been delivered, with
many ornaments of speech; 'I could spare Miss Nickleby for evermore.'
'Oh, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Miss La Creevy, highly offended. 'But, you see, you are
not mistress of the business, and therefore it's of no great consequence.'
'Very good, ma'am,' said Miss Knag. 'Have you any further commands for me?'
'No, I have not, ma'am,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
'Then good−morning, ma'am,' said Miss Knag.
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.237
'Good−morning to you, ma'am; and many obligations for your extreme politeness and
good breeding,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
Thus terminating the interview, during which both ladies had trembled very much, and
been marvellously polite – certain indications that they were within an inch of a very
desperate quarrel – Miss La Creevy bounced out of the room, and into the street.
'I wonder who that is,' said the queer little soul. 'A nice person to know, I should think! I
wish I had the painting of her: I'D do her justice.' So, feeling quite satisfied that she had said
a very cutting thing at Miss Knag's expense, Miss La Creevy had a hearty laugh, and went
home to breakfast in great good humour.
Here was one of the advantages of having lived alone so long! The little bustling, active,
cheerful creature existed entirely within herself, talked to herself, made a confidante of
herself, was as sarcastic as she could be, on people who offended her, by herself; pleased
herself, and did no harm. If she indulged in scandal, nobody's reputation suffered; and if she
enjoyed a little bit of revenge, no living soul was one atom the worse. One of the many to
whom, from straitened circumstances, a consequent inability to form the associations they
would wish, and a disinclination to mix with the society they could obtain, London is as
complete a solitude as the plains of Syria, the humble artist had pursued her lonely, but
contented way for many years; and, until the peculiar misfortunes of the Nickleby family
attracted her attention, had made no friends, though brimful of the friendliest feelings to all
mankind. There are many warm hearts in the same solitary guise as poor little Miss La
Creevy's.
However, that's neither here nor there, just now. She went home to breakfast, and had
scarcely caught the full flavour of her first sip of tea, when the servant announced a
gentleman, whereat Miss La Creevy, at once imagining a new sitter transfixed by admiration
at the street−door case, was in unspeakable consternation at the presence of the tea−things.
'Here, take 'em away; run with 'em into the bedroom; anywhere,' said Miss La Creevy.
'Dear, dear; to think that I should be late on this particular morning, of all others, after being
ready for three weeks by half−past eight o'clock, and not a soul coming near the place!'
'Don't let me put you out of the way,' said a voice Miss La Creevy knew. 'I told the
servant not to mention my name, because I wished to surprise you.'
'Mr Nicholas!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting in great astonishment. 'You have not
forgotten me, I see,' replied Nicholas, extending his hand.
'Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you in the street,' said Miss La
Creevy, with a smile. 'Hannah, another cup and saucer. Now, I'll tell you what, young man;
I'll trouble you not to repeat the impertinence you were guilty of, on the morning you went
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.238
away.'
'You would not be very angry, would you?' asked Nicholas.
'Wouldn't I!' said Miss La Creevy. 'You had better try; that's all!'
Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss La Creevy at her word, who
uttered a faint scream and slapped his face; but it was not a very hard slap, and that's the
truth.
'I never saw such a rude creature!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy.
'You told me to try,' said Nicholas.
'Well; but I was speaking ironically,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
'Oh! that's another thing,' said Nicholas; 'you should have told me that, too.'
'I dare say you didn't know, indeed!' retorted Miss La Creevy. 'But, now I look at you
again, you seem thinner than when I saw you last, and your face is haggard and pale. And
how come you to have left Yorkshire?'
She stopped here; for there was so much heart in her altered tone and manner, that
Nicholas was quite moved.
'I need look somewhat changed,' he said, after a short silence; 'for I have undergone
some suffering, both of mind and body, since I left London. I have been very poor, too, and
have even suffered from want.'
'Good Heaven, Mr Nicholas!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, 'what are you telling me?'
'Nothing which need distress you quite so much,' answered Nicholas, with a more
sprightly air; 'neither did I come here to bewail my lot, but on matter more to the purpose. I
wish to meet my uncle face to face. I should tell you that first.'
'Then all I have to say about that is,' interposed Miss La Creevy, 'that I don't envy you
your taste; and that sitting in the same room with his very boots, would put me out of
humour for a fortnight.'
'In the main,' said Nicholas, 'there may be no great difference of opinion between you
and me, so far; but you will understand, that I desire to confront him, to justify myself, and
to cast his duplicity and malice in his throat.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.239
'That's quite another matter,' rejoined Miss La Creevy. 'Heaven forgive me; but I
shouldn't cry my eyes quite out of my head, if they choked him. Well?'
'To this end, I called upon him this morning,' said Nicholas. 'He only returned to town
on Saturday, and I knew nothing of his arrival until late last night.'
'And did you see him?' asked Miss La Creevy.
'No,' replied Nicholas. 'He had gone out.'
'Hah!' said Miss La Creevy; 'on some kind, charitable business, I dare say.'
'I have reason to believe,' pursued Nicholas, 'from what has been told me, by a friend of
mine who is acquainted with his movements, that he intends seeing my mother and sister
today, and giving them his version of the occurrences that have befallen me. I will meet him
there.'
'That's right,' said Miss La Creevy, rubbing her hands. 'And yet, I don't know,' she
added, 'there is much to be thought of – others to be considered.'
'I have considered others,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but as honesty and honour are both at
issue, nothing shall deter me.'
'You should know best,' said Miss La Creevy.
'In this case I hope so,' answered Nicholas. 'And all I want you to do for me, is, to
prepare them for my coming. They think me a long way off, and if I went wholly
unexpected, I should frighten them. If you can spare time to tell them that you have seen me,
and that I shall be with them in a quarter of an hour afterwards, you will do me a great
service.'
'I wish I could do you, or any of you, a greater,' said Miss La Creevy; 'but the power to
serve, is as seldom joined with the will, as the will is with the power, I think.'
Talking on very fast and very much, Miss La Creevy finished her breakfast with great
expedition, put away the tea−caddy and hid the key under the fender, resumed her bonnet,
and, taking Nicholas's arm, sallied forth at once to the city. Nicholas left her near the door of
his mother's house, and promised to return within a quarter of an hour.
It so chanced that Ralph Nickleby, at length seeing fit, for his own purposes, to
communicate the atrocities of which Nicholas had been guilty, had (instead of first
proceeding to another quarter of the town on business, as Newman Noggs supposed he
would) gone straight to his sister−in−law. Hence, when Miss La Creevy, admitted by a girl
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.240
who was cleaning the house, made her way to the sitting−room, she found Mrs Nickleby and
Kate in tears, and Ralph just concluding his statement of his nephew's misdemeanours. Kate
beckoned her not to retire, and Miss La Creevy took a seat in silence.
'You are here already, are you, my gentleman?' thought the little woman. 'Then he shall
announce himself, and see what effect that has on you.'
'This is pretty,' said Ralph, folding up Miss Squeers's note; 'very pretty. I recommend
him – against all my previous conviction, for I knew he would never do any good – to a man
with whom, behaving himself properly, he might have remained, in comfort, for years. What
is the result? Conduct for which he might hold up his hand at the Old Bailey.'
'I never will believe it,' said Kate, indignantly; 'never. It is some base conspiracy, which
carries its own falsehood with it.'
'My dear,' said Ralph, 'you wrong the worthy man. These are not inventions. The man is
assaulted, your brother is not to be found; this boy, of whom they speak, goes with him –
remember, remember.'
'It is impossible,' said Kate. 'Nicholas! – and a thief too! Mama, how can you sit and
hear such statements?'
Poor Mrs Nickleby, who had, at no time, been remarkable for the possession of a very
clear understanding, and who had been reduced by the late changes in her affairs to a most
complicated state of perplexity, made no other reply to this earnest remonstrance than
exclaiming from behind a mass of pocket−handkerchief, that she never could have believed
it – thereby most ingeniously leaving her hearers to suppose that she did believe it.
'It would be my duty, if he came in my way, to deliver him up to justice,' said Ralph,
'my bounden duty; I should have no other course, as a man of the world and a man of
business, to pursue. And yet,' said Ralph, speaking in a very marked manner, and looking
furtively, but fixedly, at Kate, 'and yet I would not. I would spare the feelings of his – of his
sister. And his mother of course,' added Ralph, as though by an afterthought, and with far
less emphasis.
Kate very well understood that this was held out as an additional inducement to her to
preserve the strictest silence regarding the events of the preceding night. She looked
involuntarily towards Ralph as he ceased to speak, but he had turned his eyes another way,
and seemed for the moment quite unconscious of her presence.
'Everything,' said Ralph, after a long silence, broken only by Mrs Nickleby's sobs,
'everything combines to prove the truth of this letter, if indeed there were any possibility of
disputing it. Do innocent men steal away from the sight of honest folks, and skulk in
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.241
hiding−places, like outlaws? Do innocent men inveigle nameless vagabonds, and prowl with
them about the country as idle robbers do? Assault, riot, theft, what do you call these?'
'A lie!' cried a voice, as the door was dashed open, and Nicholas came into the room.
In the first moment of surprise, and possibly of alarm, Ralph rose from his seat, and fell
back a few paces, quite taken off his guard by this unexpected apparition. In another
moment, he stood, fixed and immovable with folded arms, regarding his nephew with a
scowl; while Kate and Miss La Creevy threw themselves between the two, to prevent the
personal violence which the fierce excitement of Nicholas appeared to threaten.
'Dear Nicholas,' cried his sister, clinging to him. 'Be calm, consider – '
'Consider, Kate!' cried Nicholas, clasping her hand so tight in the tumult of his anger,
that she could scarcely bear the pain. 'When I consider all, and think of what has passed, I
need be made of iron to stand before him.'
'Or bronze,' said Ralph, quietly; 'there is not hardihood enough in flesh and blood to
face it out.'
'Oh dear, dear!' cried Mrs Nickleby, 'that things should have come to such a pass as
this!'
'Who speaks in a tone, as if I had done wrong, and brought disgrace on them?' said
Nicholas, looking round.
'Your mother, sir,' replied Ralph, motioning towards her.
'Whose ears have been poisoned by you,' said Nicholas; 'by you – who, under pretence
of deserving the thanks she poured upon you, heaped every insult, wrong, and indignity
upon my head. You, who sent me to a den where sordid cruelty, worthy of yourself, runs
wanton, and youthful misery stalks precocious; where the lightness of childhood shrinks into
the heaviness of age, and its every promise blights, and withers as it grows. I call Heaven to
witness,' said Nicholas, looking eagerly round, 'that I have seen all this, and that he knows
it.'
'Refute these calumnies,' said Kate, 'and be more patient, so that you may give them no
advantage. Tell us what you really did, and show that they are untrue.'
'Of what do they – or of what does he – accuse me?' said Nicholas.
'First, of attacking your master, and being within an ace of qualifying yourself to be
tried for murder,' interposed Ralph. 'I speak plainly, young man, bluster as you will.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.242
'I interfered,' said Nicholas, 'to save a miserable creature from the vilest cruelty. In so
doing, I inflicted such punishment upon a wretch as he will not readily forget, though far
less than he deserved from me. If the same scene were renewed before me now, I would take
the same part; but I would strike harder and heavier, and brand him with such marks as he
should carry to his grave, go to it when he would.'
'You hear?' said Ralph, turning to Mrs Nickleby. 'Penitence, this!'
'Oh dear me!' cried Mrs Nickleby, 'I don't know what to think, I really don't.'
'Do not speak just now, mama, I entreat you,' said Kate. 'Dear Nicholas, I only tell you,
that you may know what wickedness can prompt, but they accuse you of – a ring is missing,
and they dare to say that – '
'The woman,' said Nicholas, haughtily, 'the wife of the fellow from whom these charges
come, dropped – as I suppose – a worthless ring among some clothes of mine, early in the
morning on which I left the house. At least, I know that she was in the bedroom where they
lay, struggling with an unhappy child, and that I found it when I opened my bundle on the
road. I returned it, at once, by coach, and they have it now.'
'I knew, I knew,' said Kate, looking towards her uncle. 'About this boy, love, in whose
company they say you left?'
'The boy, a silly, helpless creature, from brutality and hard usage, is with me now,'
rejoined Nicholas.
'You hear?' said Ralph, appealing to the mother again, 'everything proved, even upon
his own confession. Do you choose to restore that boy, sir?'
'No, I do not,' replied Nicholas.
'You do not?' sneered Ralph.
'No,' repeated Nicholas, 'not to the man with whom I found him. I would that I knew on
whom he has the claim of birth: I might wring something from his sense of shame, if he
were dead to every tie of nature.'
'Indeed!' said Ralph. 'Now, sir, will you hear a word or two from me?'
'You can speak when and what you please,' replied Nicholas, embracing his sister. 'I
take little heed of what you say or threaten.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.243
'Mighty well, sir,' retorted Ralph; 'but perhaps it may concern others, who may think it
worth their while to listen, and consider what I tell them. I will address your mother, sir,
who knows the world.'
'Ah! and I only too dearly wish I didn't,' sobbed Mrs Nickleby.
There really was no necessity for the good lady to be much distressed upon this
particular head; the extent of her worldly knowledge being, to say the least, very
questionable; and so Ralph seemed to think, for he smiled as she spoke. He then glanced
steadily at her and Nicholas by turns, as he delivered himself in these words:
'Of what I have done, or what I meant to do, for you, ma'am, and my niece, I say not
one syllable. I held out no promise, and leave you to judge for yourself. I hold out no threat
now, but I say that this boy, headstrong, wilful and disorderly as he is, should not have one
penny of my money, or one crust of my bread, or one grasp of my hand, to save him from
the loftiest gallows in all Europe. I will not meet him, come where he comes, or hear his
name. I will not help him, or those who help him. With a full knowledge of what he brought
upon you by so doing, he has come back in his selfish sloth, to be an aggravation of your
wants, and a burden upon his sister's scanty wages. I regret to leave you, and more to leave
her, now, but I will not encourage this compound of meanness and cruelty, and, as I will not
ask you to renounce him, I see you no more.'
If Ralph had not known and felt his power in wounding those he hated, his glances at
Nicholas would have shown it him, in all its force, as he proceeded in the above address.
Innocent as the young man was of all wrong, every artful insinuation stung, every well−
considered sarcasm cut him to the quick; and when Ralph noted his pale face and quivering
lip, he hugged himself to mark how well he had chosen the taunts best calculated to strike
deep into a young and ardent spirit.
'I can't help it,' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'I know you have been very good to us, and meant
to do a good deal for my dear daughter. I am quite sure of that; I know you did, and it was
very kind of you, having her at your house and all – and of course it would have been a great
thing for her and for me too. But I can't, you know, brother− in−law, I can't renounce my
own son, even if he has done all you say he has – it's not possible; I couldn't do it; so we
must go to rack and ruin, Kate, my dear. I can bear it, I dare say.' Pouring forth these and a
perfectly wonderful train of other disjointed expressions of regret, which no mortal power
but Mrs Nickleby's could ever have strung together, that lady wrung her hands, and her tears
fell faster.
'Why do you say «IF Nicholas has done what they say he has,» mama?' asked Kate,
with honest anger. 'You know he has not.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.244
'I don't know what to think, one way or other, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'Nicholas is
so violent, and your uncle has so much composure, that I can only hear what he says, and
not what Nicholas does. Never mind, don't let us talk any more about it. We can go to the
Workhouse, or the Refuge for the Destitute, or the Magdalen Hospital, I dare say; and the
sooner we go the better.' With this extraordinary jumble of charitable institutions, Mrs
Nickleby again gave way to her tears.
'Stay,' said Nicholas, as Ralph turned to go. 'You need not leave this place, sir, for it will
be relieved of my presence in one minute, and it will be long, very long, before I darken
these doors again.'
'Nicholas,' cried Kate, throwing herself on her brother's shoulder, 'do not say so. My
dear brother, you will break my heart. Mama, speak to him. Do not mind her, Nicholas; she
does not mean it, you should know her better. Uncle, somebody, for Heaven's sake speak to
him.'
'I never meant, Kate,' said Nicholas, tenderly, 'I never meant to stay among you; think
better of me than to suppose it possible. I may turn my back on this town a few hours sooner
than I intended, but what of that? We shall not forget each other apart, and better days will
come when we shall part no more. Be a woman, Kate,' he whispered, proudly, 'and do not
make me one, while HE looks on.'
'No, no, I will not,' said Kate, eagerly, 'but you will not leave us. Oh! think of all the
happy days we have had together, before these terrible misfortunes came upon us; of all the
comfort and happiness of home, and the trials we have to bear now; of our having no
protector under all the slights and wrongs that poverty so much favours, and you cannot
leave us to bear them alone, without one hand to help us.'
'You will be helped when I am away,' replied Nicholas hurriedly. 'I am no help to you,
no protector; I should bring you nothing but sorrow, and want, and suffering. My own
mother sees it, and her fondness and fears for you, point to the course that I should take. And
so all good angels bless you, Kate, till I can carry you to some home of mine, where we may
revive the happiness denied to us now, and talk of these trials as of things gone by. Do not
keep me here, but let me go at once. There. Dear girl – dear girl.'
The grasp which had detained him relaxed, and Kate swooned in his arms. Nicholas
stooped over her for a few seconds, and placing her gently in a chair, confided her to their
honest friend.
'I need not entreat your sympathy,' he said, wringing her hand, 'for I know your nature.
You will never forget them.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.245
He stepped up to Ralph, who remained in the same attitude which he had preserved
throughout the interview, and moved not a finger.
'Whatever step you take, sir,' he said, in a voice inaudible beyond themselves, 'I shall
keep a strict account of. I leave them to you, at your desire. There will be a day of reckoning
sooner or later, and it will be a heavy one for you if they are wronged.'
Ralph did not allow a muscle of his face to indicate that he heard one word of this
parting address. He hardly knew that it was concluded, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely made
up her mind to detain her son by force if necessary, when Nicholas was gone.
As he hurried through the streets to his obscure lodging, seeking to keep pace, as it
were, with the rapidity of the thoughts which crowded upon him, many doubts and
hesitations arose in his mind, and almost tempted him to return. But what would they gain
by this? Supposing he were to put Ralph Nickleby at defiance, and were even fortunate
enough to obtain some small employment, his being with them could only render their
present condition worse, and might greatly impair their future prospects; for his mother had
spoken of some new kindnesses towards Kate which she had not denied. 'No,' thought
Nicholas, 'I have acted for the best.'
But, before he had gone five hundred yards, some other and different feeling would
come upon him, and then he would lag again, and pulling his hat over his eyes, give way to
the melancholy reflections which pressed thickly upon him. To have committed no fault, and
yet to be so entirely alone in the world; to be separated from the only persons he loved, and
to be proscribed like a criminal, when six months ago he had been surrounded by every
comfort, and looked up to, as the chief hope of his family – this was hard to bear. He had not
deserved it either. Well, there was comfort in that; and poor Nicholas would brighten up
again, to be again depressed, as his quickly shifting thoughts presented every variety of light
and shade before him.
Undergoing these alternations of hope and misgiving, which no one, placed in a
situation of ordinary trial, can fail to have experienced, Nicholas at length reached his poor
room, where, no longer borne up by the excitement which had hitherto sustained him, but
depressed by the revulsion of feeling it left behind, he threw himself on the bed, and turning
his face to the wall, gave free vent to the emotions he had so long stifled.
He had not heard anybody enter, and was unconscious of the presence of Smike, until,
happening to raise his head, he saw him, standing at the upper end of the room, looking
wistfully towards him. He withdrew his eyes when he saw that he was observed, and
affected to be busied with some scanty preparations for dinner.
'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas, as cheerfully as he could speak, 'let me hear what new
acquaintances you have made this morning, or what new wonder you have found out, in the
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.246
compass of this street and the next one.'
'No,' said Smike, shaking his head mournfully; 'I must talk of something else today.'
'Of what you like,' replied Nicholas, good−humouredly.
'Of this,' said Smike. 'I know you are unhappy, and have got into great trouble by
bringing me away. I ought to have known that, and stopped behind – I would, indeed, if I
had thought it then. You – you – are not rich; you have not enough for yourself, and I should
not be here. You grow,' said the lad, laying his hand timidly on that of Nicholas, 'you grow
thinner every day; your cheek is paler, and your eye more sunk. Indeed I cannot bear to see
you so, and think how I am burdening you. I tried to go away today, but the thought of your
kind face drew me back. I could not leave you without a word.' The poor fellow could say
no more, for his eyes filled with tears, and his voice was gone.
'The word which separates us,' said Nicholas, grasping him heartily by the shoulder,
'shall never be said by me, for you are my only comfort and stay. I would not lose you now,
Smike, for all the world could give. The thought of you has upheld me through all I have
endured today, and shall, through fifty times such trouble. Give me your hand. My heart is
linked to yours. We will journey from this place together, before the week is out. What, if I
am steeped in poverty? You lighten it, and we will be poor together.'
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CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.247
CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of
some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation
at all.
T
he agitation she had undergone, rendered Kate Nickleby unable to resume her duties
at the dressmaker's for three days, at the expiration of which interval she betook herself at
the accustomed hour, and with languid steps, to the temple of fashion where Madame
Mantalini reigned paramount and supreme.
The ill−will of Miss Knag had lost nothing of its virulence in the interval. The young
ladies still scrupulously shrunk from all companionship with their denounced associate; and
when that exemplary female arrived a few minutes afterwards, she was at no pains to
conceal the displeasure with which she regarded Kate's return.
'Upon my word!' said Miss Knag, as the satellites flocked round, to relieve her of her
bonnet and shawl; 'I should have thought some people would have had spirit enough to stop
away altogether, when they know what an incumbrance their presence is to right−minded
persons. But it's a queer world; oh! it's a queer world!'
Miss Knag, having passed this comment on the world, in the tone in which most people
do pass comments on the world when they are out of temper, that is to say, as if they by no
means belonged to it, concluded by heaving a sigh, wherewith she seemed meekly to
compassionate the wickedness of mankind.
The attendants were not slow to echo the sigh, and Miss Knag was apparently on the
eve of favouring them with some further moral reflections, when the voice of Madame
Mantalini, conveyed through the speaking−tube, ordered Miss Nickleby upstairs to assist in
the arrangement of the show−room; a distinction which caused Miss Knag to toss her head
so much, and bite her lips so hard, that her powers of conversation were, for the time,
annihilated.
'Well, Miss Nickleby, child,' said Madame Mantalini, when Kate presented herself; 'are
you quite well again?'
'A great deal better, thank you,' replied Kate.
'I wish I could say the same,' remarked Madame Mantalini, seating herself with an air of
weariness.
'Are you ill?' asked Kate. 'I am very sorry for that.'
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CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.248
'Not exactly ill, but worried, child – worried,' rejoined Madame.
'I am still more sorry to hear that,' said Kate, gently. 'Bodily illness is more easy to bear
than mental.'
'Ah! and it's much easier to talk than to bear either,' said Madame, rubbing her nose
with much irritability of manner. 'There, get to your work, child, and put the things in order,
do.'
While Kate was wondering within herself what these symptoms of unusual vexation
portended, Mr Mantalini put the tips of his whiskers, and, by degrees, his head, through the
half−opened door, and cried in a soft voice –
'Is my life and soul there?'
'No,' replied his wife.
'How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little rose in a demnition
flower−pot?' urged Mantalini. 'May its poppet come in and talk?'
'Certainly not,' replied Madame: 'you know I never allow you here. Go along!'
The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this reply, ventured
to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing
her a kiss as he came along.
'Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching nutcrackers?' said
Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of his life and soul, and drawing her towards
him with his right.
'Oh! I can't bear you,' replied his wife.
'Not – eh, not bear ME!' exclaimed Mantalini. 'Fibs, fibs. It couldn't be. There's not a
woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my face – to my own face.' Mr Mantalini
stroked his chin, as he said this, and glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.
'Such destructive extravagance,' reasoned his wife, in a low tone.
'All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little Venus, such a demd,
enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating little Venus,' said Mantalini.
'See what a situation you have placed me in!' urged Madame.
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CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.249
'No harm will come, no harm shall come, to its own darling,' rejoined Mr Mantalini. 'It
is all over; there will be nothing the matter; money shall be got in; and if it don't come in fast
enough, old Nickleby shall stump up again, or have his jugular separated if he dares to vex
and hurt the little – '
'Hush!' interposed Madame. 'Don't you see?'
Mr Mantalini, who, in his eagerness to make up matters with his wife, had overlooked,
or feigned to overlook, Miss Nickleby hitherto, took the hint, and laying his finger on his lip,
sunk his voice still lower. There was, then, a great deal of whispering, during which
Madame Mantalini appeared to make reference, more than once, to certain debts incurred by
Mr Mantalini previous to her coverture; and also to an unexpected outlay of money in
payment of the aforesaid debts; and furthermore, to certain agreeable weaknesses on that
gentleman's part, such as gaming, wasting, idling, and a tendency to horse−flesh; each of
which matters of accusation Mr Mantalini disposed of, by one kiss or more, as its relative
importance demanded. The upshot of it all was, that Madame Mantalini was in raptures with
him, and that they went upstairs to breakfast.
Kate busied herself in what she had to do, and was silently arranging the various articles
of decoration in the best taste she could display, when she started to hear a strange man's
voice in the room, and started again, to observe, on looking round, that a white hat, and a red
neckerchief, and a broad round face, and a large head, and part of a green coat were in the
room too.
'Don't alarm yourself, miss,' said the proprietor of these appearances. 'I say; this here's
the mantie−making consarn, an't it?'
'Yes,' rejoined Kate, greatly astonished. 'What did you want?'
The stranger answered not; but, first looking back, as though to beckon to some unseen
person outside, came, very deliberately, into the room, and was closely followed by a little
man in brown, very much the worse for wear, who brought with him a mingled fumigation
of stale tobacco and fresh onions. The clothes of this gentleman were much bespeckled with
flue; and his shoes, stockings, and nether garments, from his heels to the waist buttons of his
coat inclusive, were profusely embroidered with splashes of mud, caught a fortnight
previously – before the setting−in of the fine weather.
Kate's very natural impression was, that these engaging individuals had called with the
view of possessing themselves, unlawfully, of any portable articles that chanced to strike
their fancy. She did not attempt to disguise her apprehensions, and made a move towards the
door.
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CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.250
'Wait a minnit,' said the man in the green coat, closing it softly, and standing with his
back against it. 'This is a unpleasant bisness. Vere's your govvernor?'
'My what – did you say?' asked Kate, trembling; for she thought 'governor' might be
slang for watch or money.
'Mister Muntlehiney,' said the man. 'Wot's come on him? Is he at home?'
'He is above stairs, I believe,' replied Kate, a little reassured by this inquiry. 'Do you
want him?'
'No,' replied the visitor. 'I don't ezactly want him, if it's made a favour on. You can jist
give him that 'ere card, and tell him if he wants to speak to ME, and save trouble, here I am;
that's all.'
With these words, the stranger put a thick square card into Kate's hand, and, turning to
his friend, remarked, with an easy air, 'that the rooms was a good high pitch;' to which the
friend assented, adding, by way of illustration, 'that there was lots of room for a little boy to
grow up a man in either on 'em, vithout much fear of his ever bringing his head into contract
vith the ceiling.'
After ringing the bell which would summon Madame Mantalini, Kate glanced at the
card, and saw that it displayed the name of 'Scaley,' together with some other information to
which she had not had time to refer, when her attention was attracted by Mr Scaley himself,
who, walking up to one of the cheval−glasses, gave it a hard poke in the centre with his
stick, as coolly as if it had been made of cast iron.
'Good plate this here, Tix,' said Mr Scaley to his friend.
'Ah!' rejoined Mr Tix, placing the marks of his four fingers, and a duplicate impression
of his thumb, on a piece of sky−blue silk; 'and this here article warn't made for nothing,
mind you.'
From the silk, Mr Tix transferred his admiration to some elegant articles of wearing
apparel, while Mr Scaley adjusted his neckcloth, at leisure, before the glass, and afterwards,
aided by its reflection, proceeded to the minute consideration of a pimple on his chin; in
which absorbing occupation he was yet engaged, when Madame Mantalini, entering the
room, uttered an exclamation of surprise which roused him.
'Oh! Is this the missis?' inquired Scaley.
'It is Madame Mantalini,' said Kate.
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CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.251
'Then,' said Mr Scaley, producing a small document from his pocket and unfolding it
very slowly, 'this is a writ of execution, and if it's not conwenient to settle we'll go over the
house at wunst, please, and take the inwentory.'
Poor Madame Mantalini wrung her hands for grief, and rung the bell for her husband;
which done, she fell into a chair and a fainting fit, simultaneously. The professional
gentlemen, however, were not at all discomposed by this event, for Mr Scaley, leaning upon
a stand on which a handsome dress was displayed (so that his shoulders appeared above it,
in nearly the same manner as the shoulders of the lady for whom it was designed would have
done if she had had it on), pushed his hat on one side and scratched his head with perfect
unconcern, while his friend Mr Tix, taking that opportunity for a general survey of the
apartment preparatory to entering on business, stood with his inventory−book under his arm
and his hat in his hand, mentally occupied in putting a price upon every object within his
range of vision.
Such was the posture of affairs when Mr Mantalini hurried in; and as that distinguished
specimen had had a pretty extensive intercourse with Mr Scaley's fraternity in his bachelor
days, and was, besides, very far from being taken by surprise on the present agitating
occasion, he merely shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands down to the bottom of his
pockets, elevated his eyebrows, whistled a bar or two, swore an oath or two, and, sitting
astride upon a chair, put the best face upon the matter with great composure and decency.
'What's the demd total?' was the first question he asked.
'Fifteen hundred and twenty−seven pound, four and ninepence ha'penny,' replied Mr
Scaley, without moving a limb.
'The halfpenny be demd,' said Mr Mantalini, impatiently.
'By all means if you vish it,' retorted Mr Scaley; 'and the ninepence.'
'It don't matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty−seven pound went along with it,
that I know on,' observed Mr Tix.
'Not a button,' said Scaley.
'Well,' said the same gentleman, after a pause, 'wot's to be done – anything? Is it only a
small crack, or a out−and−out smash? A break−up of the constitootion is it? – werry good.
Then Mr Tom Tix, esk−vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family as you
won't sleep at home for three nights to come, along of being in possession here. Wot's the
good of the lady a fretting herself?' continued Mr Scaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. 'A
good half of wot's here isn't paid for, I des−say, and wot a consolation oughtn't that to be to
her feelings!'
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With these remarks, combining great pleasantry with sound moral encouragement under
difficulties, Mr Scaley proceeded to take the inventory, in which delicate task he was
materially assisted by the uncommon tact and experience of Mr Tix, the broker.
'My cup of happiness's sweetener,' said Mantalini, approaching his wife with a penitent
air; 'will you listen to me for two minutes?'
'Oh! don't speak to me,' replied his wife, sobbing. 'You have ruined me, and that's
enough.'
Mr Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner heard these words
pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he recoiled several paces, assumed an
expression of consuming mental agony, rushed headlong from the room, and was, soon
afterwards, heard to slam the door of an upstairs dressing−room with great violence.
'Miss Nickleby,' cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her ear, 'make haste, for
Heaven's sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from
me. Alfred, my darling Alfred.'
With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who, although she did
not quite participate in the fond wife's apprehensions, was a little flurried, nevertheless. The
dressing− room door being hastily flung open, Mr Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his
shirt−collar symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a breakfast knife by means of
his razor strop.
'Ah!' cried Mr Mantalini, 'interrupted!' and whisk went the breakfast knife into Mr
Mantalini's dressing−gown pocket, while Mr Mantalini's eyes rolled wildly, and his hair
floating in wild disorder, mingled with his whiskers.
'Alfred,' cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, 'I didn't mean to say it, I didn't
mean to say it!'
'Ruined!' cried Mr Mantalini. 'Have I brought ruin upon the best and purest creature that
ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let me go.' At this crisis of his ravings Mr
Mantalini made a pluck at the breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife's grasp,
attempted to dash his head against the wall – taking very good care to be at least six feet
from it.
'Compose yourself, my own angel,' said Madame. 'It was nobody's fault; it was mine as
much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred, come.'
Mr Mantalini did not think proper to come to, all at once; but, after calling several times
for poison, and requesting some lady or gentleman to blow his brains out, gentler feelings
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came upon him, and he wept pathetically. In this softened frame of mind he did not oppose
the capture of the knife – which, to tell the truth, he was rather glad to be rid of, as an
inconvenient and dangerous article for a skirt pocket – and finally he suffered himself to be
led away by his affectionate partner.
After a delay of two or three hours, the young ladies were informed that their services
would be dispensed with until further notice, and at the expiration of two days, the name of
Mantalini appeared in the list of bankrupts: Miss Nickleby received an intimation per post,
on the same morning, that the business would be, in future, carried on under the name of
Miss Knag, and that her assistance would no longer be required – a piece of intelligence
with which Mrs Nickleby was no sooner made acquainted, than that good lady declared she
had expected it all along and cited divers unknown occasions on which she had prophesied
to that precise effect.
'And I say again,' remarked Mrs Nickleby (who, it is scarcely necessary to observe, had
never said so before), 'I say again, that a milliner's and dressmaker's is the very last
description of business, Kate, that you should have thought of attaching yourself to. I don't
make it a reproach to you, my love; but still I will say, that if you had consulted your own
mother – '
'Well, well, mama,' said Kate, mildly: 'what would you recommend now?'
'Recommend!' cried Mrs Nickleby, 'isn't it obvious, my dear, that of all occupations in
this world for a young lady situated as you are, that of companion to some amiable lady is
the very thing for which your education, and manners, and personal appearance, and
everything else, exactly qualify you? Did you never hear your poor dear papa speak of the
young lady who was the daughter of the old lady who boarded in the same house that he
boarded in once, when he was a bachelor – what was her name again? I know it began with
a B, and ended with g, but whether it was Waters or – no, it couldn't have been that, either;
but whatever her name was, don't you know that that young lady went as companion to a
married lady who died soon afterwards, and that she married the husband, and had one of
the finest little boys that the medical man had ever seen – all within eighteen months?'
Kate knew, perfectly well, that this torrent of favourable recollection was occasioned by
some opening, real or imaginary, which her mother had discovered, in the companionship
walk of life. She therefore waited, very patiently, until all reminiscences and anecdotes,
bearing or not bearing upon the subject, had been exhausted, and at last ventured to inquire
what discovery had been made. The truth then came out. Mrs Nickleby had, that morning,
had a yesterday's newspaper of the very first respectability from the public−house where the
porter came from; and in this yesterday's newspaper was an advertisement, couched in the
purest and most grammatical English, announcing that a married lady was in want of a
genteel young person as companion, and that the married lady's name and address were to be
known, on application at a certain library at the west end of the town, therein mentioned.
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'And I say,' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby, laying the paper down in triumph, 'that if your
uncle don't object, it's well worth the trial.'
Kate was too sick at heart, after the rough jostling she had already had with the world,
and really cared too little at the moment what fate was reserved for her, to make any
objection. Mr Ralph Nickleby offered none, but, on the contrary, highly approved of the
suggestion; neither did he express any great surprise at Madame Mantalini's sudden failure,
indeed it would have been strange if he had, inasmuch as it had been procured and brought
about chiefly by himself. So, the name and address were obtained without loss of time, and
Miss Nickleby and her mama went off in quest of Mrs Wititterly, of Cadogan Place, Sloane
Street, that same forenoon.
Cadogan Place is the one slight bond that joins two great extremes; it is the connecting
link between the aristocratic pavements of Belgrave Square, and the barbarism of Chelsea. It
is in Sloane Street, but not of it. The people in Cadogan Place look down upon Sloane
Street, and think Brompton low. They affect fashion too, and wonder where the New Road
is. Not that they claim to be on precisely the same footing as the high folks of Belgrave
Square and Grosvenor Place, but that they stand, with reference to them, rather in the light
of those illegitimate children of the great who are content to boast of their connections,
although their connections disavow them. Wearing as much as they can of the airs and
semblances of loftiest rank, the people of Cadogan Place have the realities of middle station.
It is the conductor which communicates to the inhabitants of regions beyond its limit, the
shock of pride of birth and rank, which it has not within itself, but derives from a
fountain−head beyond; or, like the ligament which unites the Siamese twins, it contains
something of the life and essence of two distinct bodies, and yet belongs to neither.
Upon this doubtful ground, lived Mrs Wititterly, and at Mrs Wititterly's door Kate
Nickleby knocked with trembling hand. The door was opened by a big footman with his
head floured, or chalked, or painted in some way (it didn't look genuine powder), and the big
footman, receiving the card of introduction, gave it to a little page; so little, indeed, that his
body would not hold, in ordinary array, the number of small buttons which are indispensable
to a page's costume, and they were consequently obliged to be stuck on four abreast. This
young gentleman took the card upstairs on a salver, and pending his return, Kate and her
mother were shown into a dining−room of rather dirty and shabby aspect, and so
comfortably arranged as to be adapted to almost any purpose rather than eating and drinking.
Now, in the ordinary course of things, and according to all authentic descriptions of
high life, as set forth in books, Mrs Wititterly ought to have been in her BOUDOIR; but
whether it was that Mr Wititterly was at that moment shaving himself in the BOUDOIR or
what not, certain it is that Mrs Wititterly gave audience in the drawing−room, where was
everything proper and necessary, including curtains and furniture coverings of a roseate hue,
to shed a delicate bloom on Mrs Wititterly's complexion, and a little dog to snap at strangers'
legs for Mrs Wititterly's amusement, and the afore−mentioned page, to hand chocolate for
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Mrs Wititterly's refreshment.
The lady had an air of sweet insipidity, and a face of engaging paleness; there was a
faded look about her, and about the furniture, and about the house. She was reclining on a
sofa in such a very unstudied attitude, that she might have been taken for an actress all ready
for the first scene in a ballet, and only waiting for the drop curtain to go up.
'Place chairs.'
The page placed them.
'Leave the room, Alphonse.'
The page left it; but if ever an Alphonse carried plain Bill in his face and figure, that
page was the boy.
'I have ventured to call, ma'am,' said Kate, after a few seconds of awkward silence,
'from having seen your advertisement.'
'Yes,' replied Mrs Wititterly, 'one of my people put it in the paper – Yes.'
'I thought, perhaps,' said Kate, modestly, 'that if you had not already made a final
choice, you would forgive my troubling you with an application.'
'Yes,' drawled Mrs Wititterly again.
'If you have already made a selection – '
'Oh dear no,' interrupted the lady, 'I am not so easily suited. I really don't know what to
say. You have never been a companion before, have you?'
Mrs Nickleby, who had been eagerly watching her opportunity, came dexterously in,
before Kate could reply. 'Not to any stranger, ma'am,' said the good lady; 'but she has been a
companion to me for some years. I am her mother, ma'am.'
'Oh!' said Mrs Wititterly, 'I apprehend you.'
'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'that I very little thought, at one time, that it
would be necessary for my daughter to go out into the world at all, for her poor dear papa
was an independent gentleman, and would have been at this moment if he had but listened in
time to my constant entreaties and – '
'Dear mama,' said Kate, in a low voice.
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'My dear Kate, if you will allow me to speak,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I shall take the liberty
of explaining to this lady – '
'I think it is almost unnecessary, mama.'
And notwithstanding all the frowns and winks with which Mrs Nickleby intimated that
she was going to say something which would clench the business at once, Kate maintained
her point by an expressive look, and for once Mrs Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink
of an oration.
'What are your accomplishments?' asked Mrs Wititterly, with her eyes shut.
Kate blushed as she mentioned her principal acquirements, and Mrs Nickleby checked
them all off, one by one, on her fingers; having calculated the number before she came out.
Luckily the two calculations agreed, so Mrs Nickleby had no excuse for talking.
'You are a good temper?' asked Mrs Wititterly, opening her eyes for an instant, and
shutting them again.
'I hope so,' rejoined Kate.
'And have a highly respectable reference for everything, have you?'
Kate replied that she had, and laid her uncle's card upon the table.
'Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and let me look at you,' said Mrs
Wititterly; 'I am so very nearsighted that I can't quite discern your features.'
Kate complied, though not without some embarrassment, with this request, and Mrs
Wititterly took a languid survey of her countenance, which lasted some two or three
minutes.
'I like your appearance,' said that lady, ringing a little bell. 'Alphonse, request your
master to come here.'
The page disappeared on this errand, and after a short interval, during which not a word
was spoken on either side, opened the door for an important gentleman of about
eight−and−thirty, of rather plebeian countenance, and with a very light head of hair, who
leant over Mrs Wititterly for a little time, and conversed with her in whispers.
'Oh!' he said, turning round, 'yes. This is a most important matter. Mrs Wititterly is of a
very excitable nature; very delicate, very fragile; a hothouse plant, an exotic.'
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'Oh! Henry, my dear,' interposed Mrs Wititterly.
'You are, my love, you know you are; one breath – ' said Mr W., blowing an imaginary
feather away. 'Pho! you're gone!'
The lady sighed.
'Your soul is too large for your body,' said Mr Wititterly. 'Your intellect wears you out;
all the medical men say so; you know that there is not a physician who is not proud of being
called in to you. What is their unanimous declaration? «My dear doctor,» said I to Sir
Tumley Snuffim, in this very room, the very last time he came. «My dear doctor, what is my
wife's complaint? Tell me all. I can bear it. Is it nerves?» «My dear fellow,» he said, «be
proud of that woman; make much of her; she is an ornament to the fashionable world, and to
you. Her complaint is soul. It swells, expands, dilates – the blood fires, the pulse quickens,
the excitement increases – Whew!»' Here Mr Wititterly, who, in the ardour of his
description, had flourished his right hand to within something less than an inch of Mrs
Nickleby's bonnet, drew it hastily back again, and blew his nose as fiercely as if it had been
done by some violent machinery.
'You make me out worse than I am, Henry,' said Mrs Wititterly, with a faint smile.
'I do not, Julia, I do not,' said Mr W. 'The society in which you move – necessarily
move, from your station, connection, and endowments – is one vortex and whirlpool of the
most frightful excitement. Bless my heart and body, can I ever forget the night you danced
with the baronet's nephew at the election ball, at Exeter! It was tremendous.'
'I always suffer for these triumphs afterwards,' said Mrs Wititterly.
'And for that very reason,' rejoined her husband, 'you must have a companion, in whom
there is great gentleness, great sweetness, excessive sympathy, and perfect repose.'
Here, both Mr and Mrs Wititterly, who had talked rather at the Nicklebys than to each
other, left off speaking, and looked at their two hearers, with an expression of countenance
which seemed to say, 'What do you think of all this?'
'Mrs Wititterly,' said her husband, addressing himself to Mrs Nickleby, 'is sought after
and courted by glittering crowds and brilliant circles. She is excited by the opera, the drama,
the fine arts, the – the – the – '
'The nobility, my love,' interposed Mrs Wititterly.
'The nobility, of course,' said Mr Wititterly. 'And the military. She forms and expresses
an immense variety of opinions on an immense variety of subjects. If some people in public
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life were acquainted with Mrs Wititterly's real opinion of them, they would not hold their
heads, perhaps, quite as high as they do.'
'Hush, Henry,' said the lady; 'this is scarcely fair.'
'I mention no names, Julia,' replied Mr Wititterly; 'and nobody is injured. I merely
mention the circumstance to show that you are no ordinary person, that there is a constant
friction perpetually going on between your mind and your body; and that you must be
soothed and tended. Now let me hear, dispassionately and calmly, what are this young lady's
qualifications for the office.'
In obedience to this request, the qualifications were all gone through again, with the
addition of many interruptions and cross− questionings from Mr Wititterly. It was finally
arranged that inquiries should be made, and a decisive answer addressed to Miss Nickleby
under cover of her uncle, within two days. These conditions agreed upon, the page showed
them down as far as the staircase window; and the big footman, relieving guard at that point,
piloted them in perfect safety to the street−door.
'They are very distinguished people, evidently,' said Mrs Nickleby, as she took her
daughter's arm. 'What a superior person Mrs Wititterly is!'
'Do you think so, mama?' was all Kate's reply.
'Why, who can help thinking so, Kate, my love?' rejoined her mother. 'She is pale
though, and looks much exhausted. I hope she may not be wearing herself out, but I am very
much afraid.'
These considerations led the deep−sighted lady into a calculation of the probable
duration of Mrs Wititterly's life, and the chances of the disconsolate widower bestowing his
hand on her daughter. Before reaching home, she had freed Mrs Wititterly's soul from all
bodily restraint; married Kate with great splendour at St George's, Hanover Square; and only
left undecided the minor question, whether a splendid French−polished mahogany bedstead
should be erected for herself in the two−pair back of the house in Cadogan Place, or in the
three−pair front: between which apartments she could not quite balance the advantages, and
therefore adjusted the question at last, by determining to leave it to the decision of her
son−in−law.
The inquiries were made. The answer – not to Kate's very great joy – was favourable;
and at the expiration of a week she betook herself, with all her movables and valuables, to
Mrs Wititterly's mansion, where for the present we will leave her.
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CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.259
CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to
seek his Fortune.
H
e encounters Mr Vincent Crummles; and who he was, is herein made manifest
The whole capital which Nicholas found himself entitled to, either in possession,
reversion, remainder, or expectancy, after paying his rent and settling with the broker from
whom he had hired his poor furniture, did not exceed, by more than a few halfpence, the
sum of twenty shillings. And yet he hailed the morning on which he had resolved to quit
London, with a light heart, and sprang from his bed with an elasticity of spirit which is
happily the lot of young persons, or the world would never be stocked with old ones.
It was a cold, dry, foggy morning in early spring. A few meagre shadows flitted to and
fro in the misty streets, and occasionally there loomed through the dull vapour, the heavy
outline of some hackney coach wending homewards, which, drawing slowly nearer, rolled
jangling by, scattering the thin crust of frost from its whitened roof, and soon was lost again
in the cloud. At intervals were heard the tread of slipshod feet, and the chilly cry of the poor
sweep as he crept, shivering, to his early toil; the heavy footfall of the official watcher of the
night, pacing slowly up and down and cursing the tardy hours that still intervened between
him and sleep; the rambling of ponderous carts and waggons; the roll of the lighter vehicles
which carried buyers and sellers to the different markets; the sound of ineffectual knocking
at the doors of heavy sleepers – all these noises fell upon the ear from time to time, but all
seemed muffled by the fog, and to be rendered almost as indistinct to the ear as was every
object to the sight. The sluggish darkness thickened as the day came on; and those who had
the courage to rise and peep at the gloomy street from their curtained windows, crept back to
bed again, and coiled themselves up to sleep.
Before even these indications of approaching morning were rife in busy London,
Nicholas had made his way alone to the city, and stood beneath the windows of his mother's
house. It was dull and bare to see, but it had light and life for him; for there was at least one
heart within its old walls to which insult or dishonour would bring the same blood rushing,
that flowed in his own veins.
He crossed the road, and raised his eyes to the window of the room where he knew his
sister slept. It was closed and dark. 'Poor girl,' thought Nicholas, 'she little thinks who lingers
here!'
He looked again, and felt, for the moment, almost vexed that Kate was not there to
exchange one word at parting. 'Good God!' he thought, suddenly correcting himself, 'what a
boy I am!'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 260
'It is better as it is,' said Nicholas, after he had lounged on, a few paces, and returned to
the same spot. 'When I left them before, and could have said goodbye a thousand times if I
had chosen, I spared them the pain of leave−taking, and why not now?' As he spoke, some
fancied motion of the curtain almost persuaded him, for the instant, that Kate was at the
window, and by one of those strange contradictions of feeling which are common to us all,
he shrunk involuntarily into a doorway, that she might not see him. He smiled at his own
weakness; said 'God bless them!' and walked away with a lighter step.
Smike was anxiously expecting him when he reached his old lodgings, and so was
Newman, who had expended a day's income in a can of rum and milk to prepare them for
the journey. They had tied up the luggage, Smike shouldered it, and away they went, with
Newman Noggs in company; for he had insisted on walking as far as he could with them,
overnight.
'Which way?' asked Newman, wistfully.
'To Kingston first,' replied Nicholas.
'And where afterwards?' asked Newman. 'Why won't you tell me?'
'Because I scarcely know myself, good friend,' rejoined Nicholas, laying his hand upon
his shoulder; 'and if I did, I have neither plan nor prospect yet, and might shift my quarters a
hundred times before you could possibly communicate with me.'
'I am afraid you have some deep scheme in your head,' said Newman, doubtfully.
'So deep,' replied his young friend, 'that even I can't fathom it. Whatever I resolve upon,
depend upon it I will write you soon.'
'You won't forget?' said Newman.
'I am not very likely to,' rejoined Nicholas. 'I have not so many friends that I shall grow
confused among the number, and forget my best one.'
Occupied in such discourse, they walked on for a couple of hours, as they might have
done for a couple of days if Nicholas had not sat himself down on a stone by the wayside,
and resolutely declared his intention of not moving another step until Newman Noggs turned
back. Having pleaded ineffectually first for another half−mile, and afterwards for another
quarter, Newman was fain to comply, and to shape his course towards Golden Square, after
interchanging many hearty and affectionate farewells, and many times turning back to wave
his hat to the two wayfarers when they had become mere specks in the distance.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 261
'Now listen to me, Smike,' said Nicholas, as they trudged with stout hearts onwards. 'We
are bound for Portsmouth.'
Smike nodded his head and smiled, but expressed no other emotion; for whether they
had been bound for Portsmouth or Port Royal would have been alike to him, so they had
been bound together.
'I don't know much of these matters,' resumed Nicholas; 'but Portsmouth is a seaport
town, and if no other employment is to be obtained, I should think we might get on board
some ship. I am young and active, and could be useful in many ways. So could you.'
'I hope so,' replied Smike. 'When I was at that – you know where I mean?'
'Yes, I know,' said Nicholas. 'You needn't name the place.'
'Well, when I was there,' resumed Smike; his eyes sparkling at the prospect of
displaying his abilities; 'I could milk a cow, and groom a horse, with anybody.'
'Ha!' said Nicholas, gravely. 'I am afraid they don't keep many animals of either kind on
board ship, Smike, and even when they have horses, that they are not very particular about
rubbing them down; still you can learn to do something else, you know. Where there's a will,
there's a way.'
'And I am very willing,' said Smike, brightening up again.
'God knows you are,' rejoined Nicholas; 'and if you fail, it shall go hard but I'll do
enough for us both.'
'Do we go all the way today?' asked Smike, after a short silence.
'That would be too severe a trial, even for your willing legs,' said Nicholas, with a
good−humoured smile. 'No. Godalming is some thirty and odd miles from London – as I
found from a map I borrowed – and I purpose to rest there. We must push on again
tomorrow, for we are not rich enough to loiter. Let me relieve you of that bundle! Come!'
'No, no,' rejoined Smike, falling back a few steps. 'Don't ask me to give it up to you.'
'Why not?' asked Nicholas.
'Let me do something for you, at least,' said Smike. 'You will never let me serve you as I
ought. You will never know how I think, day and night, of ways to please you.'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 262
'You are a foolish fellow to say it, for I know it well, and see it, or I should be a blind
and senseless beast,' rejoined Nicholas. 'Let me ask you a question while I think of it, and
there is no one by,' he added, looking him steadily in the face. 'Have you a good memory?'
'I don't know,' said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I think I had once; but it's all
gone now – all gone.'
'Why do you think you had once?' asked Nicholas, turning quickly upon him as though
the answer in some way helped out the purport of his question.
'Because I could remember, when I was a child,' said Smike, 'but that is very, very long
ago, or at least it seems so. I was always confused and giddy at that place you took me from;
and could never remember, and sometimes couldn't even understand, what they said to me. I
– let me see – let me see!'
'You are wandering now,' said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.
'No,' replied his companion, with a vacant look 'I was only thinking how – ' He shivered
involuntarily as he spoke.
'Think no more of that place, for it is all over,' retorted Nicholas, fixing his eyes full
upon that of his companion, which was fast settling into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once
habitual to him, and common even then. 'What of the first day you went to Yorkshire?'
'Eh!' cried the lad.
'That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,' said Nicholas quietly.
'Was the weather hot or cold?'
'Wet,' replied the boy. 'Very wet. I have always said, when it has rained hard, that it was
like the night I came: and they used to crowd round and laugh to see me cry when the rain
fell heavily. It was like a child, they said, and that made me think of it more. I turned cold all
over sometimes, for I could see myself as I was then, coming in at the very same door.'
'As you were then,' repeated Nicholas, with assumed carelessness; 'how was that?'
'Such a little creature,' said Smike, 'that they might have had pity and mercy upon me,
only to remember it.'
'You didn't find your way there, alone!' remarked Nicholas.
'No,' rejoined Smike, 'oh no.'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 263
'Who was with you?'
'A man – a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at the school, and I
remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, I was afraid of him; but they made me
more afraid of them, and used me harder too.'
'Look at me,' said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention. 'There; don't turn away.
Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who hung over you once, and kissed your
lips, and called you her child?'
'No,' said the poor creature, shaking his head, 'no, never.'
'Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?'
'No,' rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; 'a room – I remember I slept in a
room, a large lonesome room at the top of a house, where there was a trap−door in the
ceiling. I have covered my head with the clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: a
young child with no one near at night: and I used to wonder what was on the other side.
There was a clock too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember that. I have never forgotten
that room; for when I have terrible dreams, it comes back, just as it was. I see things and
people in it that I had never seen then, but there is the room just as it used to be;
THAT never changes.'
'Will you let me take the bundle now?' asked Nicholas, abruptly changing the theme.
'No,' said Smike, 'no. Come, let us walk on.'
He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under the impression that they had
been standing still during the whole of the previous dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely,
and every word of this conversation remained upon his memory.
It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although a dense vapour still enveloped
the city they had left, as if the very breath of its busy people hung over their schemes of gain
and profit, and found greater attraction there than in the quiet region above, in the open
country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, in some low spots they came upon patches of
mist which the sun had not yet driven from their strongholds; but these were soon passed,
and as they laboured up the hills beyond, it was pleasant to look down, and see how the
sluggish mass rolled heavily off, before the cheering influence of day. A broad, fine, honest
sun lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water with the semblance of summer, while it
left the travellers all the invigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed
elastic under their feet; the sheep−bells were music to their ears; and exhilarated by exercise,
and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with the strength of lions.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 264
The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed a quieter tint, like
young hopes softened down by time, or youthful features by degrees resolving into the calm
and serenity of age. But they were scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had
been in their prime; for nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and
from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, is but a succession of changes so
gentle and easy, that we can scarcely mark their progress.
To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble beds, and
slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though not quite so early as the sun: and again
afoot; if not with all the freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear
them cheerily on.
It was a harder day's journey than yesterday's, for there were long and weary hills to
climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal easier to go down hill than up. However,
they kept on, with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven
that perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
They walked upon the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl; and Smike listened with greedy
interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone which, reared upon that wild spot,
tells of a murder committed there by night. The grass on which they stood, had once been
dyed with gore; and the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into the
hollow which gives the place its name. 'The Devil's Bowl,' thought Nicholas, as he looked
into the void, 'never held fitter liquor than that!'
Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide and spacious
tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and plain to change their verdant surface.
Here, there shot up, almost perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly
accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and there, stood a mound of
green, sloping and tapering off so delicately, and merging so gently into the level ground,
that you could scarce define its limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations
shapely and uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown negligently side by
side, bounded the view in each direction; while frequently, with unexpected noise, there
uprose from the ground a flight of crows, who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills,
as if uncertain of their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and skimmed
down the long vista of some opening valley, with the speed of light itself.
By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as they had been
shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged once again upon the open
country. The knowledge that they were drawing near their place of destination, gave them
fresh courage to proceed; but the way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road,
and Smike was tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned off the path to
the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of Portsmouth.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 265
'Twelve miles,' said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and looking
doubtfully at Smike.
'Twelve long miles,' repeated the landlord.
'Is it a good road?' inquired Nicholas.
'Very bad,' said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, he would say.
'I want to get on,' observed Nicholas. hesitating. 'I scarcely know what to do.'
'Don't let me influence you,' rejoined the landlord. 'I wouldn't go on if it was me.'
'Wouldn't you?' asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.
'Not if I knew when I was well off,' said the landlord. And having said it he pulled up
his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and, taking a step or two outside the door, looked
down the dark road with an assumption of great indifference.
A glance at the toil−worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, so without any further
consideration he made up his mind to stay where he was.
The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a good fire he remarked that it
was very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one he would have observed that it was
very warm.
'What can you give us for supper?' was Nicholas's natural question.
'Why – what would you like?' was the landlord's no less natural answer.
Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat – poached eggs, but there
were no eggs – mutton chops, but there wasn't a mutton chop within three miles, though
there had been more last week than they knew what to do with, and would be an
extraordinary supply the day after tomorrow.
'Then,' said Nicholas, 'I must leave it entirely to you, as I would have done, at first, if
you had allowed me.'
'Why, then I'll tell you what,' rejoined the landlord. 'There's a gentleman in the parlour
that's ordered a hot beef−steak pudding and potatoes, at nine. There's more of it than he can
manage, and I have very little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I'll do that, in a
minute.'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 266
'No, no,' said Nicholas, detaining him. 'I would rather not. I – at least – pshaw! why
cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am travelling in a very humble manner, and have
made my way hither on foot. It is more than probable, I think, that the gentleman may not
relish my company; and although I am the dusty figure you see, I am too proud to thrust
myself into his.'
'Lord love you,' said the landlord, 'it's only Mr Crummles; HE isn't particular.'
'Is he not?' asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, the prospect of the savoury
pudding was making some impression.
'Not he,' replied the landlord. 'He'll like your way of talking, I know. But we'll soon see
all about that. Just wait a minute.'
The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying for further permission, nor did
Nicholas strive to prevent him: wisely considering that supper, under the circumstances, was
too serious a matter to be trifled with. It was not long before the host returned, in a condition
of much excitement.
'All right,' he said in a low voice. 'I knew he would. You'll see something rather worth
seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a−going of it!'
There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, which was delivered in a very
rapturous tone, referred; for he had already thrown open the door of the room; into which
Nicholas, followed by Smike with the bundle on his shoulder (he carried it about with him
as vigilantly as if it had been a sack of gold), straightway repaired.
Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not for something quite so odd as the
sight he encountered. At the upper end of the room, were a couple of boys, one of them very
tall and the other very short, both dressed as sailors – or at least as theatrical sailors, with
belts, buckles, pigtails, and pistols complete – fighting what is called in play−bills a terrific
combat, with two of those short broad−swords with basket hilts which are commonly used at
our minor theatres. The short boy had gained a great advantage over the tall boy, who was
reduced to mortal strait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perched against
the corner of a table, who emphatically adjured them to strike a little more fire out of the
swords, and they couldn't fail to bring the house down, on the very first night.
'Mr Vincent Crummles,' said the landlord with an air of great deference. 'This is the
young gentleman.'
Mr Vincent Crummles received Nicholas with an inclination of the head, something
between the courtesy of a Roman emperor and the nod of a pot companion; and bade the
landlord shut the door and begone.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 267
'There's a picture,' said Mr Crummles, motioning Nicholas not to advance and spoil it.
'The little 'un has him; if the big 'un doesn't knock under, in three seconds, he's a dead man.
Do that again, boys.'
The two combatants went to work afresh, and chopped away until the swords emitted a
shower of sparks: to the great satisfaction of Mr Crummles, who appeared to consider this a
very great point indeed. The engagement commenced with about two hundred chops
administered by the short sailor and the tall sailor alternately, without producing any
particular result, until the short sailor was chopped down on one knee; but this was nothing
to him, for he worked himself about on the one knee with the assistance of his left hand, and
fought most desperately until the tall sailor chopped his sword out of his grasp. Now, the
inference was, that the short sailor, reduced to this extremity, would give in at once and cry
quarter, but, instead of that, he all of a sudden drew a large pistol from his belt and presented
it at the face of the tall sailor, who was so overcome at this (not expecting it) that he let the
short sailor pick up his sword and begin again. Then, the chopping recommenced, and a
variety of fancy chops were administered on both sides; such as chops dealt with the left
hand, and under the leg, and over the right shoulder, and over the left; and when the short
sailor made a vigorous cut at the tall sailor's legs, which would have shaved them clean off if
it had taken effect, the tall sailor jumped over the short sailor's sword, wherefore to balance
the matter, and make it all fair, the tall sailor administered the same cut, and the short sailor
jumped over HIS sword. After this, there was a good deal of dodging about, and hitching up
of the inexpressibles in the absence of braces, and then the short sailor (who was the moral
character evidently, for he always had the best of it) made a violent demonstration and
closed with the tall sailor, who, after a few unavailing struggles, went down, and expired in
great torture as the short sailor put his foot upon his breast, and bored a hole in him through
and through.
'That'll be a double ENCORE if you take care, boys,' said Mr Crummles. 'You had
better get your wind now and change your clothes.'
Having addressed these words to the combatants, he saluted Nicholas, who then
observed that the face of Mr Crummles was quite proportionate in size to his body; that he
had a very full under− lip, a hoarse voice, as though he were in the habit of shouting very
much, and very short black hair, shaved off nearly to the crown of his head – to admit (as he
afterwards learnt) of his more easily wearing character wigs of any shape or pattern.
'What did you think of that, sir?' inquired Mr Crummles.
'Very good, indeed – capital,' answered Nicholas.
'You won't see such boys as those very often, I think,' said Mr Crummles.
Nicholas assented – observing that if they were a little better match –
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 268
'Match!' cried Mr Crummles.
'I mean if they were a little more of a size,' said Nicholas, explaining himself.
'Size!' repeated Mr Crummles; 'why, it's the essence of the combat that there should be a
foot or two between them. How are you to get up the sympathies of the audience in a
legitimate manner, if there isn't a little man contending against a big one? – unless there's at
least five to one, and we haven't hands enough for that business in our company.'
'I see,' replied Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. That didn't occur to me, I confess.'
'It's the main point,' said Mr Crummles. 'I open at Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. If
you're going there, look into the theatre, and see how that'll tell.'
Nicholas promised to do so, if he could, and drawing a chair near the fire, fell into
conversation with the manager at once. He was very talkative and communicative,
stimulated perhaps, not only by his natural disposition, but by the spirits and water he sipped
very plentifully, or the snuff he took in large quantities from a piece of whitey−brown paper
in his waistcoat pocket. He laid open his affairs without the smallest reserve, and descanted
at some length upon the merits of his company, and the acquirements of his family; of both
of which, the two broad−sword boys formed an honourable portion. There was to be a
gathering, it seemed, of the different ladies and gentlemen at Portsmouth on the morrow,
whither the father and sons were proceeding (not for the regular season, but in the course of
a wandering speculation), after fulfilling an engagement at Guildford with the greatest
applause.
'You are going that way?' asked the manager.
'Ye−yes,' said Nicholas. 'Yes, I am.'
'Do you know the town at all?' inquired the manager, who seemed to consider himself
entitled to the same degree of confidence as he had himself exhibited.
'No,' replied Nicholas.
'Never there?'
'Never.'
Mr Vincent Crummles gave a short dry cough, as much as to say, 'If you won't be
communicative, you won't;' and took so many pinches of snuff from the piece of paper, one
after another, that Nicholas quite wondered where it all went to.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 269
While he was thus engaged, Mr Crummles looked, from time to time, with great interest
at Smike, with whom he had appeared considerably struck from the first. He had now fallen
asleep, and was nodding in his chair.
'Excuse my saying so,' said the manager, leaning over to Nicholas, and sinking his
voice, 'but what a capital countenance your friend has got!'
'Poor fellow!' said Nicholas, with a half−smile, 'I wish it were a little more plump, and
less haggard.'
'Plump!' exclaimed the manager, quite horrified, 'you'd spoil it for ever.'
'Do you think so?'
'Think so, sir! Why, as he is now,' said the manager, striking his knee emphatically;
'without a pad upon his body, and hardly a touch of paint upon his face, he'd make such an
actor for the starved business as was never seen in this country. Only let him be tolerably
well up in the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with the slightest possible dab of red on the
tip of his nose, and he'd be certain of three rounds the moment he put his head out of the
practicable door in the front grooves O.P.'
'You view him with a professional eye,' said Nicholas, laughing.
'And well I may,' rejoined the manager. 'I never saw a young fellow so regularly cut out
for that line, since I've been in the profession. And I played the heavy children when I was
eighteen months old.'
The appearance of the beef−steak pudding, which came in simultaneously with the
junior Vincent Crummleses, turned the conversation to other matters, and indeed, for a time,
stopped it altogether. These two young gentlemen wielded their knives and forks with
scarcely less address than their broad−swords, and as the whole party were quite as sharp set
as either class of weapons, there was no time for talking until the supper had been disposed
of.
The Master Crummleses had no sooner swallowed the last procurable morsel of food,
than they evinced, by various half−suppressed yawns and stretchings of their limbs, an
obvious inclination to retire for the night, which Smike had betrayed still more strongly: he
having, in the course of the meal, fallen asleep several times while in the very act of eating.
Nicholas therefore proposed that they should break up at once, but the manager would by no
means hear of it; vowing that he had promised himself the pleasure of inviting his new
acquaintance to share a bowl of punch, and that if he declined, he should deem it very
unhandsome behaviour.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 270
'Let them go,' said Mr Vincent Crummles, 'and we'll have it snugly and cosily together
by the fire.'
Nicholas was not much disposed to sleep – being in truth too anxious – so, after a little
demur, he accepted the offer, and having exchanged a shake of the hand with the young
Crummleses, and the manager having on his part bestowed a most affectionate benediction
on Smike, he sat himself down opposite to that gentleman by the fireside to assist in
emptying the bowl, which soon afterwards appeared, steaming in a manner which was quite
exhilarating to behold, and sending forth a most grateful and inviting fragrance.
But, despite the punch and the manager, who told a variety of stories, and smoked
tobacco from a pipe, and inhaled it in the shape of snuff, with a most astonishing power,
Nicholas was absent and dispirited. His thoughts were in his old home, and when they
reverted to his present condition, the uncertainty of the morrow cast a gloom upon him,
which his utmost efforts were unable to dispel. His attention wandered; although he heard
the manager's voice, he was deaf to what he said; and when Mr Vincent Crummles
concluded the history of some long adventure with a loud laugh, and an inquiry what
Nicholas would have done under the same circumstances, he was obliged to make the best
apology in his power, and to confess his entire ignorance of all he had been talking about.
'Why, so I saw,' observed Mr Crummles. 'You're uneasy in your mind. What's the
matter?'
Nicholas could not refrain from smiling at the abruptness of the question; but, thinking
it scarcely worth while to parry it, owned that he was under some apprehensions lest he
might not succeed in the object which had brought him to that part of the country.
'And what's that?' asked the manager.
'Getting something to do which will keep me and my poor fellow− traveller in the
common necessaries of life,' said Nicholas. 'That's the truth. You guessed it long ago, I dare
say, so I may as well have the credit of telling it you with a good grace.'
'What's to be got to do at Portsmouth more than anywhere else?' asked Mr Vincent
Crummles, melting the sealing−wax on the stem of his pipe in the candle, and rolling it out
afresh with his little finger.
'There are many vessels leaving the port, I suppose,' replied Nicholas. 'I shall try for a
berth in some ship or other. There is meat and drink there at all events.'
'Salt meat and new rum; pease−pudding and chaff−biscuits,' said the manager, taking a
whiff at his pipe to keep it alight, and returning to his work of embellishment.
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 271
'One may do worse than that,' said Nicholas. 'I can rough it, I believe, as well as most
young men of my age and previous habits.'
'You need be able to,' said the manager, 'if you go on board ship; but you won't.'
'Why not?'
'Because there's not a skipper or mate that would think you worth your salt, when he
could get a practised hand,' replied the manager; 'and they as plentiful there, as the oysters in
the streets.'
'What do you mean?' asked Nicholas, alarmed by this prediction, and the confident tone
in which it had been uttered. 'Men are not born able seamen. They must be reared, I
suppose?'
Mr Vincent Crummles nodded his head. 'They must; but not at your age, or from young
gentlemen like you.'
There was a pause. The countenance of Nicholas fell, and he gazed ruefully at the fire.
'Does no other profession occur to you, which a young man of your figure and address
could take up easily, and see the world to advantage in?' asked the manager.
'No,' said Nicholas, shaking his head.
'Why, then, I'll tell you one,' said Mr Crummles, throwing his pipe into the fire, and
raising his voice. 'The stage.'
'The stage!' cried Nicholas, in a voice almost as loud.
'The theatrical profession,' said Mr Vincent Crummles. 'I am in the theatrical profession
myself, my wife is in the theatrical profession, my children are in the theatrical profession. I
had a dog that lived and died in it from a puppy; and my chaise−pony goes on, in Timour the
Tartar. I'll bring you out, and your friend too. Say the word. I want a novelty.'
'I don't know anything about it,' rejoined Nicholas, whose breath had been almost taken
away by this sudden proposal. 'I never acted a part in my life, except at school.'
'There's genteel comedy in your walk and manner, juvenile tragedy in your eye, and
touch−and−go farce in your laugh,' said Mr Vincent Crummles. 'You'll do as well as if you
had thought of nothing else but the lamps, from your birth downwards.'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 272
Nicholas thought of the small amount of small change that would remain in his pocket
after paying the tavern bill; and he hesitated.
'You can be useful to us in a hundred ways,' said Mr Crummles. 'Think what capital
bills a man of your education could write for the shop−windows.'
'Well, I think I could manage that department,' said Nicholas.
'To be sure you could,' replied Mr Crummles. '«For further particulars see small
hand−bills» – we might have half a volume in every one of 'em. Pieces too; why, you could
write us a piece to bring out the whole strength of the company, whenever we wanted one.'
'I am not quite so confident about that,' replied Nicholas. 'But I dare say I could scribble
something now and then, that would suit you.'
'We'll have a new show−piece out directly,' said the manager. 'Let me see – peculiar
resources of this establishment – new and splendid scenery – you must manage to introduce
a real pump and two washing− tubs.'
'Into the piece?' said Nicholas.
'Yes,' replied the manager. 'I bought 'em cheap, at a sale the other day, and they'll come
in admirably. That's the London plan. They look up some dresses, and properties, and have a
piece written to fit 'em. Most of the theatres keep an author on purpose.'
'Indeed!' cried Nicholas.
'Oh, yes,' said the manager; 'a common thing. It'll look very well in the bills in separate
lines – Real pump! – Splendid tubs! – Great attraction! You don't happen to be anything of
an artist, do you?'
'That is not one of my accomplishments,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Ah! Then it can't be helped,' said the manager. 'If you had been, we might have had a
large woodcut of the last scene for the posters, showing the whole depth of the stage, with
the pump and tubs in the middle; but, however, if you're not, it can't be helped.'
'What should I get for all this?' inquired Nicholas, after a few moments' reflection.
'Could I live by it?'
'Live by it!' said the manager. 'Like a prince! With your own salary, and your friend's,
and your writings, you'd make – ah! you'd make a pound a week!'
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CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 273
'You don't say so!'
'I do indeed, and if we had a run of good houses, nearly double the money.'
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders; but sheer destitution was before him; and if he could
summon fortitude to undergo the extremes of want and hardship, for what had he rescued his
helpless charge if it were only to bear as hard a fate as that from which he had wrested him?
It was easy to think of seventy miles as nothing, when he was in the same town with the man
who had treated him so ill and roused his bitterest thoughts; but now, it seemed far enough.
What if he went abroad, and his mother or Kate were to die the while?
Without more deliberation, he hastily declared that it was a bargain, and gave Mr
Vincent Crummles his hand upon it.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune. 274
CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles,
and of his Affairs,
D
omestic and Theatrical
As Mr Crummles had a strange four−legged animal in the inn stables, which he called a
pony, and a vehicle of unknown design, on which he bestowed the appellation of a
four−wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded on his journey next morning with greater ease
than he had expected: the manager and himself occupying the front seat: and the Master
Crummleses and Smike being packed together behind, in company with a wicker basket
defended from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were the broad−swords, pistols, pigtails,
nautical costumes, and other professional necessaries of the aforesaid young gentlemen.
The pony took his time upon the road, and – possibly in consequence of his theatrical
education – evinced, every now and then, a strong inclination to lie down. However, Mr
Vincent Crummles kept him up pretty well, by jerking the rein, and plying the whip; and
when these means failed, and the animal came to a stand, the elder Master Crummles got out
and kicked him. By dint of these encouragements, he was persuaded to move from time to
time, and they jogged on (as Mr Crummles truly observed) very comfortably for all parties.
'He's a good pony at bottom,' said Mr Crummles, turning to Nicholas.
He might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at top, seeing that his coat was
of the roughest and most ill−favoured kind. So, Nicholas merely observed that he shouldn't
wonder if he was.
'Many and many is the circuit this pony has gone,' said Mr Crummles, flicking him
skilfully on the eyelid for old acquaintance' sake. 'He is quite one of us. His mother was on
the stage.'
'Was she?' rejoined Nicholas.
'She ate apple−pie at a circus for upwards of fourteen years,' said the manager; 'fired
pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap; and, in short, took the low comedy entirely. His father
was a dancer.'
'Was he at all distinguished?'
'Not very,' said the manager. 'He was rather a low sort of pony. The fact is, he had been
originally jobbed out by the day, and he never quite got over his old habits. He was clever in
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 275
melodrama too, but too broad – too broad. When the mother died, he took the port−wine
business.'
'The port−wine business!' cried Nicholas.
'Drinking port−wine with the clown,' said the manager; 'but he was greedy, and one
night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself, so his vulgarity was the death of him
at last.'
The descendant of this ill−starred animal requiring increased attention from Mr
Crummles as he progressed in his day's work, that gentleman had very little time for
conversation. Nicholas was thus left at leisure to entertain himself with his own thoughts,
until they arrived at the drawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr Crummles pulled up.
'We'll get down here,' said the manager, 'and the boys will take him round to the stable,
and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You had better let yours be taken there, for the
present.'
Thanking Mr Vincent Crummles for his obliging offer, Nicholas jumped out, and,
giving Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up High Street on their way to the theatre;
feeling nervous and uncomfortable enough at the prospect of an immediate introduction to a
scene so new to him.
They passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls and displayed in windows,
wherein the names of Mr Vincent Crummles, Mrs Vincent Crummles, Master Crummles,
Master P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles, were printed in very large letters, and everything
else in very small ones; and, turning at length into an entry, in which was a strong smell of
orange−peel and lamp−oil, with an under−current of sawdust, groped their way through a
dark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a little maze of canvas screens and
paint pots, and emerged upon the stage of the Portsmouth Theatre.
'Here we are,' said Mr Crummles.
It was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to the first entrance on the
prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed clouds, heavily daubed draperies,
and dirty floors. He looked about him; ceiling, pit, boxes, gallery, orchestra, fittings, and
decorations of every kind, – all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched.
'Is this a theatre?' whispered Smike, in amazement; 'I thought it was a blaze of light and
finery.'
'Why, so it is,' replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; 'but not by day, Smike – not by
day.'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 276
The manager's voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the building, to the
opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small mahogany table with rickety legs and of
an oblong shape, sat a stout, portly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished
silk cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair (of which she
had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each temple.
'Mr Johnson,' said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name which Newman Noggs
had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs Kenwigs), 'let me introduce Mrs
Vincent Crummles.'
'I am glad to see you, sir,' said Mrs Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral voice. 'I am very
glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a promising member of our corps.'
The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms; he saw it was
a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip as that with which she honoured
him.
'And this,' said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross when they obey a
stage direction, 'and this is the other. You too, are welcome, sir.'
'He'll do, I think, my dear?' said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.
'He is admirable,' replied the lady. 'An acquisition indeed.'
As Mrs Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, there bounded on to the stage
from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white frock with tucks up to the knees,
short trousers, sandaled shoes, white spencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil and curl papers;
who turned a pirouette, cut twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking off at the
opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches of the footlights, and fell into
a beautiful attitude of terror, as a shabby gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at
one powerful slide, and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking−stick.
'They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,' said Mrs Crummles.
'Oh!' said the manager, 'the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on. A little this way, if
you please, Mr Johnson. That'll do. Now!'
The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage, becoming
ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; but the maiden avoided him in six twirls, and
came down, at the end of the last one, upon the very points of her toes. This seemed to make
some impression upon the savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the maiden
into corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several times with his right thumb and
four fingers, thereby intimating that he was struck with admiration of the maiden's beauty.
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 277
Acting upon the impulse of this passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe thumps
in the chest, and to exhibit other indications of being desperately in love, which being rather
a prosy proceeding, was very likely the cause of the maiden's falling asleep; whether it was
or no, asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a sloping bank, and the savage perceiving it,
leant his left ear on his left hand, and nodded sideways, to intimate to all whom it might
concern that she WAS asleep, and no shamming. Being left to himself, the savage had a
dance, all alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke up, rubbed her eyes, got off the bank,
and had a dance all alone too – such a dance that the savage looked on in ecstasy all the
while, and when it was done, plucked from a neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity,
resembling a small pickled cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at first wouldn't have
it, but on the savage shedding tears relented. Then the savage jumped for joy; then the
maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and
the maiden danced violently together, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee,
and the maiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the ballet, and leaving
the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether she would ultimately marry the
savage, or return to her friends.
'Very well indeed,' said Mr Crummles; 'bravo!'
'Bravo!' cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything. 'Beautiful!'
'This, sir,' said Mr Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward, 'this is the infant
phenomenon – Miss Ninetta Crummles.'
'Your daughter?' inquired Nicholas.
'My daughter – my daughter,' replied Mr Vincent Crummles; 'the idol of every place we
go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about this girl, sir, from the nobility and
gentry of almost every town in England.'
'I am not surprised at that,' said Nicholas; 'she must be quite a natural genius.'
'Quite a – !' Mr Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to describe the
infant phenomenon. 'I'll tell you what, sir,' he said; 'the talent of this child is not to be
imagined. She must be seen, sir – seen – to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your
mother, my dear.'
'May I ask how old she is?' inquired Nicholas.
'You may, sir,' replied Mr Crummles, looking steadily in his questioner's face, as some
men do when they have doubts about being implicitly believed in what they are going to say.
'She is ten years of age, sir.'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 278
'Not more!'
'Not a day.'
'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'it's extraordinary.'
It was; for the infant phenomenon, though of short stature, had a comparatively aged
countenance, and had moreover been precisely the same age – not perhaps to the full extent
of the memory of the oldest inhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been
kept up late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin−and−water from
infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system of training had produced in the
infant phenomenon these additional phenomena.
While this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who had enacted the savage,
came up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his slippers in his hand, to within a few
paces, as if desirous to join in the conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he put in
his word.
'Talent there, sir!' said the savage, nodding towards Miss Crummles.
Nicholas assented.
'Ah!' said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing in his breath with a hissing
sound, 'she oughtn't to be in the provinces, she oughtn't.'
'What do you mean?' asked the manager.
'I mean to say,' replied the other, warmly, 'that she is too good for country boards, and
that she ought to be in one of the large houses in London, or nowhere; and I tell you more,
without mincing the matter, that if it wasn't for envy and jealousy in some quarter that you
know of, she would be. Perhaps you'll introduce me here, Mr Crummles.'
'Mr Folair,' said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.
'Happy to know you, sir.' Mr Folair touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger, and
then shook hands. 'A recruit, sir, I understand?'
'An unworthy one,' replied Nicholas.
'Did you ever see such a set−out as that?' whispered the actor, drawing him away, as
Crummles left them to speak to his wife.
'As what?'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 279
Mr Folair made a funny face from his pantomime collection, and pointed over his
shoulder.
'You don't mean the infant phenomenon?'
'Infant humbug, sir,' replied Mr Folair. 'There isn't a female child of common sharpness
in a charity school, that couldn't do better than that. She may thank her stars she was born a
manager's daughter.'
'You seem to take it to heart,' observed Nicholas, with a smile.
'Yes, by Jove, and well I may,' said Mr Folair, drawing his arm through his, and walking
him up and down the stage. 'Isn't it enough to make a man crusty to see that little sprawler
put up in the best business every night, and actually keeping money out of the house, by
being forced down the people's throats, while other people are passed over? Isn't it
extraordinary to see a man's confounded family conceit blinding him, even to his own
interest? Why I KNOW of fifteen and sixpence that came to Southampton one night last
month, to see me dance the Highland Fling; and what's the consequence? I've never been put
up in it since – never once – while the «infant phenomenon» has been grinning through
artificial flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in the gallery, every
night.'
'If I may judge from what I have seen of you,' said Nicholas, 'you must be a valuable
member of the company.'
'Oh!' replied Mr Folair, beating his slippers together, to knock the dust out; 'I CAN
come it pretty well – nobody better, perhaps, in my own line – but having such business as
one gets here, is like putting lead on one's feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetters
without the credit of it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?'
The gentleman addressed in these latter words was a dark− complexioned man,
inclining indeed to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very evident inclinations
(although he was close shaved) of a stiff beard, and whiskers of the same deep shade. His
age did not appear to exceed thirty, though many at first sight would have considered him
much older, as his face was long, and very pale, from the constant application of stage paint.
He wore a checked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt buttons, a neckerchief of broad red
and green stripes, and full blue trousers; he carried, too, a common ash walking−stick,
apparently more for show than use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked end
downwards, except when he raised it for a few seconds, and throwing himself into a fencing
attitude, made a pass or two at the side−scenes, or at any other object, animate or inanimate,
that chanced to afford him a pretty good mark at the moment.
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 280
'Well, Tommy,' said this gentleman, making a thrust at his friend, who parried it
dexterously with his slipper, 'what's the news?'
'A new appearance, that's all,' replied Mr Folair, looking at Nicholas.
'Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,' said the other gentleman, tapping him
reproachfully on the crown of the hat with his stick.
'This is Mr Lenville, who does our first tragedy, Mr Johnson,' said the pantomimist.
'Except when old bricks and mortar takes it into his head to do it himself, you should
add, Tommy,' remarked Mr Lenville. 'You know who bricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?'
'I do not, indeed,' replied Nicholas.
'We call Crummles that, because his style of acting is rather in the heavy and ponderous
way,' said Mr Lenville. 'I mustn't be cracking jokes though, for I've got a part of twelve
lengths here, which I must be up in tomorrow night, and I haven't had time to look at it yet;
I'm a confounded quick study, that's one comfort.'
Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr Lenville drew from his coat pocket a greasy
and crumpled manuscript, and, having made another pass at his friend, proceeded to walk to
and fro, conning it to himself and indulging occasionally in such appropriate action as his
imagination and the text suggested.
A pretty general muster of the company had by this time taken place; for besides Mr
Lenville and his friend Tommy, there were present, a slim young gentleman with weak eyes,
who played the low−spirited lovers and sang tenor songs, and who had come arm−in−arm
with the comic countryman – a man with a turned−up nose, large mouth, broad face, and
staring eyes. Making himself very amiable to the infant phenomenon, was an inebriated
elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who played the calm and virtuous old
men; and paying especial court to Mrs Crummles was another elderly gentleman, a shade
more respectable, who played the irascible old men – those funny fellows who have
nephews in the army and perpetually run about with thick sticks to compel them to marry
heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving−looking person in a rough great−coat, who
strode up and down in front of the lamps, flourishing a dress cane, and rattling away, in an
undertone, with great vivacity for the amusement of an ideal audience. He was not quite so
young as he had been, and his figure was rather running to seed; but there was an air of
exaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the hero of swaggering comedy. There was,
also, a little group of three or four young men with lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who
were conversing in one corner; but they seemed to be of secondary importance, and laughed
and talked together without attracting any attention.
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 281
The ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves round the rickety table before
mentioned. There was Miss Snevellicci – who could do anything, from a medley dance to
Lady Macbeth, and also always played some part in blue silk knee−smalls at her benefit –
glancing, from the depths of her coal−scuttle straw bonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting to be
absorbed in the recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss Ledrook, who had brought her
work, and was making up a ruff in the most natural manner possible. There was Miss
Belvawney – who seldom aspired to speaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white
silk hose, to stand with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go in and out after
Mr Crummles in stately tragedy – twisting up the ringlets of the beautiful Miss Bravassa,
who had once had her likeness taken 'in character' by an engraver's apprentice, whereof
impressions were hung up for sale in the pastry−cook's window, and the greengrocer's, and
at the circulating library, and the box−office, whenever the announce bills came out for her
annual night. There was Mrs Lenville, in a very limp bonnet and veil, decidedly in that way
in which she would wish to be if she truly loved Mr Lenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with
an imitation ermine boa tied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr Crummles, junior,
with both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs Grudden in a brown cloth pelisse and a beaver
bonnet, who assisted Mrs Crummles in her domestic affairs, and took money at the doors,
and dressed the ladies, and swept the house, and held the prompt book when everybody else
was on for the last scene, and acted any kind of part on any emergency without ever learning
it, and was put down in the bills under my name or names whatever, that occurred to Mr
Crummles as looking well in print.
Mr Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left him to mingle
with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was completed by Mr Vincent
Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as a prodigy of genius and learning.
'I beg your pardon,' said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas, 'but did you ever
play at Canterbury?'
'I never did,' replied Nicholas.
'I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'only for a few
moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it, so like you that I felt almost certain
it was the same.'
'I see you now for the first time,' rejoined Nicholas with all due gallantry. 'I am sure I
never saw you before; I couldn't have forgotten it.'
'Oh, I'm sure – it's very flattering of you to say so,' retorted Miss Snevellicci with a
graceful bend. 'Now I look at you again, I see that the gentleman at Canterbury hadn't the
same eyes as you – you'll think me very foolish for taking notice of such things, won't you?'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 282
'Not at all,' said Nicholas. 'How can I feel otherwise than flattered by your notice in any
way?'
'Oh! you men are such vain creatures!' cried Miss Snevellicci. Whereupon, she became
charmingly confused, and, pulling out her pocket−handkerchief from a faded pink silk
reticule with a gilt clasp, called to Miss Ledrook –
'Led, my dear,' said Miss Snevellicci.
'Well, what is the matter?' said Miss Ledrook.
'It's not the same.'
'Not the same what?'
'Canterbury – you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to you.'
But Miss Ledrook wouldn't come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci was obliged
to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner that was quite fascinating; and
Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after
some playful whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of her
hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Mr Vincent Crummles, who had been writing on a piece of
paper, 'we'll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten; everybody for the procession.
Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you're all up in, so we shall only want one rehearsal.
Everybody at ten, if you please.'
'Everybody at ten,' repeated Mrs Grudden, looking about her.
'On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,' said Mr Crummles; 'the name's not
known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr Johnson will take care of that.'
'Hallo!' said Nicholas, starting. 'I – '
'On Monday morning,' repeated Mr Crummles, raising his voice, to drown the
unfortunate Mr Johnson's remonstrance; 'that'll do, ladies and gentlemen.'
The ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in a few minutes, the
theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family, Nicholas, and Smike.
'Upon my word,' said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, 'I don't think I can be ready
by Monday.'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 283
'Pooh, pooh,' replied Mr Crummles.
'But really I can't,' returned Nicholas; 'my invention is not accustomed to these
demands, or possibly I might produce – '
'Invention! what the devil's that got to do with it!' cried the manager hastily.
'Everything, my dear sir.'
'Nothing, my dear sir,' retorted the manager, with evident impatience. 'Do you
understand French?'
'Perfectly well.'
'Very good,' said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a roll of paper from
it to Nicholas. 'There! Just turn that into English, and put your name on the title−page. Damn
me,' said Mr Crummles, angrily, 'if I haven't often said that I wouldn't have a man or woman
in my company that wasn't master of the language, so that they might learn it from the
original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble and expense.'
Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.
'What are you going to do about your lodgings?' said Mr Crummles.
Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be an uncommon
convenience to have a turn−up bedstead in the pit, but he merely remarked that he had not
turned his thoughts that way.
'Come home with me then,' said Mr Crummles, 'and my boys shall go with you after
dinner, and show you the most likely place.'
The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr Crummles gave Mrs Crummles an
arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike, the boys, and the phenomenon,
went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs Grudden remained behind to take some cold Irish stew
and a pint of porter in the box−office.
Mrs Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate execution with an
animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic fortitude which virtue alone inspires.
Mr Crummles, on the other hand, assumed the look and gait of a hardened despot; but they
both attracted some notice from many of the passers−by, and when they heard a whisper of
'Mr and Mrs Crummles!' or saw a little boy run back to stare them in the face, the severe
expression of their countenances relaxed, for they felt it was popularity.
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 284
Mr Crummles lived in St Thomas's Street, at the house of one Bulph, a pilot, who
sported a boat−green door, with window−frames of the same colour, and had the little finger
of a drowned man on his parlour mantelshelf, with other maritime and natural curiosities. He
displayed also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and a brass bell− handle, all very bright and
shining; and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in his back yard.
'You are welcome,' said Mrs Crummles, turning round to Nicholas when they reached
the bow−windowed front room on the first floor.
Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedly glad to see the cloth laid.
'We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,' said Mrs Crummles, in the same
charnel−house voice; 'but such as our dinner is, we beg you to partake of it.'
'You are very good,' replied Nicholas, 'I shall do it ample justice.'
'Vincent,' said Mrs Crummles, 'what is the hour?'
'Five minutes past dinner−time,' said Mr Crummles.
Mrs Crummles rang the bell. 'Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.'
The slave who attended upon Mr Bulph's lodgers, disappeared, and after a short interval
reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas and the infant phenomenon opposed each
other at the pembroke−table, and Smike and the master Crummleses dined on the sofa
bedstead.
'Are they very theatrical people here?' asked Nicholas.
'No,' replied Mr Crummles, shaking his head, 'far from it – far from it.'
'I pity them,' observed Mrs Crummles.
'So do I,' said Nicholas; 'if they have no relish for theatrical entertainments, properly
conducted.'
'Then they have none, sir,' rejoined Mr Crummles. 'To the infant's benefit, last year, on
which occasion she repeated three of her most popular characters, and also appeared in the
Fairy Porcupine, as originally performed by her, there was a house of no more than four
pound twelve.'
'Is it possible?' cried Nicholas.
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 285
'And two pound of that was trust, pa,' said the phenomenon.
'And two pound of that was trust,' repeated Mr Crummles. 'Mrs Crummles herself has
played to mere handfuls.'
'But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,' said the manager's wife.
'Most audiences are, when they have good acting – real good acting – the regular thing,'
replied Mr Crummles, forcibly.
'Do you give lessons, ma'am?' inquired Nicholas.
'I do,' said Mrs Crummles.
'There is no teaching here, I suppose?'
'There has been,' said Mrs Crummles. 'I have received pupils here. I imparted tuition to
the daughter of a dealer in ships' provision; but it afterwards appeared that she was insane
when she first came to me. It was very extraordinary that she should come, under such
circumstances.'
Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to hold his peace.
'Let me see,' said the manager cogitating after dinner. 'Would you like some nice little
part with the infant?'
'You are very good,' replied Nicholas hastily; 'but I think perhaps it would be better if I
had somebody of my own size at first, in case I should turn out awkward. I should feel more
at home, perhaps.'
'True,' said the manager. 'Perhaps you would. And you could play up to the infant, in
time, you know.'
'Certainly,' replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be a very long time before
he was honoured with this distinction.
'Then I'll tell you what we'll do,' said Mr Crummles. 'You shall study Romeo when
you've done that piece – don't forget to throw the pump and tubs in by−the−bye – Juliet Miss
Snevellicci, old Grudden the nurse. – Yes, that'll do very well. Rover too; – you might get up
Rover while you were about it, and Cassio, and Jeremy Diddler. You can easily knock them
off; one part helps the other so much. Here they are, cues and all.'
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CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 286
With these hasty general directions Mr Crummles thrust a number of little books into
the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his eldest son go with him and show where
lodgings were to be had, shook him by the hand, and wished him good night.
There is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments in Portsmouth, and no difficulty in
finding some that are proportionate to very slender finances; but the former were too good,
and the latter too bad, and they went into so many houses, and came out unsuited, that
Nicholas seriously began to think he should be obliged to ask permission to spend the night
in the theatre, after all.
Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms up three pair of stairs, or
rather two pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist's shop, on the Common Hard: a dirty street
leading down to the dockyard. These Nicholas engaged, only too happy to have escaped any
request for payment of a week's rent beforehand.
'There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,' he said, after showing young
Crummles downstairs. 'We have fallen upon strange times, and Heaven only knows the end
of them; but I am tired with the events of these three days, and will postpone reflection till
tomorrow – if I can.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs, 287
CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and
the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.
N
icholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to dress,
notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and was presently saluted by
the voices of Mr Folair the pantomimist, and Mr Lenville, the tragedian.
'House, house, house!' cried Mr Folair.
'What, ho! within there" said Mr Lenville, in a deep voice.
'Confound these fellows!' thought Nicholas; 'they have come to breakfast, I suppose. I'll
open the door directly, if you'll wait an instant.'
The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile the interval, had a
fencing bout with their walking−sticks on the very small landing−place: to the unspeakable
discomposure of all the other lodgers downstairs.
'Here, come in,' said Nicholas, when he had completed his toilet. 'In the name of all
that's horrible, don't make that noise outside.'
'An uncommon snug little box this,' said Mr Lenville, stepping into the front room, and
taking his hat off, before he could get in at all. 'Pernicious snug.'
'For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifle too snug,' said Nicholas;
'for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great convenience to be able to reach anything you want
from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your
chair, still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the most limited size.'
'It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,' returned Mr Lenville. 'That reminds me, –
my wife, Mr Johnson, – I hope she'll have some good part in this piece of yours?'
'I glanced at the French copy last night,' said Nicholas. 'It looks very good, I think.'
'What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?' asked Mr Lenville, poking the struggling
fire with his walking−stick, and afterwards wiping it on the skirt of his coat. 'Anything in the
gruff and grumble way?'
'You turn your wife and child out of doors,' said Nicholas; 'and, in a fit of rage and
jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.'
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CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.288
'Do I though!' exclaimed Mr Lenville. 'That's very good business.'
'After which,' said Nicholas, 'you are troubled with remorse till the last act, and then you
make up your mind to destroy yourself. But, just as you are raising the pistol to your head, a
clock strikes – ten.'
'I see,' cried Mr Lenville. 'Very good.'
'You pause,' said Nicholas; 'you recollect to have heard a clock strike ten in your
infancy. The pistol falls from your hand – you are overcome – you burst into tears, and
become a virtuous and exemplary character for ever afterwards.'
'Capital!' said Mr Lenville: 'that's a sure card, a sure card. Get the curtain down with a
touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumphant success.'
'Is there anything good for me?' inquired Mr Folair, anxiously.
'Let me see,' said Nicholas. 'You play the faithful and attached servant; you are turned
out of doors with the wife and child.'
'Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,' sighed Mr Folair; 'and we go into poor
lodgings, where I won't take any wages, and talk sentiment, I suppose?'
'Why – yes,' replied Nicholas: 'that is the course of the piece.'
'I must have a dance of some kind, you know,' said Mr Folair. 'You'll have to introduce
one for the phenomenon, so you'd better make a PAS DE DEUX, and save time.'
'There's nothing easier than that,' said Mr Lenville, observing the disturbed looks of the
young dramatist.
'Upon my word I don't see how it's to be done,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Why, isn't it obvious?' reasoned Mr Lenville. 'Gadzooks, who can help seeing the way
to do it? – you astonish me! You get the distressed lady, and the little child, and the attached
servant, into the poor lodgings, don't you? – Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into a
chair, and buries her face in her pocket− handkerchief. «What makes you weep, mama?»
says the child. «Don't weep, mama, or you'll make me weep too!» – «And me!» says the
favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. «What can we do to raise your spirits, dear
mama?» says the little child. «Ay, what CAN we do?» says the faithful servant. «Oh,
Pierre!» says the distressed lady; «would that I could shake off these painful thoughts.» –
«Try, ma'am, try,» says the faithful servant; «rouse yourself, ma'am; be amused.» – «I will,»
says the lady, «I will learn to suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honest
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friend, which, in happier days, you practised with this sweet angel? It never failed to calm
my spirits then. Oh! let me see it once again before I die!» – There it is – cue for the band,
BEFORE I DIE, – and off they go. That's the regular thing; isn't it, Tommy?'
'That's it,' replied Mr Folair. 'The distressed lady, overpowered by old recollections,
faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a picture.'
Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the personal experience of
the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the best breakfast he could, and, when he at
length got rid of them, applied himself to his task: by no means displeased to find that it was
so much easier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day, and did not leave
his room until the evening, when he went down to the theatre, whither Smike had repaired
before him to go on with another gentleman as a general rebellion.
Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcely knew them. False hair, false
colour, false calves, false muscles – they had become different beings. Mr Lenville was a
blooming warrior of most exquisite proportions; Mr Crummles, his large face shaded by a
profusion of black hair, a Highland outlaw of most majestic bearing; one of the old
gentlemen a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch; the comic countryman, a
fighting−man of great valour, relieved by a touch of humour; each of the Master
Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the low−spirited lover, a desponding captive.
There was a gorgeous banquet ready spread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard
vases, one plate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short, everything was
on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation.
Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating the first scene,
which was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter than Mr Crummles, through which that
gentleman was to make his first entrance, and now listening to a couple of people who were
cracking nuts in the gallery, wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the
manager himself walked familiarly up and accosted him.
'Been in front tonight?' said Mr Crummles.
'No,' replied Nicholas, 'not yet. I am going to see the play.'
'We've had a pretty good Let,' said Mr Crummles. 'Four front places in the centre, and
the whole of the stage−box.'
'Oh, indeed!' said Nicholas; 'a family, I suppose?'
'Yes,' replied Mr Crummles, 'yes. It's an affecting thing. There are six children, and they
never come unless the phenomenon plays.'
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It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise, to have visited the
theatre on a night when the phenomenon did NOT play, inasmuch as she always sustained
one, and not uncommonly two or three, characters, every night; but Nicholas, sympathising
with the feelings of a father, refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr
Crummles continued to talk, uninterrupted by him.
'Six,' said that gentleman; 'pa and ma eight, aunt nine, governess ten, grandfather and
grandmother twelve. Then, there's the footman, who stands outside, with a bag of oranges
and a jug of toast−and− water, and sees the play for nothing through the little pane of glass
in the box−door – it's cheap at a guinea; they gain by taking a box.'
'I wonder you allow so many,' observed Nicholas.
'There's no help for it,' replied Mr Crummles; 'it's always expected in the country. If
there are six children, six people come to hold them in their laps. A family−box carries
double always. Ring in the orchestra, Grudden!'
That useful lady did as she was requested, and shortly afterwards the tuning of three
fiddles was heard. Which process having been protracted as long as it was supposed that the
patience of the audience could possibly bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell,
which, being the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs,
with involuntary variations.
If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the better which the gentlemen
displayed, the transformation of the ladies was still more extraordinary. When, from a snug
corner of the manager's box, he beheld Miss Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin
with a golden hem, and Mrs Crummles in all the dignity of the outlaw's wife, and Miss
Bravassa in all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci's confidential friend, and Miss Belvawney
in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing to live and die in the
service of everybody, he could scarcely contain his admiration, which testified itself in great
applause, and the closest possible attention to the business of the scene. The plot was most
interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more
delightful on that account, as nobody's previous information could afford the remotest
glimmering of what would ever come of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing
something somewhere, and came home, in triumph, to the sound of shouts and fiddles, to
greet his wife – a lady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her father's bones,
which it seemed were unburied, though whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old
gentleman himself, or the reprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear. This
outlaw's wife was, somehow or other, mixed up with a patriarch, living in a castle a long
way off, and this patriarch was the father of several of the characters, but he didn't exactly
know which, and was uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in his castle, or the
wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion, and, being uneasy, relieved his mind
with a banquet, during which solemnity somebody in a cloak said 'Beware!' which
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somebody was known by nobody (except the audience) to be the outlaw himself, who had
come there, for reasons unexplained, but possibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an
agreeable little surprise in the way of certain love passages between the desponding captive
and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting−man and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr
Lenville had several very tragic scenes in the dark, while on throat−cutting expeditions,
which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic fighting−man (who overheard
whatever was said all through the piece) and the intrepidity of Miss Snevellicci, who
adopted tights, and therein repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with a small basket of
refreshments and a dark lantern. At last, it came out that the patriarch was the man who had
treated the bones of the outlaw's father−in−law with so much disrespect, for which cause
and reason the outlaw's wife repaired to his castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room,
where, after a good deal of groping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, and
took them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of confusion, with some
pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; after which, the patriarch came forward, and
observing, with a knowing look, that he knew all about his children now, and would tell
them when they got inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion for
marrying the young people than that; and therefore he joined their hands, with the full
consent of the indefatigable page, who (being the only other person surviving) pointed with
his cap into the clouds, and his right hand to the ground; thereby invoking a blessing and
giving the cue for the curtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.
'What did you think of that?' asked Mr Crummles, when Nicholas went round to the
stage again. Mr Crummles was very red and hot, for your outlaws are desperate fellows to
shout.
'I think it was very capital indeed,' replied Nicholas; 'Miss Snevellicci in particular was
uncommonly good.'
'She's a genius,' said Mr Crummles; 'quite a genius, that girl. By− the−bye, I've been
thinking of bringing out that piece of yours on her bespeak night.'
'When?' asked Nicholas.
'The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friends and patrons bespeak the
play,' said Mr Crummles.
'Oh! I understand,' replied Nicholas.
'You see,' said Mr. Crummles, 'it's sure to go, on such an occasion, and even if it should
not work up quite as well as we expect, why it will be her risk, you know, and not ours.'
'Yours, you mean,' said Nicholas.
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'I said mine, didn't I?' returned Mr Crummles. 'Next Monday week. What do you say?
You'll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lover's part, long before that time.'
'I don't know about «long before,»' replied Nicholas; 'but BY that time I think I can
undertake to be ready.'
'Very good,' pursued Mr Crummles, 'then we'll call that settled. Now, I want to ask you
something else. There's a little – what shall I call it? – a little canvassing takes place on these
occasions.'
'Among the patrons, I suppose?' said Nicholas.
'Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had so many bespeaks in this
place, that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak when her mother−in−law died, and a
bespeak when her uncle died; and Mrs Crummles and myself have had bespeaks on the
anniversary of the phenomenon's birthday, and our wedding−day, and occasions of that
description, so that, in fact, there's some difficulty in getting a good one. Now, won't you
help this poor girl, Mr Johnson?' said Crummles, sitting himself down on a drum, and taking
a great pinch of snuff, as he looked him steadily in the face.
'How do you mean?' rejoined Nicholas.
'Don't you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning, to call with her at the
houses of one or two of the principal people?' murmured the manager in a persuasive tone.
'Oh dear me,' said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection, 'I shouldn't like to do
that.'
'The infant will accompany her,' said Mr Crummles. 'The moment it was suggested to
me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not be the smallest impropriety – Miss
Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul of honour. It would be of material service – the gentleman
from London – author of the new piece – actor in the new piece – first appearance on any
boards – it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr Johnson.'
'I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and more especially a
lady,' replied Nicholas; 'but really I must decidedly object to making one of the canvassing
party.'
'What does Mr Johnson say, Vincent?' inquired a voice close to his ear; and, looking
round, he found Mrs Crummles and Miss Snevellicci herself standing behind him.
'He has some objection, my dear,' replied Mr Crummles, looking at Nicholas.
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'Objection!' exclaimed Mrs Crummles. 'Can it be possible?'
'Oh, I hope not!' cried Miss Snevellicci. 'You surely are not so cruel – oh, dear me! –
Well, I – to think of that now, after all one's looking forward to it!'
'Mr Johnson will not persist, my dear,' said Mrs Crummles. 'Think better of him than to
suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of his nature, must be enlisted in this
interesting cause.'
'Which moves even a manager,' said Mr Crummles, smiling.
'And a manager's wife,' added Mrs Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy tones. 'Come,
come, you will relent, I know you will.'
'It is not in my nature,' said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, 'to resist any entreaty,
unless it is to do something positively wrong; and, beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing
which should prevent my doing this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it
then. I yield.'
Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of gratitude, of
which latter commodity neither Mr nor Mrs Crummles was by any means sparing. It was
arranged that Nicholas should call upon her, at her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and
soon after they parted: he to return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the
after−piece: and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the probable gains of the
forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have two−thirds of the profits by solemn treaty
of agreement.
At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings of Miss
Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at the house of a tailor. A strong
smell of ironing pervaded the little passage; and the tailor's daughter, who opened the door,
appeared in that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical getting up of
a family's linen.
'Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?' said Nicholas, when the door was opened.
The tailor's daughter replied in the affirmative.
'Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr Johnson is here?' said Nicholas.
'Oh, if you please, you're to come upstairs,' replied the tailor's daughter, with a smile.
Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment on the first
floor, communicating with a back−room; in which, as he judged from a certain
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half−subdued clinking sound, as of cups and saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her
breakfast in bed.
'You're to wait, if you please,' said the tailor's daughter, after a short period of absence,
during which the clinking in the back−room had ceased, and been succeeded by whispering
– 'She won't be long.'
As she spoke, she pulled up the window−blind, and having by this means (as she
thought) diverted Mr Johnson's attention from the room to the street, caught up some articles
which were airing on the fender, and had very much the appearance of stockings, and darted
off.
As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas looked about
the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have bestowed upon it. On the sofa
lay an old guitar, several thumbed pieces of music, and a scattered litter of curl− papers;
together with a confused heap of play−bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes with large
blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a half−finished muslin apron with little
pockets ornamented with red ribbons, such as waiting−women wear on the stage, and (by
consequence) are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive pair of
top−boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the little jockey, and, folded
on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which bore a very suspicious resemblance to the
companion smalls.
But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook, displayed in the
midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were strewn upon the table; and pasted into which
scrapbook were various critical notices of Miss Snevellicci's acting, extracted from different
provincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour, commencing –
Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth Thrice−gifted SNEVELLICCI came on
earth, To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye, Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly
why.
Besides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary allusions, also extracted
from newspapers, such as – 'We observe from an advertisement in another part of our paper
of today, that the charming and highly−talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on
Wednesday, for which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle exhilaration
in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our fellow−townsmen have not lost
that high appreciation of public utility and private worth, for which they have long been so
pre−eminently distinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted with a
bumper.' 'To Correspondents. – J.S. is misinformed when he supposes that the highly−gifted
and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly captivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious
little theatre, is NOT the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune,
residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made honourable proposals.
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We have reason to know that Miss Snevellicci IS the lady who was implicated in that
mysterious and romantic affair, and whose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to
her head and heart, than do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius.' A copious
assortment of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits all ending with 'Come
Early', in large capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss Snevellicci's scrapbook.
Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a circumstantial
and melancholy account of the train of events which had led to Miss Snevellicci's spraining
her ankle by slipping on a piece of orange−peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the
paper said,) upon the stage at Winchester, – when that young lady herself, attired in the
coal−scuttle bonnet and walking−dress complete, tripped into the room, with a thousand
apologies for having detained him so long after the appointed time.
'But really,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'my darling Led, who lives with me here, was taken
so very ill in the night that I thought she would have expired in my arms.'
'Such a fate is almost to be envied,' returned Nicholas, 'but I am very sorry to hear it
nevertheless.'
'What a creature you are to flatter!' said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning her glove in much
confusion.
'If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,' rejoined Nicholas, laying
his hand upon the scrapbook, 'you have better specimens of it here.'
'Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I'm almost ashamed to look you in
the face afterwards, positively I am,' said Miss Snevellicci, seizing the book and putting it
away in a closet. 'How careless of Led! How could she be so naughty!'
'I thought you had kindly left it here, on purpose for me to read,' said Nicholas. And
really it did seem possible.
'I wouldn't have had you see it for the world!' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. 'I never was so
vexed – never! But she is such a careless thing, there's no trusting her.'
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon, who had
discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now presented herself, with
much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand a very little green parasol with a broad fringe
border, and no handle. After a few words of course, they sallied into the street.
The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the right sandal came
down, and then the left, and these mischances being repaired, one leg of the little white
trousers was discovered to be longer than the other; besides these accidents, the green
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parasol was dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great difficulty and
by dint of much exertion. However, it was impossible to scold her, as she was the manager's
daughter, so Nicholas took it all in perfect good humour, and walked on, with Miss
Snevellicci, arm−in−arm on one side, and the offending infant on the other.
The first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in a terrace of respectable
appearance. Miss Snevellicci's modest double−knock was answered by a foot−boy, who, in
reply to her inquiry whether Mrs Curdle was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned
very much, and said he didn't know, but he'd inquire. With this he showed them into a
parlour where he kept them waiting, until the two women−servants had repaired thither,
under false pretences, to see the play−actors; and having compared notes with them in the
passage, and joined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling, he at length went upstairs
with Miss Snevellicci's name.
Now, Mrs Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on such points, to
possess quite the London taste in matters relating to literature and the drama; and as to Mr
Curdle, he had written a pamphlet of sixty−four pages, post octavo, on the character of the
Nurse's deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really had been a
'merry man' in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his widow's affectionate partiality that
induced her so to report him. He had likewise proved, that by altering the received mode of
punctuation, any one of Shakespeare's plays could be made quite different, and the sense
completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was a great critic, and a very
profound and most original thinker.
'Well, Miss Snevellicci,' said Mrs Curdle, entering the parlour, 'and how do YOU do?'
Miss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs Curdle was well, as also Mr
Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs Curdle was dressed in a morning wrapper, with
a little cap stuck upon the top of her head. Mr Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his
right forefinger on his forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom somebody or other had
once said he bore a striking resemblance.
'I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your name to my
bespeak, ma'am,' said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.
'Oh! I really don't know what to say,' replied Mrs Curdle. 'It's not as if the theatre was in
its high and palmy days – you needn't stand, Miss Snevellicci – the drama is gone, perfectly
gone.'
'As an exquisite embodiment of the poet's visions, and a realisation of human
intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments, and laying open a new and
magic world before the mental eye, the drama is gone, perfectly gone,' said Mr Curdle.
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'What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those changing and
prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is invested?' exclaimed Mrs Curdle.
'What man indeed – upon the stage,' said Mr Curdle, with a small reservation in favour
of himself. 'Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous! Hamlet is gone, perfectly gone.'
Quite overcome by these dismal reflections, Mr and Mrs Curdle sighed, and sat for
some short time without speaking. At length, the lady, turning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired
what play she proposed to have.
'Quite a new one,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'of which this gentleman is the author, and in
which he plays; being his first appearance on any stage. Mr Johnson is the gentleman's
name.'
'I hope you have preserved the unities, sir?' said Mr Curdle.
'The original piece is a French one,' said Nicholas. 'There is abundance of incident,
sprightly dialogue, strongly−marked characters – '
' – All unavailing without a strict observance of the unities, sir,' returned Mr Curdle.
'The unities of the drama, before everything.'
'Might I ask you,' said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he ought to assume, and
his love of the whimsical, 'might I ask you what the unities are?'
Mr Curdle coughed and considered. 'The unities, sir,' he said, 'are a completeness – a
kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place and time – a sort of a general oneness,
if I may be allowed to use so strong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so
far as I have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have read much upon the
subject, and thought much. I find, running through the performances of this child,' said Mr
Curdle, turning to the phenomenon, 'a unity of feeling, a breadth, a light and shade, a
warmth of colouring, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical development of original
conceptions, which I look for, in vain, among older performers – I don't know whether I
make myself understood?'
'Perfectly,' replied Nicholas.
'Just so,' said Mr Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. 'That is my definition of the unities of
the drama.'
Mrs Curdle had sat listening to this lucid explanation with great complacency. It being
finished, she inquired what Mr Curdle thought, about putting down their names.
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'I don't know, my dear; upon my word I don't know,' said Mr Curdle. 'If we do, it must
be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves to the quality of the performances.
Let it go forth to the world, that we do not give THEM the sanction of our names, but that
we confer the distinction merely upon Miss Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I take it to
be, as it were, a duty, that we should extend our patronage to a degraded stage, even for the
sake of the associations with which it is entwined. Have you got two− and−sixpence for
half−a−crown, Miss Snevellicci?' said Mr Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of
money.
Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, but there was nothing in any
of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an author, and thought it best not to go
through the form of feeling in his own pockets at all.
'Let me see,' said Mr Curdle; 'twice four's eight – four shillings a−piece to the boxes,
Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the present state of the drama – three half−crowns is
seven−and−six; we shall not differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not part us,
Miss Snevellicci?'
Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half−crowns, with many smiles and bends, and
Mrs Curdle, adding several supplementary directions relative to keeping the places for them,
and dusting the seat, and sending two clean bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a
signal for breaking up the conference.
'Odd people those,' said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house.
'I assure you,' said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, 'that I think myself very lucky they
did not owe all the money instead of being sixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed,
they would give people to understand that they had always patronised you; and if you were
to fail, they would have been quite certain of that from the very beginning.'
At the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for, there, resided the six
children who were so enraptured with the public actions of the phenomenon, and who, being
called down from the nursery to be treated with a private view of that young lady, proceeded
to poke their fingers into her eyes, and tread upon her toes, and show her many other little
attentions peculiar to their time of life.
'I shall certainly persuade Mr Borum to take a private box,' said the lady of the house,
after a most gracious reception. 'I shall only take two of the children, and will make up the
rest of the party, of gentlemen – your admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, you naughty
boy, leave the little girl alone.'
This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon behind,
apparently with a view of ascertaining whether she was real.
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'I am sure you must be very tired,' said the mama, turning to Miss Snevellicci. 'I cannot
think of allowing you to go, without first taking a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am
ashamed of you! Miss Lane, my dear, pray see to the children.'
Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by the abrupt
behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched the phenomenon's little green
parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while the distracted infant looked helplessly on.
'I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,' said good− natured Mrs Borum,
turning again to Miss Snevellicci, 'I cannot understand (Emma, don't stare so); laughing in
one piece, and crying in the next, and so natural in all – oh, dear!'
'I am very happy to hear you express so favourable an opinion,' said Miss Snevellicci.
'It's quite delightful to think you like it.'
'Like it!' cried Mrs Borum. 'Who can help liking it? I would go to the play, twice a week
if I could: I dote upon it – only you're too affecting sometimes. You do put me in such a
state – into such fits of crying! Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them
torment that poor child so!'
The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb; for two strong
little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were dragging her in different directions as
a trial of strength. However, Miss Lane (who had herself been too much occupied in
contemplating the grown−up actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings)
rescued the unhappy infant at this juncture, who, being recruited with a glass of wine, was
shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after sustaining no more serious damage than a
flattening of the pink gauze bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing of the white frock and
trousers.
It was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls to make, and everybody
wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others comedies; some objected to
dancing; some wanted scarcely anything else. Some thought the comic singer decidedly low,
and others hoped he would have more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn't
promise to go, because other people wouldn't promise to go; and other people wouldn't go at
all, because other people went. At length, and by little and little, omitting something in this
place, and adding something in that, Miss Snevellicci pledged herself to a bill of fare which
was comprehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it included among other trifles, four
pieces, divers songs, a few combats, and several dances); and they returned home, pretty
well exhausted with the business of the day.
Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into rehearsal, and then
worked away at his own part, which he studied with great perseverance and acted – as the
whole company said – to perfection. And at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent
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CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.300
round, in the morning, to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in all the
thoroughfares; and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches wide, were dispersed in all
directions, flung down all the areas, thrust under all the knockers, and developed in all the
shops. They were placarded on all the walls too, though not with complete success, for an
illiterate person having undertaken this office during the indisposition of the regular
bill−sticker, a part were posted sideways, and the remainder upside down.
At half−past five, there was a rush of four people to the gallery− door; at a quarter
before six, there were at least a dozen; at six o'clock the kicks were terrific; and when the
elder Master Crummles opened the door, he was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen
shillings were taken by Mrs Grudden in the first ten minutes.
Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss Snevellicci was in
such a perspiration that the paint would scarcely stay on her face. Mrs Crummles was so
nervous that she could hardly remember her part. Miss Bravassa's ringlets came out of curl
with the heat and anxiety; even Mr Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole in the
curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that another man had come into
the pit.
At last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new piece. The first scene, in
which there was nobody particular, passed off calmly enough, but when Miss Snevellicci
went on in the second, accompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause
broke out! The people in the Borum box rose as one man, waving their hats and
handkerchiefs, and uttering shouts of 'Bravo!' Mrs Borum and the governess cast wreaths
upon the stage, of which, some fluttered into the lamps, and one crowned the temples of a
fat gentleman in the pit, who, looking eagerly towards the scene, remained unconscious of
the honour; the tailor and his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes till they
threatened to come out altogether; the very ginger−beer boy remained transfixed in the
centre of the house; a young officer, supposed to entertain a passion for Miss Snevellicci,
stuck his glass in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again Miss Snevellicci
curtseyed lower and lower, and again and again the applause came down, louder and louder.
At length, when the phenomenon picked up one of the smoking wreaths and put it on,
sideways, over Miss Snevellicci's eye, it reached its climax, and the play proceeded.
But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs Crummles, what a clapping of
hands there was! When Mrs Crummles (who was his unworthy mother), sneered, and called
him 'presumptuous boy,' and he defied her, what a tumult of applause came on! When he
quarrelled with the other gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols,
said, that if he WAS a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing−room, until the
furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of two – how boxes, pit, and gallery,
joined in one most vigorous cheer! When he called his mother names, because she wouldn't
give up the young lady's property, and she relenting, caused him to relent likewise, and fall
down on one knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the audience sobbed! When he
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CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.301
was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the wicked relation poked a sharp sword in every
direction, save where his legs were plainly visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through
the house! His air, his figure, his walk, his look, everything he said or did, was the subject of
commendation. There was a round of applause every time he spoke. And when, at last, in
the pump−and−tub scene, Mrs Grudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed
members of the company came in, and tumbled down in various directions – not because
that had anything to do with the plot, but in order to finish off with a tableau – the audience
(who had by this time increased considerably) gave vent to such a shout of enthusiasm as
had not been heard in those walls for many and many a day.
In short, the success both of new piece and new actor was complete, and when Miss
Snevellicci was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas led her on, and divided the
applause.
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CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.302
CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who
joins the Company,
a
nd an elderly Admirer who follows in her Train; with an affecting Ceremony
consequent on their Arrival
The new piece being a decided hit, was announced for every evening of performance
until further notice, and the evenings when the theatre was closed, were reduced from three
in the week to two. Nor were these the only tokens of extraordinary success; for, on the
succeeding Saturday, Nicholas received, by favour of the indefatigable Mrs Grudden, no less
a sum than thirty shillings; besides which substantial reward, he enjoyed considerable fame
and honour: having a presentation copy of Mr Curdle's pamphlet forwarded to the theatre,
with that gentleman's own autograph (in itself an inestimable treasure) on the fly−leaf,
accompanied with a note, containing many expressions of approval, and an unsolicited
assurance that Mr Curdle would be very happy to read Shakespeare to him for three hours
every morning before breakfast during his stay in the town.
'I've got another novelty, Johnson,' said Mr Crummles one morning in great glee.
'What's that?' rejoined Nicholas. 'The pony?'
'No, no, we never come to the pony till everything else has failed,' said Mr Crummles. 'I
don't think we shall come to the pony at all, this season. No, no, not the pony.'
'A boy phenomenon, perhaps?' suggested Nicholas.
'There is only one phenomenon, sir,' replied Mr Crummles impressively, 'and that's a
girl.'
'Very true,' said Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon. Then I don't know what it is, I am sure.'
'What should you say to a young lady from London?' inquired Mr Crummles. 'Miss
So−and−so, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane?'
'I should say she would look very well in the bills,' said Nicholas.
'You're about right there,' said Mr Crummles; 'and if you had said she would look very
well upon the stage too, you wouldn't have been far out. Look here; what do you think of
this?'
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 303
With this inquiry Mr Crummles unfolded a red poster, and a blue poster, and a yellow
poster, at the top of each of which public notification was inscribed in enormous characters
– 'First appearance of the unrivalled Miss Petowker of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane!'
'Dear me!' said Nicholas, 'I know that lady.'
'Then you are acquainted with as much talent as was ever compressed into one young
person's body,' retorted Mr Crummles, rolling up the bills again; 'that is, talent of a certain
sort – of a certain sort. «The Blood Drinker,»' added Mr Crummles with a prophetic sigh,
'«The Blood Drinker» will die with that girl; and she's the only sylph I ever saw, who could
stand upon one leg, and play the tambourine on her other knee, LIKE a sylph.'
'When does she come down?' asked Nicholas.
'We expect her today,' replied Mr Crummles. 'She is an old friend of Mrs Crummles's.
Mrs Crummles saw what she could do – always knew it from the first. She taught her,
indeed, nearly all she knows. Mrs Crummles was the original Blood Drinker.'
'Was she, indeed?'
'Yes. She was obliged to give it up though.'
'Did it disagree with her?' asked Nicholas.
'Not so much with her, as with her audiences,' replied Mr Crummles. 'Nobody could
stand it. It was too tremendous. You don't quite know what Mrs Crummles is yet.'
Nicholas ventured to insinuate that he thought he did.
'No, no, you don't,' said Mr Crummles; 'you don't, indeed. I don't, and that's a fact. I
don't think her country will, till she is dead. Some new proof of talent bursts from that
astonishing woman every year of her life. Look at her – mother of six children – three of 'em
alive, and all upon the stage!'
'Extraordinary!' cried Nicholas.
'Ah! extraordinary indeed,' rejoined Mr Crummles, taking a complacent pinch of snuff,
and shaking his head gravely. 'I pledge you my professional word I didn't even know she
could dance, till her last benefit, and then she played Juliet, and Helen Macgregor, and did
the skipping−rope hornpipe between the pieces. The very first time I saw that admirable
woman, Johnson,' said Mr Crummles, drawing a little nearer, and speaking in the tone of
confidential friendship, 'she stood upon her head on the butt−end of a spear, surrounded with
blazing fireworks.'
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 304
'You astonish me!' said Nicholas.
'SHE astonished ME!' returned Mr Crummles, with a very serious countenance. 'Such
grace, coupled with such dignity! I adored her from that moment!'
The arrival of the gifted subject of these remarks put an abrupt termination to Mr
Crummles's eulogium. Almost immediately afterwards, Master Percy Crummles entered
with a letter, which had arrived by the General Post, and was directed to his gracious
mother; at sight of the superscription whereof, Mrs Crummles exclaimed, 'From Henrietta
Petowker, I do declare!' and instantly became absorbed in the contents.
'Is it – ?' inquired Mr Crummles, hesitating.
'Oh, yes, it's all right,' replied Mrs Crummles, anticipating the question. 'What an
excellent thing for her, to be sure!'
'It's the best thing altogether, that I ever heard of, I think,' said Mr Crummles; and then
Mr Crummles, Mrs Crummles, and Master Percy Crummles, all fell to laughing violently.
Nicholas left them to enjoy their mirth together, and walked to his lodgings; wondering very
much what mystery connected with Miss Petowker could provoke such merriment, and
pondering still more on the extreme surprise with which that lady would regard his sudden
enlistment in a profession of which she was such a distinguished and brilliant ornament.
But, in this latter respect he was mistaken; for – whether Mr Vincent Crummles had
paved the way, or Miss Petowker had some special reason for treating him with even more
than her usual amiability – their meeting at the theatre next day was more like that of two
dear friends who had been inseparable from infancy, than a recognition passing between a
lady and gentleman who had only met some half− dozen times, and then by mere chance.
Nay, Miss Petowker even whispered that she had wholly dropped the Kenwigses in her
conversations with the manager's family, and had represented herself as having encountered
Mr Johnson in the very first and most fashionable circles; and on Nicholas receiving this
intelligence with unfeigned surprise, she added, with a sweet glance, that she had a claim on
his good nature now, and might tax it before long.
Nicholas had the honour of playing in a slight piece with Miss Petowker that night, and
could not but observe that the warmth of her reception was mainly attributable to a most
persevering umbrella in the upper boxes; he saw, too, that the enchanting actress cast many
sweet looks towards the quarter whence these sounds proceeded; and that every time she did
so, the umbrella broke out afresh. Once, he thought that a peculiarly shaped hat in the same
corner was not wholly unknown to him; but, being occupied with his share of the stage
business, he bestowed no great attention upon this circumstance, and it had quite vanished
from his memory by the time he reached home.
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 305
He had just sat down to supper with Smike, when one of the people of the house came
outside the door, and announced that a gentleman below stairs wished to speak to Mr
Johnson.
'Well, if he does, you must tell him to come up; that's all I know,' replied Nicholas. 'One
of our hungry brethren, I suppose, Smike.'
His fellow−lodger looked at the cold meat in silent calculation of the quantity that
would be left for dinner next day, and put back a slice he had cut for himself, in order that
the visitor's encroachments might be less formidable in their effects.
'It is not anybody who has been here before,' said Nicholas, 'for he is tumbling up every
stair. Come in, come in. In the name of wonder! Mr Lillyvick?'
It was, indeed, the collector of water−rates who, regarding Nicholas with a fixed look
and immovable countenance, shook hands with most portentous solemnity, and sat himself
down in a seat by the chimney− corner.
'Why, when did you come here?' asked Nicholas.
'This morning, sir,' replied Mr Lillyvick.
'Oh! I see; then you were at the theatre tonight, and it was your umb – '
'This umbrella,' said Mr Lillyvick, producing a fat green cotton one with a battered
ferrule. 'What did you think of that performance?'
'So far as I could judge, being on the stage,' replied Nicholas, 'I thought it very
agreeable.'
'Agreeable!' cried the collector. 'I mean to say, sir, that it was delicious.'
Mr Lillyvick bent forward to pronounce the last word with greater emphasis; and having
done so, drew himself up, and frowned and nodded a great many times.
'I say, delicious,' repeated Mr Lillyvick. 'Absorbing, fairy−like, toomultuous,' and again
Mr Lillyvick drew himself up, and again he frowned and nodded.
'Ah!' said Nicholas, a little surprised at these symptoms of ecstatic approbation. 'Yes –
she is a clever girl.'
'She is a divinity,' returned Mr Lillyvick, giving a collector's double knock on the
ground with the umbrella before−mentioned. 'I have known divine actresses before now, sir,
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 306
I used to collect – at least I used to CALL for – and very often call for – the water−rate at
the house of a divine actress, who lived in my beat for upwards of four year but never – no,
never, sir of all divine creatures, actresses or no actresses, did I see a diviner one than is
Henrietta Petowker.'
Nicholas had much ado to prevent himself from laughing; not trusting himself to speak,
he merely nodded in accordance with Mr Lillyvick's nods, and remained silent.
'Let me speak a word with you in private,' said Mr Lillyvick.
Nicholas looked good−humouredly at Smike, who, taking the hint, disappeared.
'A bachelor is a miserable wretch, sir,' said Mr Lillyvick.
'Is he?' asked Nicholas.
'He is,' rejoined the collector. 'I have lived in the world for nigh sixty year, and I ought
to know what it is.'
'You OUGHT to know, certainly,' thought Nicholas; 'but whether you do or not, is
another question.'
'If a bachelor happens to have saved a little matter of money,' said Mr Lillyvick, 'his
sisters and brothers, and nephews and nieces, look TO that money, and not to him; even if,
by being a public character, he is the head of the family, or, as it may be, the main from
which all the other little branches are turned on, they still wish him dead all the while, and
get low−spirited every time they see him looking in good health, because they want to come
into his little property. You see that?'
'Oh yes,' replied Nicholas: 'it's very true, no doubt.'
'The great reason for not being married,' resumed Mr Lillyvick, 'is the expense; that's
what's kept me off, or else – Lord!' said Mr Lillyvick, snapping his fingers, 'I might have had
fifty women.'
'Fine women?' asked Nicholas.
'Fine women, sir!' replied the collector; 'ay! not so fine as Henrietta Petowker, for she is
an uncommon specimen, but such women as don't fall into every man's way, I can tell you.
Now suppose a man can get a fortune IN a wife instead of with her – eh?'
'Why, then, he's a lucky fellow,' replied Nicholas.
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 307
'That's what I say,' retorted the collector, patting him benignantly on the side of the head
with his umbrella; 'just what I say. Henrietta Petowker, the talented Henrietta Petowker has a
fortune in herself, and I am going to – '
'To make her Mrs Lillyvick?' suggested Nicholas.
'No, sir, not to make her Mrs Lillyvick,' replied the collector. 'Actresses, sir, always
keep their maiden names – that's the regular thing – but I'm going to marry her; and the day
after tomorrow, too.'
'I congratulate you, sir,' said Nicholas.
'Thank you, sir,' replied the collector, buttoning his waistcoat. 'I shall draw her salary, of
course, and I hope after all that it's nearly as cheap to keep two as it is to keep one; that's a
consolation.'
'Surely you don't want any consolation at such a moment?' observed Nicholas.
'No,' replied Mr Lillyvick, shaking his head nervously: 'no – of course not.'
'But how come you both here, if you're going to be married, Mr Lillyvick?' asked
Nicholas.
'Why, that's what I came to explain to you,' replied the collector of water−rate. 'The fact
is, we have thought it best to keep it secret from the family.'
'Family!' said Nicholas. 'What family?'
'The Kenwigses of course,' rejoined Mr Lillyvick. 'If my niece and the children had
known a word about it before I came away, they'd have gone into fits at my feet, and never
have come out of 'em till I took an oath not to marry anybody – or they'd have got out a
commission of lunacy, or some dreadful thing,' said the collector, quite trembling as he
spoke.
'To be sure,' said Nicholas. 'Yes; they would have been jealous, no doubt.'
'To prevent which,' said Mr Lillyvick, 'Henrietta Petowker (it was settled between us)
should come down here to her friends, the Crummleses, under pretence of this engagement,
and I should go down to Guildford the day before, and join her on the coach there, which I
did, and we came down from Guildford yesterday together. Now, for fear you should be
writing to Mr Noggs, and might say anything about us, we have thought it best to let you
into the secret. We shall be married from the Crummleses' lodgings, and shall be delighted
to see you – either before church or at breakfast−time, which you like. It won't be expensive,
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 308
you know,' said the collector, highly anxious to prevent any misunderstanding on this point;
'just muffins and coffee, with perhaps a shrimp or something of that sort for a relish, you
know.'
'Yes, yes, I understand,' replied Nicholas. 'Oh, I shall be most happy to come; it will
give me the greatest pleasure. Where's the lady stopping – with Mrs Crummles?'
'Why, no,' said the collector; 'they couldn't very well dispose of her at night, and so she
is staying with an acquaintance of hers, and another young lady; they both belong to the
theatre.'
'Miss Snevellicci, I suppose?' said Nicholas.
'Yes, that's the name.'
'And they'll be bridesmaids, I presume?' said Nicholas.
'Why,' said the collector, with a rueful face, 'they WILL have four bridesmaids; I'm
afraid they'll make it rather theatrical.'
'Oh no, not at all,' replied Nicholas, with an awkward attempt to convert a laugh into a
cough. 'Who may the four be? Miss Snevellicci of course – Miss Ledrook – '
'The – the phenomenon,' groaned the collector.
'Ha, ha!' cried Nicholas. 'I beg your pardon, I don't know what I'm laughing at – yes,
that'll be very pretty – the phenomenon – who else?'
'Some young woman or other,' replied the collector, rising; 'some other friend of
Henrietta Petowker's. Well, you'll be careful not to say anything about it, will you?'
'You may safely depend upon me,' replied Nicholas. 'Won't you take anything to eat or
drink?'
'No,' said the collector; 'I haven't any appetite. I should think it was a very pleasant life,
the married one, eh?'
'I have not the least doubt of it,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Yes,' said the collector; 'certainly. Oh yes. No doubt. Good night.'
With these words, Mr Lillyvick, whose manner had exhibited through the whole of this
interview a most extraordinary compound of precipitation, hesitation, confidence and doubt,
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 309
fondness, misgiving, meanness, and self−importance, turned his back upon the room, and
left Nicholas to enjoy a laugh by himself if he felt so disposed.
Without stopping to inquire whether the intervening day appeared to Nicholas to consist
of the usual number of hours of the ordinary length, it may be remarked that, to the parties
more directly interested in the forthcoming ceremony, it passed with great rapidity,
insomuch that when Miss Petowker awoke on the succeeding morning in the chamber of
Miss Snevellicci, she declared that nothing should ever persuade her that that really was the
day which was to behold a change in her condition.
'I never will believe it,' said Miss Petowker; 'I cannot really. It's of no use talking, I
never can make up my mind to go through with such a trial!'
On hearing this, Miss Snevellicci and Miss Ledrook, who knew perfectly well that their
fair friend's mind had been made up for three or four years, at any period of which time she
would have cheerfully undergone the desperate trial now approaching if she could have
found any eligible gentleman disposed for the venture, began to preach comfort and
firmness, and to say how very proud she ought to feel that it was in her power to confer
lasting bliss on a deserving object, and how necessary it was for the happiness of mankind in
general that women should possess fortitude and resignation on such occasions; and that
although for their parts they held true happiness to consist in a single life, which they would
not willingly exchange – no, not for any worldly consideration – still (thank God), if ever
the time SHOULD come, they hoped they knew their duty too well to repine, but would the
rather submit with meekness and humility of spirit to a fate for which Providence had clearly
designed them with a view to the contentment and reward of their fellow−creatures.
'I might feel it was a great blow,' said Miss Snevellicci, 'to break up old associations and
what−do−you−callems of that kind, but I would submit, my dear, I would indeed.'
'So would I,' said Miss Ledrook; 'I would rather court the yoke than shun it. I have
broken hearts before now, and I'm very sorry for it: for it's a terrible thing to reflect upon.'
'It is indeed,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Now Led, my dear, we must positively get her
ready, or we shall be too late, we shall indeed.'
This pious reasoning, and perhaps the fear of being too late, supported the bride through
the ceremony of robing, after which, strong tea and brandy were administered in alternate
doses as a means of strengthening her feeble limbs and causing her to walk steadier.
'How do you feel now, my love?' inquired Miss Snevellicci.
'Oh Lillyvick!' cried the bride. 'If you knew what I am undergoing for you!'
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 310
'Of course he knows it, love, and will never forget it,' said Miss Ledrook.
'Do you think he won't?' cried Miss Petowker, really showing great capability for the
stage. 'Oh, do you think he won't? Do you think Lillyvick will always remember it – always,
always, always?'
There is no knowing in what this burst of feeling might have ended, if Miss Snevellicci
had not at that moment proclaimed the arrival of the fly, which so astounded the bride that
she shook off divers alarming symptoms which were coming on very strong, and running to
the glass adjusted her dress, and calmly declared that she was ready for the sacrifice.
She was accordingly supported into the coach, and there 'kept up' (as Miss Snevellicci
said) with perpetual sniffs of SAL VOLATILE and sips of brandy and other gentle
stimulants, until they reached the manager's door, which was already opened by the two
Master Crummleses, who wore white cockades, and were decorated with the choicest and
most resplendent waistcoats in the theatrical wardrobe. By the combined exertions of these
young gentlemen and the bridesmaids, assisted by the coachman, Miss Petowker was at
length supported in a condition of much exhaustion to the first floor, where she no sooner
encountered the youthful bridegroom than she fainted with great decorum.
'Henrietta Petowker!' said the collector; 'cheer up, my lovely one.'
Miss Petowker grasped the collector's hand, but emotion choked her utterance.
'Is the sight of me so dreadful, Henrietta Petowker?' said the collector.
'Oh no, no, no,' rejoined the bride; 'but all the friends – the darling friends – of my
youthful days – to leave them all – it is such a shock!'
With such expressions of sorrow, Miss Petowker went on to enumerate the dear friends
of her youthful days one by one, and to call upon such of them as were present to come and
embrace her. This done, she remembered that Mrs Crummles had been more than a mother
to her, and after that, that Mr Crummles had been more than a father to her, and after that,
that the Master Crummleses and Miss Ninetta Crummles had been more than brothers and
sisters to her. These various remembrances being each accompanied with a series of hugs,
occupied a long time, and they were obliged to drive to church very fast, for fear they should
be too late.
The procession consisted of two flys; in the first of which were Miss Bravassa (the
fourth bridesmaid), Mrs Crummles, the collector, and Mr Folair, who had been chosen as his
second on the occasion. In the other were the bride, Mr Crummles, Miss Snevellicci, Miss
Ledrook, and the phenomenon. The costumes were beautiful. The bridesmaids were quite
covered with artificial flowers, and the phenomenon, in particular, was rendered almost
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 311
invisible by the portable arbour in which she was enshrined. Miss Ledrook, who was of a
romantic turn, wore in her breast the miniature of some field− officer unknown, which she
had purchased, a great bargain, not very long before; the other ladies displayed several
dazzling articles of imitative jewellery, almost equal to real, and Mrs Crummles came out in
a stern and gloomy majesty, which attracted the admiration of all beholders.
But, perhaps the appearance of Mr Crummles was more striking and appropriate than
that of any member of the party. This gentleman, who personated the bride's father, had, in
pursuance of a happy and original conception, 'made up' for the part by arraying himself in a
theatrical wig, of a style and pattern commonly known as a brown George, and moreover
assuming a snuff−coloured suit, of the previous century, with grey silk stockings, and
buckles to his shoes. The better to support his assumed character he had determined to be
greatly overcome, and, consequently, when they entered the church, the sobs of the
affectionate parent were so heart−rending that the pew−opener suggested the propriety of his
retiring to the vestry, and comforting himself with a glass of water before the ceremony
began.
The procession up the aisle was beautiful. The bride, with the four bridesmaids, forming
a group previously arranged and rehearsed; the collector, followed by his second, imitating
his walk and gestures to the indescribable amusement of some theatrical friends in the
gallery; Mr Crummles, with an infirm and feeble gait; Mrs Crummles advancing with that
stage walk, which consists of a stride and a stop alternately – it was the completest thing
ever witnessed. The ceremony was very quickly disposed of, and all parties present having
signed the register (for which purpose, when it came to his turn, Mr Crummles carefully
wiped and put on an immense pair of spectacles), they went back to breakfast in high spirits.
And here they found Nicholas awaiting their arrival.
'Now then,' said Crummles, who had been assisting Mrs Grudden in the preparations,
which were on a more extensive scale than was quite agreeable to the collector. 'Breakfast,
breakfast.'
No second invitation was required. The company crowded and squeezed themselves at
the table as well as they could, and fell to, immediately: Miss Petowker blushing very much
when anybody was looking, and eating very much when anybody was NOT looking; and Mr
Lillyvick going to work as though with the cool resolve, that since the good things must be
paid for by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to eat up afterwards.
'It's very soon done, sir, isn't it?' inquired Mr Folair of the collector, leaning over the
table to address him.
'What is soon done, sir?' returned Mr Lillyvick.
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 312
'The tying up – the fixing oneself with a wife,' replied Mr Folair. 'It don't take long, does
it?'
'No, sir,' replied Mr Lillyvick, colouring. 'It does not take long. And what then, sir?'
'Oh! nothing,' said the actor. 'It don't take a man long to hang himself, either, eh? ha,
ha!'
Mr Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table with indignant
astonishment.
'To hang himself!' repeated Mr Lillyvick.
A profound silence came upon all, for Mr Lillyvick was dignified beyond expression.
'To hang himself!' cried Mr Lillyvick again. 'Is any parallel attempted to be drawn in
this company between matrimony and hanging?'
'The noose, you know,' said Mr Folair, a little crest−fallen.
'The noose, sir?' retorted Mr Lillyvick. 'Does any man dare to speak to me of a noose,
and Henrietta Pe – '
'Lillyvick,' suggested Mr Crummles.
' – And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?' said the collector. 'In this house, in the
presence of Mr and Mrs Crummles, who have brought up a talented and virtuous family, to
be blessings and phenomenons, and what not, are we to hear talk of nooses?'
'Folair,' said Mr Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency to be affected by this
allusion to himself and partner, 'I'm astonished at you.'
'What are you going on in this way at me for?' urged the unfortunate actor. 'What have I
done?'
'Done, sir!' cried Mr Lillyvick, 'aimed a blow at the whole framework of society – '
'And the best and tenderest feelings,' added Crummles, relapsing into the old man.
'And the highest and most estimable of social ties,' said the collector. 'Noose! As if one
was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by the leg, instead of going into it of one's
own accord and glorying in the act!'
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 313
'I didn't mean to make it out, that you were caught and trapped, and pinned by the leg,'
replied the actor. 'I'm sorry for it; I can't say any more.'
'So you ought to be, sir,' returned Mr Lillyvick; 'and I am glad to hear that you have
enough of feeling left to be so.'
The quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, Mrs Lillyvick considered that the
fittest occasion (the attention of the company being no longer distracted) to burst into tears,
and require the assistance of all four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though
not without some confusion, for the room being small and the table−cloth long, a whole
detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first move. Regardless of this
circumstance, however, Mrs Lillyvick refused to be comforted until the belligerents had
passed their words that the dispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient
show of reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr Folair sat in moody silence, contenting
himself with pinching Nicholas's leg when anything was said, and so expressing his
contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments to which he gave utterance.
There were a great number of speeches made; some by Nicholas, and some by
Crummles, and some by the collector; two by the Master Crummleses in returning thanks for
themselves, and one by the phenomenon on behalf of the bridesmaids, at which Mrs
Crummles shed tears. There was some singing, too, from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa,
and very likely there might have been more, if the fly− driver, who stopped to drive the
happy pair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde, had not sent in a
peremptory message intimating, that if they didn't come directly he should infallibly demand
eighteen−pence over and above his agreement.
This desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After a most pathetic leave−taking,
Mr Lillyvick and his bride departed for Ryde, where they were to spend the next two days in
profound retirement, and whither they were accompanied by the infant, who had been
appointed travelling bridesmaid on Mr Lillyvick's express stipulation: as the steamboat
people, deceived by her size, would (he had previously ascertained) transport her at
half−price.
As there was no performance that night, Mr Crummles declared his intention of keeping
it up till everything to drink was disposed of; but Nicholas having to play Romeo for the first
time on the ensuing evening, contrived to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion,
occasioned by the unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the conduct
of Mrs Grudden.
To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations, but by his anxiety
on account of Smike, who, having to sustain the character of the Apothecary, had been as
yet wholly unable to get any more of the part into his head than the general idea that he was
very hungry, which – perhaps from old recollections – he had acquired with great aptitude.
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CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 314
'I don't know what's to be done, Smike,' said Nicholas, laying down the book. 'I am
afraid you can't learn it, my poor fellow.'
'I am afraid not,' said Smike, shaking his head. 'I think if you – but that would give you
so much trouble.'
'What?' inquired Nicholas. 'Never mind me.'
'I think,' said Smike, 'if you were to keep saying it to me in little bits, over and over
again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing you.'
'Do you think so?' exclaimed Nicholas. 'Well said. Let us see who tires first. Not I,
Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud?"
'«Who calls so loud?»' said Smike.
'«Who calls so loud?»' repeated Nicholas.
'«Who calls so loud?»' cried Smike.
Thus they continued to ask each other who called so loud, over and over again; and
when Smike had that by heart Nicholas went to another sentence, and then to two at a time,
and then to three, and so on, until at midnight poor Smike found to his unspeakable joy that
he really began to remember something about the text.
Early in the morning they went to it again, and Smike, rendered more confident by the
progress he had already made, got on faster and with better heart. As soon as he began to
acquire the words pretty freely, Nicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands
spread out upon his stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the
established form by which people on the stage always denote that they want something to
eat. After the morning's rehearsal they went to work again, nor did they stop, except for a
hasty dinner, until it was time to repair to the theatre at night.
Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a more patient,
unwearying, considerate, kindhearted master.
As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon the stage,
Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The Romeo was received with
hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smike was pronounced unanimously, alike by
audience and actors, the very prince and prodigy of Apothecaries.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company, 315
CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's
Peace of Mind.
T
he place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street; the time was
three o'clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding, and the first hour of morning to the
gay and spirited; the persons were Lord Frederick Verisopht, and his friend Sir Mulberry
Hawk.
These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple of sofas, with a
table between them, on which were scattered in rich confusion the materials of an untasted
breakfast. Newspapers lay strewn about the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected
and unnoticed; not, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions of
the journals from being called into request, for not a word was exchanged between the two,
nor was any sound uttered, save when one, in tossing about to find an easier resting−place
for his aching head, uttered an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to
communicate a new restlessness to his companion.
These appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong clue to the extent
of the debauch of the previous night, even if there had not been other indications of the
amusements in which it had been passed. A couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt, two
battered hats, a champagne bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow of its
being grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive weapon; a broken cane; a
card−case without the top; an empty purse; a watch−guard snapped asunder; a handful of
silver, mingled with fragments of half−smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes; –
these, and many other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly at the nature of last
night's gentlemanly frolics.
Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered foot on the
ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting posture, and turned his dull languid
eyes towards his friend, to whom he called in a drowsy voice.
'Hallo!' replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.
'Are we going to lie here all da−a−y?' said the lord.
'I don't know that we're fit for anything else,' replied Sir Mulberry; 'yet awhile, at least. I
haven't a grain of life in me this morning.'
'Life!' cried Lord Verisopht. 'I feel as if there would be nothing so snug and comfortable
as to die at once.'
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 316
'Then why don't you die?' said Sir Mulberry.
With which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to occupy himself in an
attempt to fall asleep.
His hopeful fiend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast−table, and essayed to eat; but,
finding that impossible, lounged to the window, then loitered up and down the room with his
hand to his fevered head, and finally threw himself again on his sofa, and roused his friend
once more.
'What the devil's the matter?' groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on the couch.
Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill−humour, he did not seem to feel
himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after stretching himself very often, and
declaring with a shiver that it was 'infernal cold,' he made an experiment at the breakfast−
table, and proving more successful in it than his less−seasoned friend, remained there.
'Suppose,' said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his fork, 'suppose we
go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?'
'Which little Nickleby; the money−lender or the ga−a−l?' asked Lord Verisopht.
'You take me, I see,' replied Sir Mulberry. 'The girl, of course.'
'You promised me you'd find her out,' said Lord Verisopht.
'So I did,' rejoined his friend; 'but I have thought further of the matter since then. You
distrust me in the business – you shall find her out yourself.'
'Na−ay,' remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
'But I say yes,' returned his friend. 'You shall find her out yourself. Don't think that I
mean, when you can – I know as well as you that if I did, you could never get sight of her
without me. No. I say you shall find her out – SHALL – and I'll put you in the way.'
'Now, curse me, if you ain't a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough− paced friend,' said
the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most reviving effect.
'I'll tell you how,' said Sir Mulberry. 'She was at that dinner as a bait for you.'
'No!' cried the young lord. 'What the dey – '
'As a bait for you,' repeated his friend; 'old Nickleby told me so himself.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 317
'What a fine old cock it is!' exclaimed Lord Verisopht; 'a noble rascal!'
'Yes,' said Sir Mulberry, 'he knew she was a smart little creature – '
'Smart!' interposed the young lord. 'Upon my soul, Hawk, she's a perfect beauty – a – a
picture, a statue, a – a – upon my soul she is!'
'Well,' replied Sir Mulberry, shrugging his shoulders and manifesting an indifference,
whether he felt it or not; 'that's a matter of taste; if mine doesn't agree with yours, so much
the better.'
'Confound it!' reasoned the lord, 'you were thick enough with her that day, anyhow. I
could hardly get in a word.'
'Well enough for once, well enough for once,' replied Sir Mulberry; 'but not worth the
trouble of being agreeable to again. If you seriously want to follow up the niece, tell the
uncle that you must know where she lives and how she lives, and with whom, or you are no
longer a customer of his. He'll tell you fast enough.'
'Why didn't you say this before?' asked Lord Verisopht, 'instead of letting me go on
burning, consuming, dragging out a miserable existence for an a−age!'
'I didn't know it, in the first place,' answered Sir Mulberry carelessly; 'and in the second,
I didn't believe you were so very much in earnest.'
Now, the truth was, that in the interval which had elapsed since the dinner at Ralph
Nickleby's, Sir Mulberry Hawk had been furtively trying by every means in his power to
discover whence Kate had so suddenly appeared, and whither she had disappeared.
Unassisted by Ralph, however, with whom he had held no communication since their angry
parting on that occasion, all his efforts were wholly unavailing, and he had therefore arrived
at the determination of communicating to the young lord the substance of the admission he
had gleaned from that worthy. To this he was impelled by various considerations; among
which the certainty of knowing whatever the weak young man knew was decidedly not the
least, as the desire of encountering the usurer's niece again, and using his utmost arts to
reduce her pride, and revenge himself for her contempt, was uppermost in his thoughts. It
was a politic course of proceeding, and one which could not fail to redound to his advantage
in every point of view, since the very circumstance of his having extorted from Ralph
Nickleby his real design in introducing his niece to such society, coupled with his extreme
disinterestedness in communicating it so freely to his friend, could not but advance his
interests in that quarter, and greatly facilitate the passage of coin (pretty frequent and speedy
already) from the pockets of Lord Frederick Verisopht to those of Sir Mulberry Hawk.
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 318
Thus reasoned Sir Mulberry, and in pursuance of this reasoning he and his friend soon
afterwards repaired to Ralph Nickleby's, there to execute a plan of operations concerted by
Sir Mulberry himself, avowedly to promote his friend's object, and really to attain his own.
They found Ralph at home, and alone. As he led them into the drawing−room, the
recollection of the scene which had taken place there seemed to occur to him, for he cast a
curious look at Sir Mulberry, who bestowed upon it no other acknowledgment than a
careless smile.
They had a short conference upon some money matters then in progress, which were
scarcely disposed of when the lordly dupe (in pursuance of his friend's instructions)
requested with some embarrassment to speak to Ralph alone.
'Alone, eh?' cried Sir Mulberry, affecting surprise. 'Oh, very good. I'll walk into the next
room here. Don't keep me long, that's all.'
So saying, Sir Mulberry took up his hat, and humming a fragment of a song disappeared
through the door of communication between the two drawing−rooms, and closed it after
him.
'Now, my lord,' said Ralph, 'what is it?'
'Nickleby,' said his client, throwing himself along the sofa on which he had been
previously seated, so as to bring his lips nearer to the old man's ear, 'what a pretty creature
your niece is!'
'Is she, my lord?' replied Ralph. 'Maybe – maybe – I don't trouble my head with such
matters.'
'You know she's a deyvlish fine girl,' said the client. 'You must know that, Nickleby.
Come, don't deny that.'
'Yes, I believe she is considered so,' replied Ralph. 'Indeed, I know she is. If I did not,
you are an authority on such points, and your taste, my lord – on all points, indeed – is
undeniable.'
Nobody but the young man to whom these words were addressed could have been deaf
to the sneering tone in which they were spoken, or blind to the look of contempt by which
they were accompanied. But Lord Frederick Verisopht was both, and took them to be
complimentary.
'Well,' he said, 'p'raps you're a little right, and p'raps you're a little wrong – a little of
both, Nickleby. I want to know where this beauty lives, that I may have another peep at her,
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 319
Nickleby.'
'Really – ' Ralph began in his usual tones.
'Don't talk so loud,' cried the other, achieving the great point of his lesson to a miracle. 'I
don't want Hawk to hear.'
'You know he is your rival, do you?' said Ralph, looking sharply at him.
'He always is, d−a−amn him,' replied the client; 'and I want to steal a march upon him.
Ha, ha, ha! He'll cut up so rough, Nickleby, at our talking together without him. Where does
she live, Nickleby, that's all? Only tell me where she lives, Nickleby.'
'He bites,' thought Ralph. 'He bites.'
'Eh, Nickleby, eh?' pursued the client. 'Where does she live?'
'Really, my lord,' said Ralph, rubbing his hands slowly over each other, 'I must think
before I tell you.'
'No, not a bit of it, Nickleby; you mustn't think at all,' replied Verisopht. 'Where is it?'
'No good can come of your knowing,' replied Ralph. 'She has been virtuously and well
brought up; to be sure she is handsome, poor, unprotected! Poor girl, poor girl.'
Ralph ran over this brief summary of Kate's condition as if it were merely passing
through his own mind, and he had no intention to speak aloud; but the shrewd sly look
which he directed at his companion as he delivered it, gave this poor assumption the lie.
'I tell you I only want to see her,' cried his client. 'A ma−an may look at a pretty woman
without harm, mayn't he? Now, where DOES she live? You know you're making a fortune
out of me, Nickleby, and upon my soul nobody shall ever take me to anybody else, if you
only tell me this.'
'As you promise that, my lord,' said Ralph, with feigned reluctance, 'and as I am most
anxious to oblige you, and as there's no harm in it – no harm – I'll tell you. But you had
better keep it to yourself, my lord; strictly to yourself.' Ralph pointed to the adjoining room
as he spoke, and nodded expressively.
The young lord, feigning to be equally impressed with the necessity of this precaution,
Ralph disclosed the present address and occupation of his niece, observing that from what he
heard of the family they appeared very ambitious to have distinguished acquaintances, and
that a lord could, doubtless, introduce himself with great ease, if he felt disposed.
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 320
'Your object being only to see her again,' said Ralph, 'you could effect it at any time you
chose by that means.'
Lord Verisopht acknowledged the hint with a great many squeezes of Ralph's hard,
horny hand, and whispering that they would now do well to close the conversation, called to
Sir Mulberry Hawk that he might come back.
'I thought you had gone to sleep,' said Sir Mulberry, reappearing with an ill−tempered
air.
'Sorry to detain you,' replied the gull; 'but Nickleby has been so ama−azingly funny that
I couldn't tear myself away.'
'No, no,' said Ralph; 'it was all his lordship. You know what a witty, humorous, elegant,
accomplished man Lord Frederick is. Mind the step, my lord – Sir Mulberry, pray give way.'
With such courtesies as these, and many low bows, and the same cold sneer upon his
face all the while, Ralph busied himself in showing his visitors downstairs, and otherwise
than by the slightest possible motion about the corners of his mouth, returned no show of
answer to the look of admiration with which Sir Mulberry Hawk seemed to compliment him
on being such an accomplished and most consummate scoundrel.
There had been a ring at the bell a few minutes before, which was answered by
Newman Noggs just as they reached the hall. In the ordinary course of business Newman
would have either admitted the new−comer in silence, or have requested him or her to stand
aside while the gentlemen passed out. But he no sooner saw who it was, than as if for some
private reason of his own, he boldly departed from the established custom of Ralph's
mansion in business hours, and looking towards the respectable trio who were approaching,
cried in a loud and sonorous voice, 'Mrs Nickleby!'
'Mrs Nickleby!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, as his friend looked back, and stared him in
the face.
It was, indeed, that well−intentioned lady, who, having received an offer for the empty
house in the city directed to the landlord, had brought it post−haste to Mr Nickleby without
delay.
'Nobody YOU know,' said Ralph. 'Step into the office, my – my – dear. I'll be with you
directly.'
'Nobody I know!' cried Sir Mulberry Hawk, advancing to the astonished lady. 'Is this
Mrs Nickleby – the mother of Miss Nickleby – the delightful creature that I had the
happiness of meeting in this house the very last time I dined here? But no;' said Sir
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 321
Mulberry, stopping short. 'No, it can't be. There is the same cast of features, the same
indescribable air of – But no; no. This lady is too young for that.'
'I think you can tell the gentleman, brother−in−law, if it concerns him to know,' said
Mrs Nickleby, acknowledging the compliment with a graceful bend, 'that Kate Nickleby is
my daughter.'
'Her daughter, my lord!' cried Sir Mulberry, turning to his friend. 'This lady's daughter,
my lord.'
'My lord!' thought Mrs Nickleby. 'Well, I never did – '
'This, then, my lord,' said Sir Mulberry, 'is the lady to whose obliging marriage we owe
so much happiness. This lady is the mother of sweet Miss Nickleby. Do you observe the
extraordinary likeness, my lord? Nickleby – introduce us.'
Ralph did so, in a kind of desperation.
'Upon my soul, it's a most delightful thing," said Lord Frederick, pressing forward.
'How de do?'
Mrs Nickleby was too much flurried by these uncommonly kind salutations, and her
regrets at not having on her other bonnet, to make any immediate reply, so she merely
continued to bend and smile, and betray great agitation.
'A – and how is Miss Nickleby?' said Lord Frederick. 'Well, I hope?'
'She is quite well, I'm obliged to you, my lord,' returned Mrs Nickleby, recovering.
'Quite well. She wasn't well for some days after that day she dined here, and I can't help
thinking, that she caught cold in that hackney coach coming home. Hackney coaches, my
lord, are such nasty things, that it's almost better to walk at any time, for although I believe a
hackney coachman can be transported for life, if he has a broken window, still they are so
reckless, that they nearly all have broken windows. I once had a swelled face for six weeks,
my lord, from riding in a hackney coach – I think it was a hackney coach,' said Mrs
Nickleby reflecting, 'though I'm not quite certain whether it wasn't a chariot; at all events I
know it was a dark green, with a very long number, beginning with a nought and ending
with a nine – no, beginning with a nine, and ending with a nought, that was it, and of course
the stamp−office people would know at once whether it was a coach or a chariot if any
inquiries were made there – however that was, there it was with a broken window and there
was I for six weeks with a swelled face – I think that was the very same hackney coach, that
we found out afterwards, had the top open all the time, and we should never even have
known it, if they hadn't charged us a shilling an hour extra for having it open, which it seems
is the law, or was then, and a most shameful law it appears to be – I don't understand the
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 322
subject, but I should say the Corn Laws could be nothing to THAT act of Parliament.'
Having pretty well run herself out by this time, Mrs Nickleby stopped as suddenly as
she had started off; and repeated that Kate was quite well. 'Indeed,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I
don't think she ever was better, since she had the hooping−cough, scarlet−fever, and
measles, all at the same time, and that's the fact.'
'Is that letter for me?' growled Ralph, pointing to the little packet Mrs Nickleby held in
her hand.
'For you, brother−in−law,' replied Mrs Nickleby, 'and I walked all the way up here on
purpose to give it you.'
'All the way up here!' cried Sir Mulberry, seizing upon the chance of discovering where
Mrs Nickleby had come from. 'What a confounded distance! How far do you call it now?'
'How far do I call it?' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Let me see. It's just a mile from our door to
the Old Bailey.'
'No, no. Not so much as that,' urged Sir Mulberry.
'Oh! It is indeed,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I appeal to his lordship.'
'I should decidedly say it was a mile,' remarked Lord Frederick, with a solemn aspect.
'It must be; it can't be a yard less,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'All down Newgate Street, all
down Cheapside, all up Lombard Street, down Gracechurch Street, and along Thames
Street, as far as Spigwiffin's Wharf. Oh! It's a mile.'
'Yes, on second thoughts I should say it was,' replied Sir Mulberry. 'But you don't surely
mean to walk all the way back?'
'Oh, no,' rejoined Mrs Nickleby. 'I shall go back in an omnibus. I didn't travel about in
omnibuses, when my poor dear Nicholas was alive, brother−in−law. But as it is, you know –
'
'Yes, yes,' replied Ralph impatiently, 'and you had better get back before dark.'
'Thank you, brother−in−law, so I had,' returned Mrs Nickleby. 'I think I had better say
goodbye, at once.'
'Not stop and – rest?' said Ralph, who seldom offered refreshments unless something
was to be got by it.
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 323
'Oh dear me no,' returned Mrs Nickleby, glancing at the dial.
'Lord Frederick,' said Sir Mulberry, 'we are going Mrs Nickleby's way. We'll see her
safe to the omnibus?'
'By all means. Ye−es.'
'Oh! I really couldn't think of it!' said Mrs Nickleby.
But Sir Mulberry Hawk and Lord Verisopht were peremptory in their politeness, and
leaving Ralph, who seemed to think, not unwisely, that he looked less ridiculous as a mere
spectator, than he would have done if he had taken any part in these proceedings, they
quitted the house with Mrs Nickleby between them; that good lady in a perfect ecstasy of
satisfaction, no less with the attentions shown her by two titled gentlemen, than with the
conviction that Kate might now pick and choose, at least between two large fortunes, and
most unexceptionable husbands.
As she was carried away for the moment by an irresistible train of thought, all
connected with her daughter's future greatness, Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend exchanged
glances over the top of the bonnet which the poor lady so much regretted not having left at
home, and proceeded to dilate with great rapture, but much respect on the manifold
perfections of Miss Nickleby.
'What a delight, what a comfort, what a happiness, this amiable creature must be to you,'
said Sir Mulberry, throwing into his voice an indication of the warmest feeling.
'She is indeed, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby; 'she is the sweetest− tempered,
kindest−hearted creature – and so clever!'
'She looks clayver,' said Lord Verisopht, with the air of a judge of cleverness.
'I assure you she is, my lord,' returned Mrs Nickleby. 'When she was at school in
Devonshire, she was universally allowed to be beyond all exception the very cleverest girl
there, and there were a great many very clever ones too, and that's the truth – twenty−five
young ladies, fifty guineas a year without the et−ceteras, both the Miss Dowdles the most
accomplished, elegant, fascinating creatures – Oh dear me!' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I never shall
forget what pleasure she used to give me and her poor dear papa, when she was at that
school, never – such a delightful letter every half−year, telling us that she was the first pupil
in the whole establishment, and had made more progress than anybody else! I can scarcely
bear to think of it even now. The girls wrote all the letters themselves,' added Mrs Nickleby,
'and the writing−master touched them up afterwards with a magnifying glass and a silver
pen; at least I think they wrote them, though Kate was never quite certain about that,
because she didn't know the handwriting of hers again; but anyway, I know it was a circular
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 324
which they all copied, and of course it was a very gratifying thing – very gratifying.'
With similar recollections Mrs Nickleby beguiled the tediousness of the way, until they
reached the omnibus, which the extreme politeness of her new friends would not allow them
to leave until it actually started, when they took their hats, as Mrs Nickleby solemnly
assured her hearers on many subsequent occasions, 'completely off,' and kissed their
straw−coloured kid gloves till they were no longer visible.
Mrs Nickleby leant back in the furthest corner of the conveyance, and, closing her eyes,
resigned herself to a host of most pleasing meditations. Kate had never said a word about
having met either of these gentlemen; 'that,' she thought, 'argues that she is strongly
prepossessed in favour of one of them.' Then the question arose, which one could it be. The
lord was the youngest, and his title was certainly the grandest; still Kate was not the girl to
be swayed by such considerations as these. 'I will never put any constraint upon her
inclinations,' said Mrs Nickleby to herself; 'but upon my word I think there's no comparison
between his lordship and Sir Mulberry – Sir Mulberry is such an attentive gentlemanly
creature, so much manner, such a fine man, and has so much to say for himself. I hope it's
Sir Mulberry – I think it must be Sir Mulberry!' And then her thoughts flew back to her old
predictions, and the number of times she had said, that Kate with no fortune would marry
better than other people's daughters with thousands; and, as she pictured with the brightness
of a mother's fancy all the beauty and grace of the poor girl who had struggled so cheerfully
with her new life of hardship and trial, her heart grew too full, and the tears trickled down
her face.
Meanwhile, Ralph walked to and fro in his little back−office, troubled in mind by what
had just occurred. To say that Ralph loved or cared for – in the most ordinary acceptation of
those terms – any one of God's creatures, would be the wildest fiction. Still, there had
somehow stolen upon him from time to time a thought of his niece which was tinged with
compassion and pity; breaking through the dull cloud of dislike or indifference which
darkened men and women in his eyes, there was, in her case, the faintest gleam of light – a
most feeble and sickly ray at the best of times – but there it was, and it showed the poor girl
in a better and purer aspect than any in which he had looked on human nature yet.
'I wish,' thought Ralph, 'I had never done this. And yet it will keep this boy to me, while
there is money to be made. Selling a girl – throwing her in the way of temptation, and insult,
and coarse speech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him already though. Pshaw!
match−making mothers do the same thing every day.'
He sat down, and told the chances, for and against, on his fingers.
'If I had not put them in the right track today,' thought Ralph, 'this foolish woman would
have done so. Well. If her daughter is as true to herself as she should be from what I have
seen, what harm ensues? A little teasing, a little humbling, a few tears. Yes,' said Ralph,
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 325
aloud, as he locked his iron safe. 'She must take her chance. She must take her chance.'
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CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind. 326
CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs
Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all
Bounds.
M
rs Nickleby had not felt so proud and important for many a day, as when, on
reaching home, she gave herself wholly up to the pleasant visions which had accompanied
her on her way thither. Lady Mulberry Hawk – that was the prevalent idea. Lady Mulberry
Hawk! – On Tuesday last, at St George's, Hanover Square, by the Right Reverend the
Bishop of Llandaff, Sir Mulberry Hawk, of Mulberry Castle, North Wales, to Catherine,
only daughter of the late Nicholas Nickleby, Esquire, of Devonshire. 'Upon my word!' cried
Mrs Nicholas Nickleby, 'it sounds very well.'
Having dispatched the ceremony, with its attendant festivities, to the perfect satisfaction
of her own mind, the sanguine mother pictured to her imagination a long train of honours
and distinctions which could not fail to accompany Kate in her new and brilliant sphere. She
would be presented at court, of course. On the anniversary of her birthday, which was upon
the nineteenth of July ('at ten minutes past three o'clock in the morning,' thought Mrs
Nickleby in a parenthesis, 'for I recollect asking what o'clock it was'), Sir Mulberry would
give a great feast to all his tenants, and would return them three and a half per cent on the
amount of their last half−year's rent, as would be fully described and recorded in the
fashionable intelligence, to the immeasurable delight and admiration of all the readers
thereof. Kate's picture, too, would be in at least half−a−dozen of the annuals, and on the
opposite page would appear, in delicate type, 'Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady
Mulberry Hawk. By Sir Dingleby Dabber.' Perhaps some one annual, of more
comprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain a portrait of the mother of Lady
Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father of Sir Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had
come to pass. Less interesting portraits had appeared. As this thought occurred to the good
lady, her countenance unconsciously assumed that compound expression of simpering and
sleepiness which, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one reason why they are
always so charming and agreeable.
With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs Nickleby occupy the whole evening
after her accidental introduction to Ralph's titled friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and
equally promising, haunted her sleep that night. She was preparing for her frugal dinner next
day, still occupied with the same ideas – a little softened down perhaps by sleep and daylight
– when the girl who attended her, partly for company, and partly to assist in the household
affairs, rushed into the room in unwonted agitation, and announced that two gentlemen were
waiting in the passage for permission to walk upstairs.
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'Bless my heart!' cried Mrs Nickleby, hastily arranging her cap and front, 'if it should be
– dear me, standing in the passage all this time – why don't you go and ask them to walk up,
you stupid thing?'
While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs Nickleby hastily swept into a cupboard all
vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely done, and seated herself with looks
as collected as she could assume, when two gentlemen, both perfect strangers, presented
themselves.
'How do you DO?' said one gentleman, laying great stress on the last word of the
inquiry.
'HOW do you do?' said the other gentleman, altering the emphasis, as if to give variety
to the salutation.
Mrs Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, and remarked, rubbing her
hands as she did so, that she hadn't the – really – the honour to –
'To know us,' said the first gentleman. 'The loss has been ours, Mrs Nickleby. Has the
loss been ours, Pyke?'
'It has, Pluck,' answered the other gentleman.
'We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?' said the first gentleman.
'Very often, Pluck,' answered the second.
'But now,' said the first gentleman, 'now we have the happiness we have pined and
languished for. Have we pined and languished for this happiness, Pyke, or have we not?'
'You know we have, Pluck,' said Pyke, reproachfully.
'You hear him, ma'am?' said Mr Pluck, looking round; 'you hear the unimpeachable
testimony of my friend Pyke – that reminds me, – formalities, formalities, must not be
neglected in civilised society. Pyke – Mrs Nickleby.'
Mr Pyke laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed low.
'Whether I shall introduce myself with the same formality,' said Mr Pluck – 'whether I
shall say myself that my name is Pluck, or whether I shall ask my friend Pyke (who being
now regularly introduced, is competent to the office) to state for me, Mrs Nickleby, that my
name is Pluck; whether I shall claim your acquaintance on the plain ground of the strong
interest I take in your welfare, or whether I shall make myself known to you as the friend of
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.328
Sir Mulberry Hawk – these, Mrs Nickleby, are considerations which I leave to you to
determine.'
'Any friend of Sir Mulberry Hawk's requires no better introduction to me,' observed Mrs
Nickleby, graciously.
'It is delightful to hear you say so,' said Mr Pluck, drawing a chair close to Mrs
Nickleby, and sitting himself down. 'It is refreshing to know that you hold my excellent
friend, Sir Mulberry, in such high esteem. A word in your ear, Mrs Nickleby. When Sir
Mulberry knows it, he will be a happy man – I say, Mrs Nickleby, a happy man. Pyke, be
seated.'
'MY good opinion,' said Mrs Nickleby, and the poor lady exulted in the idea that she
was marvellously sly, – 'my good opinion can be of very little consequence to a gentleman
like Sir Mulberry.'
'Of little consequence!' exclaimed Mr Pluck. 'Pyke, of what consequence to our friend,
Sir Mulberry, is the good opinion of Mrs Nickleby?'
'Of what consequence?' echoed Pyke.
'Ay,' repeated Pluck; 'is it of the greatest consequence?'
'Of the very greatest consequence,' replied Pyke.
'Mrs Nickleby cannot be ignorant,' said Mr Pluck, 'of the immense impression which
that sweet girl has – '
'Pluck!' said his friend, 'beware!'
'Pyke is right,' muttered Mr Pluck, after a short pause; 'I was not to mention it. Pyke is
very right. Thank you, Pyke.'
'Well now, really,' thought Mrs Nickleby within herself. 'Such delicacy as that, I never
saw!'
Mr Pluck, after feigning to be in a condition of great embarrassment for some minutes,
resumed the conversation by entreating Mrs Nickleby to take no heed of what he had
inadvertently said – to consider him imprudent, rash, injudicious. The only stipulation he
would make in his own favour was, that she should give him credit for the best intentions.
'But when,' said Mr Pluck, 'when I see so much sweetness and beauty on the one hand,
and so much ardour and devotion on the other, I – pardon me, Pyke, I didn't intend to resume
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.329
that theme. Change the subject, Pyke.'
'We promised Sir Mulberry and Lord Frederick,' said Pyke, 'that we'd call this morning
and inquire whether you took any cold last night.'
'Not the least in the world last night, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby, 'with many thanks to his
lordship and Sir Mulberry for doing me the honour to inquire; not the least – which is the
more singular, as I really am very subject to colds, indeed – very subject. I had a cold once,'
said Mrs Nickleby, 'I think it was in the year eighteen hundred and seventeen; let me see,
four and five are nine, and – yes, eighteen hundred and seventeen, that I thought I never
should get rid of; actually and seriously, that I thought I never should get rid of. I was only
cured at last by a remedy that I don't know whether you ever happened to hear of, Mr Pluck.
You have a gallon of water as hot as you can possibly bear it, with a pound of salt, and
sixpen'orth of the finest bran, and sit with your head in it for twenty minutes every night just
before going to bed; at least, I don't mean your head – your feet. It's a most extraordinary
cure – a most extraordinary cure. I used it for the first time, I recollect, the day after
Christmas Day, and by the middle of April following the cold was gone. It seems quite a
miracle when you come to think of it, for I had it ever since the beginning of September.'
'What an afflicting calamity!' said Mr Pyke.
'Perfectly horrid!' exclaimed Mr Pluck.
'But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs Nickleby recovered it, isn't it,
Pluck?' cried Mr Pyke.
'That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest,' replied Mr Pluck.
'But come,' said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; 'we must not forget our
mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a mission, Mrs Nickleby.'
'On a mission,' exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definite proposal of marriage
for Kate at once presented itself in lively colours.
'From Sir Mulberry,' replied Pyke. 'You must be very dull here.'
'Rather dull, I confess,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand entreaties that you'll
take a seat in a private box at the play tonight,' said Mr Pluck.
'Oh dear!' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I never go out at all, never.'
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.330
'And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs Nickleby, why you should go out tonight,'
retorted Mr Pluck. 'Pyke, entreat Mrs Nickleby.'
'Oh, pray do,' said Pyke.
'You positively must,' urged Pluck.
'You are very kind,' said Mrs Nickleby, hesitating; 'but – '
'There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr Pluck; 'not such
a word in the vocabulary. Your brother−in−law joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir
Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us – a refusal is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a
carriage for you – twenty minutes before seven to the moment – you'll not be so cruel as to
disappoint the whole party, Mrs Nickleby?'
'You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied the worthy lady.
'Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr Pluck. 'Mrs
Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice, 'there is the most trifling, the
most excusable breach of confidence in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke
there overheard it – such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs Nickleby – he'd have
me out before dinner−time.'
Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had walked to the
window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:
'Your daughter has made a conquest – a conquest on which I may congratulate you. Sir
Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her devoted slave. Hem!'
'Hah!' cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the chimney−piece with
a theatrical air. 'What is this! what do I behold!'
'What DO you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr Pluck.
'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr Pyke, falling into his chair with
a miniature in his hand; 'feebly portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE
countenance, THE expression.'
'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit of enthusiasm. 'Is it not, my
dear madam, the faint similitude of – '
'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride. And so it was. And
little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection only two nights before.
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.331
Mr Pyke no sooner ascertained that he was quite right in his conjecture, than he
launched into the most extravagant encomiums of the divine original; and in the warmth of
his enthusiasm kissed the picture a thousand times, while Mr Pluck pressed Mrs Nickleby's
hand to his heart, and congratulated her on the possession of such a daughter, with so much
earnestness and affection, that the tears stood, or seemed to stand, in his eyes. Poor Mrs
Nickleby, who had listened in a state of enviable complacency at first, became at length
quite overpowered by these tokens of regard for, and attachment to, the family; and even the
servant girl, who had peeped in at the door, remained rooted to the spot in astonishment at
the ecstasies of the two friendly visitors.
By degrees these raptures subsided, and Mrs Nickleby went on to entertain her guests
with a lament over her fallen fortunes, and a picturesque account of her old house in the
country: comprising a full description of the different apartments, not forgetting the little
store−room, and a lively recollection of how many steps you went down to get into the
garden, and which way you turned when you came out at the parlour door, and what capital
fixtures there were in the kitchen. This last reflection naturally conducted her into the
wash−house, where she stumbled upon the brewing utensils, among which she might have
wandered for an hour, if the mere mention of those implements had not, by an association of
ideas, instantly reminded Mr Pyke that he was 'amazing thirsty.'
'And I'll tell you what,' said Mr Pyke; 'if you'll send round to the public−house for a pot
of milk half−and−half, positively and actually I'll drink it.'
And positively and actually Mr Pyke DID drink it, and Mr Pluck helped him, while Mrs
Nickleby looked on in divided admiration of the condescension of the two, and the aptitude
with which they accommodated themselves to the pewter−pot; in explanation of which
seeming marvel it may be here observed, that gentlemen who, like Messrs Pyke and Pluck,
live upon their wits (or not so much, perhaps, upon the presence of their own wits as upon
the absence of wits in other people) are occasionally reduced to very narrow shifts and
straits, and are at such periods accustomed to regale themselves in a very simple and
primitive manner.
'At twenty minutes before seven, then,' said Mr Pyke, rising, 'the coach will be here.
One more look – one little look – at that sweet face. Ah! here it is. Unmoved, unchanged!'
This, by the way, was a very remarkable circumstance, miniatures being liable to so many
changes of expression – 'Oh, Pluck! Pluck!'
Mr Pluck made no other reply than kissing Mrs Nickleby's hand with a great show of
feeling and attachment; Mr Pyke having done the same, both gentlemen hastily withdrew.
Mrs Nickleby was commonly in the habit of giving herself credit for a pretty tolerable
share of penetration and acuteness, but she had never felt so satisfied with her own
sharp−sightedness as she did that day. She had found it all out the night before. She had
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.332
never seen Sir Mulberry and Kate together – never even heard Sir Mulberry's name – and
yet hadn't she said to herself from the very first, that she saw how the case stood? and what a
triumph it was, for there was now no doubt about it. If these flattering attentions to herself
were not sufficient proofs, Sir Mulberry's confidential friend had suffered the secret to
escape him in so many words. 'I am quite in love with that dear Mr Pluck, I declare I am,'
said Mrs Nickleby.
There was one great source of uneasiness in the midst of this good fortune, and that was
the having nobody by, to whom she could confide it. Once or twice she almost resolved to
walk straight to Miss La Creevy's and tell it all to her. 'But I don't know,' thought Mrs
Nickleby; 'she is a very worthy person, but I am afraid too much beneath Sir Mulberry's
station for us to make a companion of. Poor thing!' Acting upon this grave consideration she
rejected the idea of taking the little portrait painter into her confidence, and contented herself
with holding out sundry vague and mysterious hopes of preferment to the servant girl, who
received these obscure hints of dawning greatness with much veneration and respect.
Punctual to its time came the promised vehicle, which was no hackney coach, but a
private chariot, having behind it a footman, whose legs, although somewhat large for his
body, might, as mere abstract legs, have set themselves up for models at the Royal
Academy. It was quite exhilarating to hear the clash and bustle with which he banged the
door and jumped up behind after Mrs Nickleby was in; and as that good lady was perfectly
unconscious that he applied the gold−headed end of his long stick to his nose, and so
telegraphed most disrespectfully to the coachman over her very head, she sat in a state of
much stiffness and dignity, not a little proud of her position.
At the theatre entrance there was more banging and more bustle, and there were also
Messrs Pyke and Pluck waiting to escort her to her box; and so polite were they, that Mr
Pyke threatened with many oaths to 'smifligate' a very old man with a lantern who
accidentally stumbled in her way – to the great terror of Mrs Nickleby, who, conjecturing
more from Mr Pyke's excitement than any previous acquaintance with the etymology of the
word that smifligation and bloodshed must be in the main one and the same thing, was
alarmed beyond expression, lest something should occur. Fortunately, however, Mr Pyke
confined himself to mere verbal smifligation, and they reached their box with no more
serious interruption by the way, than a desire on the part of the same pugnacious gentleman
to 'smash' the assistant box−keeper for happening to mistake the number.
Mrs Nickleby had scarcely been put away behind the curtain of the box in an armchair,
when Sir Mulberry and Lord Verisopht arrived, arrayed from the crowns of their heads to
the tips of their gloves, and from the tips of their gloves to the toes of their boots, in the most
elegant and costly manner. Sir Mulberry was a little hoarser than on the previous day, and
Lord Verisopht looked rather sleepy and queer; from which tokens, as well as from the
circumstance of their both being to a trifling extent unsteady upon their legs, Mrs Nickleby
justly concluded that they had taken dinner.
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.333
'We have been – we have been – toasting your lovely daughter, Mrs Nickleby,'
whispered Sir Mulberry, sitting down behind her.
'Oh, ho!' thought that knowing lady; 'wine in, truth out. – You are very kind, Sir
Mulberry.'
'No, no upon my soul!' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk. 'It's you that's kind, upon my soul it
is. It was so kind of you to come tonight.'
'So very kind of you to invite me, you mean, Sir Mulberry,' replied Mrs Nickleby,
tossing her head, and looking prodigiously sly.
'I am so anxious to know you, so anxious to cultivate your good opinion, so desirous
that there should be a delicious kind of harmonious family understanding between us,' said
Sir Mulberry, 'that you mustn't think I'm disinterested in what I do. I'm infernal selfish; I am
– upon my soul I am.'
'I am sure you can't be selfish, Sir Mulberry!' replied Mrs Nickleby. 'You have much too
open and generous a countenance for that.'
'What an extraordinary observer you are!' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
'Oh no, indeed, I don't see very far into things, Sir Mulberry,' replied Mrs Nickleby, in a
tone of voice which left the baronet to infer that she saw very far indeed.
'I am quite afraid of you,' said the baronet. 'Upon my soul,' repeated Sir Mulberry,
looking round to his companions; 'I am afraid of Mrs Nickleby. She is so immensely sharp.'
Messrs Pyke and Pluck shook their heads mysteriously, and observed together that they
had found that out long ago; upon which Mrs Nickleby tittered, and Sir Mulberry laughed,
and Pyke and Pluck roared.
'But where's my brother−in−law, Sir Mulberry?' inquired Mrs Nickleby. 'I shouldn't be
here without him. I hope he's coming.'
'Pyke,' said Sir Mulberry, taking out his toothpick and lolling back in his chair, as if he
were too lazy to invent a reply to this question. 'Where's Ralph Nickleby?'
'Pluck,' said Pyke, imitating the baronet's action, and turning the lie over to his friend,
'where's Ralph Nickleby?'
Mr Pluck was about to return some evasive reply, when the hustle caused by a party
entering the next box seemed to attract the attention of all four gentlemen, who exchanged
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.334
glances of much meaning. The new party beginning to converse together, Sir Mulberry
suddenly assumed the character of a most attentive listener, and implored his friends not to
breathe – not to breathe.
'Why not?' said Mrs Nickleby. 'What is the matter?'
'Hush!' replied Sir Mulberry, laying his hand on her arm. 'Lord Frederick, do you
recognise the tones of that voice?'
'Deyvle take me if I didn't think it was the voice of Miss Nickleby.'
'Lor, my lord!' cried Miss Nickleby's mama, thrusting her head round the curtain. 'Why
actually – Kate, my dear, Kate.'
'YOU here, mama! Is it possible!'
'Possible, my dear? Yes.'
'Why who – who on earth is that you have with you, mama?' said Kate, shrinking back
as she caught sight of a man smiling and kissing his hand.
'Who do you suppose, my dear?' replied Mrs Nickleby, bending towards Mrs Wititterly,
and speaking a little louder for that lady's edification. 'There's Mr Pyke, Mr Pluck, Sir
Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Frederick Verisopht.'
'Gracious Heaven!' thought Kate hurriedly. 'How comes she in such society?'
Now, Kate thought thus SO hurriedly, and the surprise was so great, and moreover
brought back so forcibly the recollection of what had passed at Ralph's delectable dinner,
that she turned extremely pale and appeared greatly agitated, which symptoms being
observed by Mrs Nickleby, were at once set down by that acute lady as being caused and
occasioned by violent love. But, although she was in no small degree delighted by this
discovery, which reflected so much credit on her own quickness of perception, it did not
lessen her motherly anxiety in Kate's behalf; and accordingly, with a vast quantity of
trepidation, she quitted her own box to hasten into that of Mrs Wititterly. Mrs Wititterly,
keenly alive to the glory of having a lord and a baronet among her visiting acquaintance, lost
no time in signing to Mr Wititterly to open the door, and thus it was that in less than thirty
seconds Mrs Nickleby's party had made an irruption into Mrs Wititterly's box, which it filled
to the very door, there being in fact only room for Messrs Pyke and Pluck to get in their
heads and waistcoats.
'My dear Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby, kissing her daughter affectionately. 'How ill you
looked a moment ago! You quite frightened me, I declare!'
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'It was mere fancy, mama, – the – the – reflection of the lights perhaps,' replied Kate,
glancing nervously round, and finding it impossible to whisper any caution or explanation.
'Don't you see Sir Mulberry Hawk, my dear?'
Kate bowed slightly, and biting her lip turned her head towards the stage.
But Sir Mulberry Hawk was not to be so easily repulsed, for he advanced with extended
hand; and Mrs Nickleby officiously informing Kate of this circumstance, she was obliged to
extend her own. Sir Mulberry detained it while he murmured a profusion of compliments,
which Kate, remembering what had passed between them, rightly considered as so many
aggravations of the insult he had already put upon her. Then followed the recognition of
Lord Verisopht, and then the greeting of Mr Pyke, and then that of Mr Pluck, and finally, to
complete the young lady's mortification, she was compelled at Mrs Wititterly's request to
perform the ceremony of introducing the odious persons, whom she regarded with the
utmost indignation and abhorrence.
'Mrs Wititterly is delighted,' said Mr Wititterly, rubbing his hands; 'delighted, my lord, I
am sure, with this opportunity of contracting an acquaintance which, I trust, my lord, we
shall improve. Julia, my dear, you must not allow yourself to be too much excited, you must
not. Indeed you must not. Mrs Wititterly is of a most excitable nature, Sir Mulberry. The
snuff of a candle, the wick of a lamp, the bloom on a peach, the down on a butterfly. You
might blow her away, my lord; you might blow her away.'
Sir Mulberry seemed to think that it would be a great convenience if the lady could be
blown away. He said, however, that the delight was mutual, and Lord Verisopht added that it
was mutual, whereupon Messrs Pyke and Pluck were heard to murmur from the distance that
it was very mutual indeed.
'I take an interest, my lord,' said Mrs Wititterly, with a faint smile, 'such an interest in
the drama.'
'Ye – es. It's very interesting,' replied Lord Verisopht.
'I'm always ill after Shakespeare,' said Mrs Wititterly. 'I scarcely exist the next day; I
find the reaction so very great after a tragedy, my lord, and Shakespeare is such a delicious
creature.'
'Ye – es!' replied Lord Verisopht. 'He was a clayver man.'
'Do you know, my lord,' said Mrs Wititterly, after a long silence, 'I find I take so much
more interest in his plays, after having been to that dear little dull house he was born in!
Were you ever there, my lord?'
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'No, nayver,' replied Verisopht.
'Then really you ought to go, my lord,' returned Mrs Wititterly, in very languid and
drawling accents. 'I don't know how it is, but after you've seen the place and written your
name in the little book, somehow or other you seem to be inspired; it kindles up quite a fire
within one.'
'Ye – es!' replied Lord Verisopht, 'I shall certainly go there.'
'Julia, my life,' interposed Mr Wititterly, 'you are deceiving his lordship –
unintentionally, my lord, she is deceiving you. It is your poetical temperament, my dear –
your ethereal soul – your fervid imagination, which throws you into a glow of genius and
excitement. There is nothing in the place, my dear – nothing, nothing.'
'I think there must be something in the place,' said Mrs Nickleby, who had been
listening in silence; 'for, soon after I was married, I went to Stratford with my poor dear Mr
Nickleby, in a post−chaise from Birmingham – was it a post−chaise though?' said Mrs
Nickleby, considering; 'yes, it must have been a post−chaise, because I recollect remarking
at the time that the driver had a green shade over his left eye; – in a post−chaise from
Birmingham, and after we had seen Shakespeare's tomb and birthplace, we went back to the
inn there, where we slept that night, and I recollect that all night long I dreamt of nothing but
a black gentleman, at full length, in plaster−of−Paris, with a lay−down collar tied with two
tassels, leaning against a post and thinking; and when I woke in the morning and described
him to Mr Nickleby, he said it was Shakespeare just as he had been when he was alive,
which was very curious indeed. Stratford – Stratford,' continued Mrs Nickleby, considering.
'Yes, I am positive about that, because I recollect I was in the family way with my son
Nicholas at the time, and I had been very much frightened by an Italian image boy that very
morning. In fact, it was quite a mercy, ma'am,' added Mrs Nickleby, in a whisper to Mrs
Wititterly, 'that my son didn't turn out to be a Shakespeare, and what a dreadful thing that
would have been!'
When Mrs Nickleby had brought this interesting anecdote to a close, Pyke and Pluck,
ever zealous in their patron's cause, proposed the adjournment of a detachment of the party
into the next box; and with so much skill were the preliminaries adjusted, that Kate, despite
all she could say or do to the contrary, had no alternative but to suffer herself to be led away
by Sir Mulberry Hawk. Her mother and Mr Pluck accompanied them, but the worthy lady,
pluming herself upon her discretion, took particular care not so much as to look at her
daughter during the whole evening, and to seem wholly absorbed in the jokes and
conversation of Mr Pluck, who, having been appointed sentry over Mrs Nickleby for that
especial purpose, neglected, on his side, no possible opportunity of engrossing her attention.
Lord Frederick Verisopht remained in the next box to be talked to by Mrs Wititterly,
and Mr Pyke was in attendance to throw in a word or two when necessary. As to Mr
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.337
Wititterly, he was sufficiently busy in the body of the house, informing such of his friends
and acquaintance as happened to be there, that those two gentlemen upstairs, whom they had
seen in conversation with Mrs W., were the distinguished Lord Frederick Verisopht and his
most intimate friend, the gay Sir Mulberry Hawk – a communication which inflamed several
respectable house−keepers with the utmost jealousy and rage, and reduced sixteen
unmarried daughters to the very brink of despair.
The evening came to an end at last, but Kate had yet to be handed downstairs by the
detested Sir Mulberry; and so skilfully were the manoeuvres of Messrs Pyke and Pluck
conducted, that she and the baronet were the last of the party, and were even – without an
appearance of effort or design – left at some little distance behind.
'Don't hurry, don't hurry,' said Sir Mulberry, as Kate hastened on, and attempted to
release her arm.
She made no reply, but still pressed forward.
'Nay, then – ' coolly observed Sir Mulberry, stopping her outright.
'You had best not seek to detain me, sir!' said Kate, angrily.
'And why not?' retorted Sir Mulberry. 'My dear creature, now why do you keep up this
show of displeasure?'
'SHOW!' repeated Kate, indignantly. 'How dare you presume to speak to me, sir – to
address me – to come into my presence?'
'You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, stooping
down, the better to see her face.
'I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,' said Kate. 'If you find any
attraction in looks of disgust and aversion, you – let me rejoin my friends, sir, instantly.
Whatever considerations may have withheld me thus far, I will disregard them all, and take a
course that even YOU might feel, if you do not immediately suffer me to proceed.'
Sir Mulberry smiled, and still looking in her face and retaining her arm, walked towards
the door.
'If no regard for my sex or helpless situation will induce you to desist from this coarse
and unmanly persecution,' said Kate, scarcely knowing, in the tumult of her passions, what
she said, – 'I have a brother who will resent it dearly, one day.'
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.338
'Upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, as though quietly communing with himself;
passing his arm round her waist as he spoke, 'she looks more beautiful, and I like her better
in this mood, than when her eyes are cast down, and she is in perfect repose!'
How Kate reached the lobby where her friends were waiting she never knew, but she
hurried across it without at all regarding them, and disengaged herself suddenly from her
companion, sprang into the coach, and throwing herself into its darkest corner burst into
tears.
Messrs Pyke and Pluck, knowing their cue, at once threw the party into great
commotion by shouting for the carriages, and getting up a violent quarrel with sundry
inoffensive bystanders; in the midst of which tumult they put the affrighted Mrs Nickleby in
her chariot, and having got her safely off, turned their thoughts to Mrs Wititterly, whose
attention also they had now effectually distracted from the young lady, by throwing her into
a state of the utmost bewilderment and consternation. At length, the conveyance in which
she had come rolled off too with its load, and the four worthies, being left alone under the
portico, enjoyed a hearty laugh together.
'There,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his noble friend. 'Didn't I tell you last night that if
we could find where they were going by bribing a servant through my fellow, and then
established ourselves close by with the mother, these people's honour would be our own?
Why here it is, done in four−and−twenty hours.'
'Ye – es,' replied the dupe. 'But I have been tied to the old woman all ni−ight.'
'Hear him,' said Sir Mulberry, turning to his two friends. 'Hear this discontented
grumbler. Isn't it enough to make a man swear never to help him in his plots and schemes
again? Isn't it an infernal shame?'
Pyke asked Pluck whether it was not an infernal shame, and Pluck asked Pyke; but
neither answered.
'Isn't it the truth?' demanded Verisopht. 'Wasn't it so?'
'Wasn't it so!' repeated Sir Mulberry. 'How would you have had it? How could we have
got a general invitation at first sight – come when you like, go when you like, stop as long as
you like, do what you like – if you, the lord, had not made yourself agreeable to the foolish
mistress of the house? Do I care for this girl, except as your friend? Haven't I been sounding
your praises in her ears, and bearing her pretty sulks and peevishness all night for you? What
sort of stuff do you think I'm made of? Would I do this for every man? Don't I deserve even
gratitude in return?'
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CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.339
'You're a deyvlish good fellow,' said the poor young lord, taking his friend's arm. 'Upon
my life you're a deyvlish good fellow, Hawk.'
'And I have done right, have I?' demanded Sir Mulberry.
'Quite ri−ght.'
'And like a poor, silly, good−natured, friendly dog as I am, eh?'
'Ye – es, ye – es; like a friend,' replied the other.
'Well then,' replied Sir Mulberry, 'I'm satisfied. And now let's go and have our revenge
on the German baron and the Frenchman, who cleaned you out so handsomely last night.'
With these words the friendly creature took his companion's arm and led him away,
turning half round as he did so, and bestowing a wink and a contemptuous smile on Messrs
Pyke and Pluck, who, cramming their handkerchiefs into their mouths to denote their silent
enjoyment of the whole proceedings, followed their patron and his victim at a little distance.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck, whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.340
CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the
Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
a
nd the Complicated Difficulties and Distresses which surround her, appeals, as a last
resource, to her Uncle for Protection.
The ensuing morning brought reflection with it, as morning usually does; but widely
different was the train of thought it awakened in the different persons who had been so
unexpectedly brought together on the preceding evening, by the active agency of Messrs
Pyke and Pluck.
The reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk – if such a term can be applied to the thoughts of
the systematic and calculating man of dissipation, whose joys, regrets, pains, and pleasures,
are all of self, and who would seem to retain nothing of the intellectual faculty but the power
to debase himself, and to degrade the very nature whose outward semblance he wears – the
reflections of Sir Mulberry Hawk turned upon Kate Nickleby, and were, in brief, that she
was undoubtedly handsome; that her coyness MUST be easily conquerable by a man of his
address and experience, and that the pursuit was one which could not fail to redound to his
credit, and greatly to enhance his reputation with the world. And lest this last consideration –
no mean or secondary one with Sir Mulberry – should sound strangely in the ears of some,
let it be remembered that most men live in a world of their own, and that in that limited
circle alone are they ambitious for distinction and applause. Sir Mulberry's world was
peopled with profligates, and he acted accordingly.
Thus, cases of injustice, and oppression, and tyranny, and the most extravagant bigotry,
are in constant occurrence among us every day. It is the custom to trumpet forth much
wonder and astonishment at the chief actors therein setting at defiance so completely the
opinion of the world; but there is no greater fallacy; it is precisely because they do consult
the opinion of their own little world that such things take place at all, and strike the great
world dumb with amazement.
The reflections of Mrs Nickleby were of the proudest and most complacent kind; and
under the influence of her very agreeable delusion she straightway sat down and indited a
long letter to Kate, in which she expressed her entire approval of the admirable choice she
had made, and extolled Sir Mulberry to the skies; asserting, for the more complete
satisfaction of her daughter's feelings, that he was precisely the individual whom she (Mrs
Nickleby) would have chosen for her son−in−law, if she had had the picking and choosing
from all mankind. The good lady then, with the preliminary observation that she might be
fairly supposed not to have lived in the world so long without knowing its ways,
communicated a great many subtle precepts applicable to the state of courtship, and
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 341
confirmed in their wisdom by her own personal experience. Above all things she
commended a strict maidenly reserve, as being not only a very laudable thing in itself, but as
tending materially to strengthen and increase a lover's ardour. 'And I never,' added Mrs
Nickleby, 'was more delighted in my life than to observe last night, my dear, that your good
sense had already told you this.' With which sentiment, and various hints of the pleasure she
derived from the knowledge that her daughter inherited so large an instalment of her own
excellent sense and discretion (to nearly the full measure of which she might hope, with
care, to succeed in time), Mrs Nickleby concluded a very long and rather illegible letter.
Poor Kate was well−nigh distracted on the receipt of four closely− written and
closely−crossed sides of congratulation on the very subject which had prevented her closing
her eyes all night, and kept her weeping and watching in her chamber; still worse and more
trying was the necessity of rendering herself agreeable to Mrs Wititterly, who, being in low
spirits after the fatigue of the preceding night, of course expected her companion (else
wherefore had she board and salary?) to be in the best spirits possible. As to Mr Wititterly,
he went about all day in a tremor of delight at having shaken hands with a lord, and having
actually asked him to come and see him in his own house. The lord himself, not being
troubled to any inconvenient extent with the power of thinking, regaled himself with the
conversation of Messrs Pyke and Pluck, who sharpened their wit by a plentiful indulgence in
various costly stimulants at his expense.
It was four in the afternoon – that is, the vulgar afternoon of the sun and the clock – and
Mrs Wititterly reclined, according to custom, on the drawing−room sofa, while Kate read
aloud a new novel in three volumes, entitled 'The Lady Flabella,' which Alphonse the
doubtful had procured from the library that very morning. And it was a production
admirably suited to a lady labouring under Mrs Wititterly's complaint, seeing that there was
not a line in it, from beginning to end, which could, by the most remote contingency,
awaken the smallest excitement in any person breathing.
Kate read on.
'«Cherizette,» said the Lady Flabella, inserting her mouse−like feet in the blue satin
slippers, which had unwittingly occasioned the half−playful half−angry altercation between
herself and the youthful Colonel Befillaire, in the Duke of Mincefenille's SALON DE
DANSE on the previous night. «CHERIZETTE, MA CHERE, DONNEZ−MOI DE
L'EAU−DE− COLOGNE, S'IL VOUS PLAIT, MON ENFANT.»
'«MERCIE – thank you,» said the Lady Flabella, as the lively but devoted Cherizette
plentifully besprinkled with the fragrant compound the Lady Flabella's MOUCHOIR of
finest cambric, edged with richest lace, and emblazoned at the four corners with the Flabella
crest, and gorgeous heraldic bearings of that noble family. «MERCIE – that will do.»
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 342
'At this instant, while the Lady Flabella yet inhaled that delicious fragrance by holding
the MOUCHOIR to her exquisite, but thoughtfully−chiselled nose, the door of the
BOUDOIR (artfully concealed by rich hangings of silken damask, the hue of Italy's
firmament) was thrown open, and with noiseless tread two VALETS−DE−
CHAMBRE, clad in sumptuous liveries of peach−blossom and gold, advanced into the
room followed by a page in BAS DE SOIE – silk stockings – who, while they remained at
some distance making the most graceful obeisances, advanced to the feet of his lovely
mistress, and dropping on one knee presented, on a golden salver gorgeously chased, a
scented BILLET.
'The Lady Flabella, with an agitation she could not repress, hastily tore off the
ENVELOPE and broke the scented seal. It WAS from Befillaire – the young, the slim, the
low−voiced – HER OWN Befillaire.'
'Oh, charming!' interrupted Kate's patroness, who was sometimes taken literary. 'Poetic,
really. Read that description again, Miss Nickleby.'
Kate complied.
'Sweet, indeed!' said Mrs Wititterly, with a sigh. 'So voluptuous, is it not – so soft?'
'Yes, I think it is,' replied Kate, gently; 'very soft.'
'Close the book, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs Wititterly. 'I can hear nothing more today; I
should be sorry to disturb the impression of that sweet description. Close the book.'
Kate complied, not unwillingly; and, as she did so, Mrs Wititterly raising her glass with
a languid hand, remarked, that she looked pale.
'It was the fright of that – that noise and confusion last night,' said Kate.
'How very odd!' exclaimed Mrs Wititterly, with a look of surprise. And certainly, when
one comes to think of it, it WAS very odd that anything should have disturbed a companion.
A steam−engine, or other ingenious piece of mechanism out of order, would have been
nothing to it.
'How did you come to know Lord Frederick, and those other delightful creatures, child?'
asked Mrs Wititterly, still eyeing Kate through her glass.
'I met them at my uncle's,' said Kate, vexed to feel that she was colouring deeply, but
unable to keep down the blood which rushed to her face whenever she thought of that man.
'Have you known them long?'
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 343
'No,' rejoined Kate. 'Not long.'
'I was very glad of the opportunity which that respectable person, your mother, gave us
of being known to them,' said Mrs Wititterly, in a lofty manner. 'Some friends of ours were
on the very point of introducing us, which makes it quite remarkable.'
This was said lest Miss Nickleby should grow conceited on the honour and dignity of
having known four great people (for Pyke and Pluck were included among the delightful
creatures), whom Mrs Wititterly did not know. But as the circumstance had made no
impression one way or other upon Kate's mind, the force of the observation was quite lost
upon her.
'They asked permission to call,' said Mrs Wititterly. 'I gave it them of course.'
'Do you expect them today?' Kate ventured to inquire.
Mrs Wititterly's answer was lost in the noise of a tremendous rapping at the street−door,
and before it had ceased to vibrate, there drove up a handsome cabriolet, out of which leaped
Sir Mulberry Hawk and his friend Lord Verisopht.
'They are here now,' said Kate, rising and hurrying away.
'Miss Nickleby!' cried Mrs Wititterly, perfectly aghast at a companion's attempting to
quit the room, without her permission first had and obtained. 'Pray don't think of going.'
'You are very good!' replied Kate. 'But – '
'For goodness' sake, don't agitate me by making me speak so much,' said Mrs Wititterly,
with great sharpness. 'Dear me, Miss Nickleby, I beg – '
It was in vain for Kate to protest that she was unwell, for the footsteps of the knockers,
whoever they were, were already on the stairs. She resumed her seat, and had scarcely done
so, when the doubtful page darted into the room and announced, Mr Pyke, and Mr Pluck,
and Lord Verisopht, and Sir Mulberry Hawk, all at one burst.
'The most extraordinary thing in the world,' said Mr Pluck, saluting both ladies with the
utmost cordiality; 'the most extraordinary thing. As Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry drove
up to the door, Pyke and I had that instant knocked.'
'That instant knocked,' said Pyke.
'No matter how you came, so that you are here,' said Mrs Wititterly, who, by dint of
lying on the same sofa for three years and a half, had got up quite a little pantomime of
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 344
graceful attitudes, and now threw herself into the most striking of the whole series, to
astonish the visitors. 'I am delighted, I am sure.'
'And how is Miss Nickleby?' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, accosting Kate, in a low voice –
not so low, however, but that it reached the ears of Mrs Wititterly.
'Why, she complains of suffering from the fright of last night,' said the lady. 'I am sure I
don't wonder at it, for my nerves are quite torn to pieces.'
'And yet you look,' observed Sir Mulberry, turning round; 'and yet you look – '
'Beyond everything,' said Mr Pyke, coming to his patron's assistance. Of course Mr
Pluck said the same.
'I am afraid Sir Mulberry is a flatterer, my lord,' said Mrs Wititterly, turning to that
young gentleman, who had been sucking the head of his cane in silence, and staring at Kate.
'Oh, deyvlish!' replied Verisopht. Having given utterance to which remarkable
sentiment, he occupied himself as before.
'Neither does Miss Nickleby look the worse,' said Sir Mulberry, bending his bold gaze
upon her. 'She was always handsome, but upon my soul, ma'am, you seem to have imparted
some of your own good looks to her besides.'
To judge from the glow which suffused the poor girl's countenance after this speech,
Mrs Wititterly might, with some show of reason, have been supposed to have imparted to it
some of that artificial bloom which decorated her own. Mrs Wititterly admitted, though not
with the best grace in the world, that Kate DID look pretty. She began to think, too, that Sir
Mulberry was not quite so agreeable a creature as she had at first supposed him; for,
although a skilful flatterer is a most delightful companion if you can keep him all to
yourself, his taste becomes very doubtful when he takes to complimenting other people.
'Pyke,' said the watchful Mr Pluck, observing the effect which the praise of Miss
Nickleby had produced.
'Well, Pluck,' said Pyke.
'Is there anybody,' demanded Mr Pluck, mysteriously, 'anybody you know, that Mrs
Wititterly's profile reminds you of?'
'Reminds me of!' answered Pyke. 'Of course there is.'
'Who do you mean?' said Pluck, in the same mysterious manner. 'The D. of B.?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 345
'The C. of B.,' replied Pyke, with the faintest trace of a grin lingering in his
countenance. 'The beautiful sister is the countess; not the duchess.'
'True,' said Pluck, 'the C. of B. The resemblance is wonderful!'
'Perfectly startling,' said Mr Pyke.
Here was a state of things! Mrs Wititterly was declared, upon the testimony of two
veracious and competent witnesses, to be the very picture of a countess! This was one of the
consequences of getting into good society. Why, she might have moved among grovelling
people for twenty years, and never heard of it. How could she, indeed? what did
THEY know about countesses?
The two gentlemen having, by the greediness with which this little bait was swallowed,
tested the extent of Mrs Wititterly's appetite for adulation, proceeded to administer that
commodity in very large doses, thus affording to Sir Mulberry Hawk an opportunity of
pestering Miss Nickleby with questions and remarks, to which she was absolutely obliged to
make some reply. Meanwhile, Lord Verisopht enjoyed unmolested the full flavour of the
gold knob at the top of his cane, as he would have done to the end of the interview if Mr
Wititterly had not come home, and caused the conversation to turn to his favourite topic.
'My lord,' said Mr Wititterly, 'I am delighted – honoured – proud. Be seated again, my
lord, pray. I am proud, indeed – most proud.'
It was to the secret annoyance of his wife that Mr Wititterly said all this, for, although
she was bursting with pride and arrogance, she would have had the illustrious guests believe
that their visit was quite a common occurrence, and that they had lords and baronets to see
them every day in the week. But Mr Wititterly's feelings were beyond the power of
suppression.
'It is an honour, indeed!' said Mr Wititterly. 'Julia, my soul, you will suffer for this
tomorrow.'
'Suffer!' cried Lord Verisopht.
'The reaction, my lord, the reaction,' said Mr Wititterly. 'This violent strain upon the
nervous system over, my lord, what ensues? A sinking, a depression, a lowness, a lassitude,
a debility. My lord, if Sir Tumley Snuffim was to see that delicate creature at this moment,
he would not give a – a – THIS for her life.' In illustration of which remark, Mr Wititterly
took a pinch of snuff from his box, and jerked it lightly into the air as an emblem of
instability.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 346
'Not THAT,' said Mr Wititterly, looking about him with a serious countenance. 'Sir
Tumley Snuffim would not give that for Mrs Wititterly's existence.'
Mr Wititterly told this with a kind of sober exultation, as if it were no trifling distinction
for a man to have a wife in such a desperate state, and Mrs Wititterly sighed and looked on,
as if she felt the honour, but had determined to bear it as meekly as might be.
'Mrs Wititterly,' said her husband, 'is Sir Tumley Snuffim's favourite patient. I believe I
may venture to say, that Mrs Wititterly is the first person who took the new medicine which
is supposed to have destroyed a family at Kensington Gravel Pits. I believe she was. If I am
wrong, Julia, my dear, you will correct me.'
'I believe I was,' said Mrs Wititterly, in a faint voice.
As there appeared to be some doubt in the mind of his patron how he could best join in
this conversation, the indefatigable Mr Pyke threw himself into the breach, and, by way of
saying something to the point, inquired – with reference to the aforesaid medicine – whether
it was nice.
'No, sir, it was not. It had not even that recommendation,' said Mr W.
'Mrs Wititterly is quite a martyr,' observed Pyke, with a complimentary bow.
'I THINK I am,' said Mrs Wititterly, smiling.
'I think you are, my dear Julia,' replied her husband, in a tone which seemed to say that
he was not vain, but still must insist upon their privileges. 'If anybody, my lord,' added Mr
Wititterly, wheeling round to the nobleman, 'will produce to me a greater martyr than Mrs
Wititterly, all I can say is, that I shall be glad to see that martyr, whether male or female –
that's all, my lord.'
Pyke and Pluck promptly remarked that certainly nothing could be fairer than that; and
the call having been by this time protracted to a very great length, they obeyed Sir
Mulberry's look, and rose to go. This brought Sir Mulberry himself and Lord Verisopht on
their legs also. Many protestations of friendship, and expressions anticipative of the pleasure
which must inevitably flow from so happy an acquaintance, were exchanged, and the
visitors departed, with renewed assurances that at all times and seasons the mansion of the
Wititterlys would be honoured by receiving them beneath its roof.
That they came at all times and seasons – that they dined there one day, supped the next,
dined again on the next, and were constantly to and fro on all – that they made parties to
visit public places, and met by accident at lounges – that upon all these occasions Miss
Nickleby was exposed to the constant and unremitting persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 347
who now began to feel his character, even in the estimation of his two dependants, involved
in the successful reduction of her pride – that she had no intervals of peace or rest, except at
those hours when she could sit in her solitary room, and weep over the trials of the day – all
these were consequences naturally flowing from the well−laid plans of Sir Mulberry, and
their able execution by the auxiliaries, Pyke and Pluck.
And thus for a fortnight matters went on. That any but the weakest and silliest of people
could have seen in one interview that Lord Verisopht, though he was a lord, and Sir
Mulberry Hawk, though he was a baronet, were not persons accustomed to be the best
possible companions, and were certainly not calculated by habits, manners, tastes, or
conversation, to shine with any very great lustre in the society of ladies, need scarcely be
remarked. But with Mrs Wititterly the two titles were all sufficient; coarseness became
humour, vulgarity softened itself down into the most charming eccentricity; insolence took
the guise of an easy absence of reserve, attainable only by those who had had the good
fortune to mix with high folks.
If the mistress put such a construction upon the behaviour of her new friends, what
could the companion urge against them? If they accustomed themselves to very little
restraint before the lady of the house, with how much more freedom could they address her
paid dependent! Nor was even this the worst. As the odious Sir Mulberry Hawk attached
himself to Kate with less and less of disguise, Mrs Wititterly began to grow jealous of the
superior attractions of Miss Nickleby. If this feeling had led to her banishment from the
drawing−room when such company was there, Kate would have been only too happy and
willing that it should have existed, but unfortunately for her she possessed that native grace
and true gentility of manner, and those thousand nameless accomplishments which give to
female society its greatest charm; if these be valuable anywhere, they were especially so
where the lady of the house was a mere animated doll. The consequence was, that Kate had
the double mortification of being an indispensable part of the circle when Sir Mulberry and
his friends were there, and of being exposed, on that very account, to all Mrs Wititterly's
ill−humours and caprices when they were gone. She became utterly and completely
miserable.
Mrs Wititterly had never thrown off the mask with regard to Sir Mulberry, but when she
was more than usually out of temper, attributed the circumstance, as ladies sometimes do, to
nervous indisposition. However, as the dreadful idea that Lord Verisopht also was somewhat
taken with Kate, and that she, Mrs Wititterly, was quite a secondary person, dawned upon
that lady's mind and gradually developed itself, she became possessed with a large quantity
of highly proper and most virtuous indignation, and felt it her duty, as a married lady and a
moral member of society, to mention the circumstance to 'the young person' without delay.
Accordingly Mrs Wititterly broke ground next morning, during a pause in the
novel−reading.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 348
'Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs Wititterly, 'I wish to speak to you very gravely. I am sorry to
have to do it, upon my word I am very sorry, but you leave me no alternative, Miss
Nickleby.' Here Mrs Wititterly tossed her head – not passionately, only virtuously – and
remarked, with some appearance of excitement, that she feared that palpitation of the heart
was coming on again.
'Your behaviour, Miss Nickleby,' resumed the lady, 'is very far from pleasing me – very
far. I am very anxious indeed that you should do well, but you may depend upon it, Miss
Nickleby, you will not, if you go on as you do.'
'Ma'am!' exclaimed Kate, proudly.
'Don't agitate me by speaking in that way, Miss Nickleby, don't,' said Mrs Wititterly,
with some violence, 'or you'll compel me to ring the bell.'
Kate looked at her, but said nothing.
'You needn't suppose,' resumed Mrs Wititterly, 'that your looking at me in that way,
Miss Nickleby, will prevent my saying what I am going to say, which I feel to be a religious
duty. You needn't direct your glances towards me,' said Mrs Wititterly, with a sudden burst
of spite; 'I am not Sir Mulberry, no, nor Lord Frederick Verisopht, Miss Nickleby, nor am I
Mr Pyke, nor Mr Pluck either.'
Kate looked at her again, but less steadily than before; and resting her elbow on the
table, covered her eyes with her hand.
'If such things had been done when I was a young girl,' said Mrs Wititterly (this, by the
way, must have been some little time before), 'I don't suppose anybody would have believed
it.'
'I don't think they would,' murmured Kate. 'I do not think anybody would believe,
without actually knowing it, what I seem doomed to undergo!'
'Don't talk to me of being doomed to undergo, Miss Nickleby, if you please,' said Mrs
Wititterly, with a shrillness of tone quite surprising in so great an invalid. 'I will not be
answered, Miss Nickleby. I am not accustomed to be answered, nor will I permit it for an
instant. Do you hear?' she added, waiting with some apparent inconsistency FOR an answer.
'I do hear you, ma'am,' replied Kate, 'with surprise – with greater surprise than I can
express.'
'I have always considered you a particularly well−behaved young person for your
station in life,' said Mrs Wititterly; 'and as you are a person of healthy appearance, and neat
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 349
in your dress and so forth, I have taken an interest in you, as I do still, considering that I owe
a sort of duty to that respectable old female, your mother. For these reasons, Miss Nickleby,
I must tell you once for all, and begging you to mind what I say, that I must insist upon your
immediately altering your very forward behaviour to the gentleman who visit at this house.
It really is not becoming,' said Mrs Wititterly, closing her chaste eyes as she spoke; 'it is
improper – quite improper."
'Oh!' cried Kate, looking upwards and clasping her hands; 'is not this, is not this, too
cruel, too hard to bear! Is it not enough that I should have suffered as I have, night and day;
that I should almost have sunk in my own estimation from very shame of having been
brought into contact with such people; but must I also be exposed to this unjust and most
unfounded charge!'
'You will have the goodness to recollect, Miss Nickleby,' said Mrs Wititterly, 'that when
you use such terms as «unjust», and «unfounded», you charge me, in effect, with stating that
which is untrue.'
'I do,' said Kate with honest indignation. 'Whether you make this accusation of yourself,
or at the prompting of others, is alike to me. I say it IS vilely, grossly, wilfully untrue. Is it
possible!' cried Kate, 'that anyone of my own sex can have sat by, and not have seen the
misery these men have caused me? Is it possible that you, ma'am, can have been present, and
failed to mark the insulting freedom that their every look bespoke? Is it possible that you can
have avoided seeing, that these libertines, in their utter disrespect for you, and utter
disregard of all gentlemanly behaviour, and almost of decency, have had but one object in
introducing themselves here, and that the furtherance of their designs upon a friendless,
helpless girl, who, without this humiliating confession, might have hoped to receive from
one so much her senior something like womanly aid and sympathy? I do not – I cannot
believe it!'
If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she certainly would
not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she had been lashed, upon such an
injudicious speech as this. Its effect was precisely what a more experienced observer would
have foreseen. Mrs Wititterly received the attack upon her veracity with exemplary
calmness, and listened with the most heroic fortitude to Kate's account of her own
sufferings. But allusion being made to her being held in disregard by the gentlemen, she
evinced violent emotion, and this blow was no sooner followed up by the remark concerning
her seniority, than she fell back upon the sofa, uttering dismal screams.
'What is the matter?' cried Mr Wititterly, bouncing into the room. 'Heavens, what do I
see? Julia! Julia! look up, my life, look up!'
But Julia looked down most perseveringly, and screamed still louder; so Mr Wititterly
rang the bell, and danced in a frenzied manner round the sofa on which Mrs Wititterly lay;
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 350
uttering perpetual cries for Sir Tumley Snuffim, and never once leaving off to ask for any
explanation of the scene before him.
'Run for Sir Tumley,' cried Mr Wititterly, menacing the page with both fists. 'I knew it,
Miss Nickleby,' he said, looking round with an air of melancholy triumph, 'that society has
been too much for her. This is all soul, you know, every bit of it.' With this assurance Mr
Wititterly took up the prostrate form of Mrs Wititterly, and carried her bodily off to bed.
Kate waited until Sir Tumley Snuffim had paid his visit and looked in with a report,
that, through the special interposition of a merciful Providence (thus spake Sir Tumley), Mrs
Wititterly had gone to sleep. She then hastily attired herself for walking, and leaving word
that she should return within a couple of hours, hurried away towards her uncle's house.
It had been a good day with Ralph Nickleby – quite a lucky day; and as he walked to
and fro in his little back−room with his hands clasped behind him, adding up in his own
mind all the sums that had been, or would be, netted from the business done since morning,
his mouth was drawn into a hard stern smile; while the firmness of the lines and curves that
made it up, as well as the cunning glance of his cold, bright eye, seemed to tell, that if any
resolution or cunning would increase the profits, they would not fail to be excited for the
purpose.
'Very good!' said Ralph, in allusion, no doubt, to some proceeding of the day. 'He defies
the usurer, does he? Well, we shall see. «Honesty is the best policy,» is it? We'll try that too.'
He stopped, and then walked on again.
'He is content,' said Ralph, relaxing into a smile, 'to set his known character and conduct
against the power of money – dross, as he calls it. Why, what a dull blockhead this fellow
must be! Dross to, dross! Who's that?'
'Me,' said Newman Noggs, looking in. 'Your niece.'
'What of her?' asked Ralph sharply.
'She's here.'
'Here!'
Newman jerked his head towards his little room, to signify that she was waiting there.
'What does she want?' asked Ralph.
'I don't know,' rejoined Newman. 'Shall I ask?' he added quickly.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 351
'No,' replied Ralph. 'Show her in! Stay.' He hastily put away a padlocked cash−box that
was on the table, and substituted in its stead an empty purse. 'There,' said Ralph. 'NOW she
may come in.'
Newman, with a grim smile at this manoeuvre, beckoned the young lady to advance,
and having placed a chair for her, retired; looking stealthily over his shoulder at Ralph as he
limped slowly out.
'Well,' said Ralph, roughly enough; but still with something more of kindness in his
manner than he would have exhibited towards anybody else. 'Well, my – dear. What now?'
Kate raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and with an effort to master her
emotion strove to speak, but in vain. So drooping her head again, she remained silent. Her
face was hidden from his view, but Ralph could see that she was weeping.
'I can guess the cause of this!' thought Ralph, after looking at her for some time in
silence. 'I can – I can – guess the cause. Well! Well!' thought Ralph – for the moment quite
disconcerted, as he watched the anguish of his beautiful niece. 'Where is the harm? only a
few tears; and it's an excellent lesson for her, an excellent lesson.'
'What is the matter?' asked Ralph, drawing a chair opposite, and sitting down.
He was rather taken aback by the sudden firmness with which Kate looked up and
answered him.
'The matter which brings me to you, sir,' she said, 'is one which should call the blood up
into your cheeks, and make you burn to hear, as it does me to tell. I have been wronged; my
feelings have been outraged, insulted, wounded past all healing, and by your friends.'
'Friends!' cried Ralph, sternly. 'I have no friends, girl.'
'By the men I saw here, then,' returned Kate, quickly. 'If they were no friends of yours,
and you knew what they were, – oh, the more shame on you, uncle, for bringing me among
them. To have subjected me to what I was exposed to here, through any misplaced
confidence or imperfect knowledge of your guests, would have required some strong excuse;
but if you did it – as I now believe you did – knowing them well, it was most dastardly and
cruel.'
Ralph drew back in utter amazement at this plain speaking, and regarded Kate with the
sternest look. But she met his gaze proudly and firmly, and although her face was very pale,
it looked more noble and handsome, lighted up as it was, than it had ever appeared before.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 352
'There is some of that boy's blood in you, I see,' said Ralph, speaking in his harshest
tones, as something in the flashing eye reminded him of Nicholas at their last meeting.
'I hope there is!' replied Kate. 'I should be proud to know it. I am young, uncle, and all
the difficulties and miseries of my situation have kept it down, but I have been roused today
beyond all endurance, and come what may, I WILL NOT, as I am your brother's child, bear
these insults longer.'
'What insults, girl?' demanded Ralph, sharply.
'Remember what took place here, and ask yourself,' replied Kate, colouring deeply.
'Uncle, you must – I am sure you will – release me from such vile and degrading
companionship as I am exposed to now. I do not mean,' said Kate, hurrying to the old man,
and laying her arm upon his shoulder; 'I do not mean to be angry and violent – I beg your
pardon if I have seemed so, dear uncle, – but you do not know what I have suffered, you do
not indeed. You cannot tell what the heart of a young girl is – I have no right to expect you
should; but when I tell you that I am wretched, and that my heart is breaking, I am sure you
will help me. I am sure, I am sure you will!'
Ralph looked at her for an instant; then turned away his head, and beat his foot
nervously upon the ground.
'I have gone on day after day,' said Kate, bending over him, and timidly placing her
little hand in his, 'in the hope that this persecution would cease; I have gone on day after
day, compelled to assume the appearance of cheerfulness, when I was most unhappy. I have
had no counsellor, no adviser, no one to protect me. Mama supposes that these are
honourable men, rich and distinguished, and how CAN I – how can I undeceive her – when
she is so happy in these little delusions, which are the only happiness she has? The lady with
whom you placed me, is not the person to whom I could confide matters of so much
delicacy, and I have come at last to you, the only friend I have at hand – almost the only
friend I have at all – to entreat and implore you to assist me.'
'How can I assist you, child?' said Ralph, rising from his chair, and pacing up and down
the room in his old attitude.
'You have influence with one of these men, I KNOW,' rejoined Kate, emphatically.
'Would not a word from you induce them to desist from this unmanly course?'
'No,' said Ralph, suddenly turning; 'at least – that – I can't say it, if it would.'
'Can't say it!'
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 353
'No,' said Ralph, coming to a dead stop, and clasping his hands more tightly behind him.
'I can't say it.'
Kate fell back a step or two, and looked at him, as if in doubt whether she had heard
aright.
'We are connected in business,' said Ralph, poising himself alternately on his toes and
heels, and looking coolly in his niece's face, 'in business, and I can't afford to offend them.
What is it after all? We have all our trials, and this is one of yours. Some girls would be
proud to have such gallants at their feet.'
'Proud!' cried Kate.
'I don't say,' rejoined Ralph, raising his forefinger, 'but that you do right to despise them;
no, you show your good sense in that, as indeed I knew from the first you would. Well. In all
other respects you are comfortably bestowed. It's not much to bear. If this young lord does
dog your footsteps, and whisper his drivelling inanities in your ears, what of it? It's a
dishonourable passion. So be it; it won't last long. Some other novelty will spring up one
day, and you will be released. In the mean time – '
'In the mean time,' interrupted Kate, with becoming pride and indignation, 'I am to be
the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the other; justly condemned by all women of right
feeling, and despised by all honest and honourable men; sunken in my own esteem, and
degraded in every eye that looks upon me. No, not if I work my fingers to the bone, not if I
am driven to the roughest and hardest labour. Do not mistake me. I will not disgrace your
recommendation. I will remain in the house in which it placed me, until I am entitled to
leave it by the terms of my engagement; though, mind, I see these men no more. When I quit
it, I will hide myself from them and you, and, striving to support my mother by hard service,
I will live, at least, in peace, and trust in God to help me.'
With these words, she waved her hand, and quitted the room, leaving Ralph Nickleby
motionless as a statue.
The surprise with which Kate, as she closed the room−door, beheld, close beside it,
Newman Noggs standing bolt upright in a little niche in the wall like some scarecrow or
Guy Faux laid up in winter quarters, almost occasioned her to call aloud. But, Newman
laying his finger upon his lips, she had the presence of mind to refrain.
'Don't,' said Newman, gliding out of his recess, and accompanying her across the hall.
'Don't cry, don't cry.' Two very large tears, by−the−bye, were running down Newman's face
as he spoke.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 354
'I see how it is,' said poor Noggs, drawing from his pocket what seemed to be a very old
duster, and wiping Kate's eyes with it, as gently as if she were an infant. 'You're giving way
now. Yes, yes, very good; that's right, I like that. It was right not to give way before him.
Yes, yes! Ha, ha, ha! Oh, yes. Poor thing!'
With these disjointed exclamations, Newman wiped his own eyes with the
afore−mentioned duster, and, limping to the street−door, opened it to let her out.
'Don't cry any more,' whispered Newman. 'I shall see you soon. Ha! ha! ha! And so shall
somebody else too. Yes, yes. Ho! ho!'
'God bless you,' answered Kate, hurrying out, 'God bless you.'
'Same to you,' rejoined Newman, opening the door again a little way to say so. 'Ha, ha,
ha! Ho! ho! ho!'
And Newman Noggs opened the door once again to nod cheerfully, and laugh – and
shut it, to shake his head mournfully, and cry.
Ralph remained in the same attitude till he heard the noise of the closing door, when he
shrugged his shoulders, and after a few turns about the room – hasty at first, but gradually
becoming slower, as he relapsed into himself – sat down before his desk.
It is one of those problems of human nature, which may be noted down, but not solved;
– although Ralph felt no remorse at that moment for his conduct towards the innocent,
true−hearted girl; although his libertine clients had done precisely what he had expected,
precisely what he most wished, and precisely what would tend most to his advantage, still he
hated them for doing it, from the very bottom of his soul.
'Ugh!' said Ralph, scowling round, and shaking his clenched hand as the faces of the
two profligates rose up before his mind; 'you shall pay for this. Oh! you shall pay for this!'
As the usurer turned for consolation to his books and papers, a performance was going
on outside his office door, which would have occasioned him no small surprise, if he could
by any means have become acquainted with it.
Newman Noggs was the sole actor. He stood at a little distance from the door, with his
face towards it; and with the sleeves of his coat turned back at the wrists, was occupied in
bestowing the most vigorous, scientific, and straightforward blows upon the empty air.
At first sight, this would have appeared merely a wise precaution in a man of sedentary
habits, with the view of opening the chest and strengthening the muscles of the arms. But the
intense eagerness and joy depicted in the face of Newman Noggs, which was suffused with
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 355
perspiration; the surprising energy with which he directed a constant succession of blows
towards a particular panel about five feet eight from the ground, and still worked away in the
most untiring and persevering manner, would have sufficiently explained to the attentive
observer, that his imagination was thrashing, to within an inch of his life, his body's most
active employer, Mr Ralph Nickleby.
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CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry Hawk, 356
CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain
Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.
T
he unexpected success and favour with which his experiment at Portsmouth had been
received, induced Mr Crummles to prolong his stay in that town for a fortnight beyond the
period he had originally assigned for the duration of his visit, during which time Nicholas
personated a vast variety of characters with undiminished success, and attracted so many
people to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that a benefit was considered by
the manager a very promising speculation. Nicholas assenting to the terms proposed, the
benefit was had, and by it he realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.
Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to enclose to honest John Browdie
the amount of his friendly loan, which he accompanied with many expressions of gratitude
and esteem, and many cordial wishes for his matrimonial happiness. To Newman Noggs he
forwarded one half of the sum he had realised, entreating him to take an opportunity of
handing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the warmest assurances of his love and
affection. He made no mention of the way in which he had employed himself; merely
informing Newman that a letter addressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office,
Portsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthy friend to write full
particulars of the situation of his mother and sister, and an account of all the grand things
that Ralph Nickleby had done for them since his departure from London.
'You are out of spirits,' said Smike, on the night after the letter had been dispatched.
'Not I!' rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession would have made the
boy miserable all night; 'I was thinking about my sister, Smike.'
'Sister!'
'Ay.'
'Is she like you?' inquired Smike.
'Why, so they say,' replied Nicholas, laughing, 'only a great deal handsomer.'
'She must be VERY beautiful,' said Smike, after thinking a little while with his hands
folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.
'Anybody who didn't know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say you were an
accomplished courtier,' said Nicholas.
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.357
'I don't even know what that is,' replied Smike, shaking his head. 'Shall I ever see your
sister?'
'To be sure,' cried Nicholas; 'we shall all be together one of these days – when we are
rich, Smike.'
'How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be kind to you?'
asked Smike. 'I cannot make that out.'
'Why, it is a long story,' replied Nicholas, 'and one you would have some difficulty in
comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy – you understand what that is?'
'Oh, yes, I understand that,' said Smike.
'Well, it is owing to him,' returned Nicholas. 'He is rich, and not so easily punished as
YOUR old enemy, Mr Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is a villain, and has done me wrong.'
'Has he though?' asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. 'What is his name? Tell me his
name.'
'Ralph – Ralph Nickleby.'
'Ralph Nickleby,' repeated Smike. 'Ralph. I'll get that name by heart.'
He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock at the door
disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it, Mr Folair, the pantomimist,
thrust in his head.
Mr Folair's head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually high in the
crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the present occasion he wore it very much
on one side, with the back part forward in consequence of its being the least rusty; round his
neck he wore a flaming red worsted comforter, whereof the straggling ends peeped out
beneath his threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very tight and buttoned all the way up.
He carried in his hand one very dirty glove, and a cheap dress cane with a glass handle; in
short, his whole appearance was unusually dashing, and demonstrated a far more scrupulous
attention to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestowing upon it.
'Good−evening, sir,' said Mr Folair, taking off the tall hat, and running his fingers
through his hair. 'I bring a communication. Hem!'
'From whom and what about?' inquired Nicholas. 'You are unusually mysterious
tonight.'
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'Cold, perhaps,' returned Mr Folair; 'cold, perhaps. That is the fault of my position – not
of myself, Mr Johnson. My position as a mutual friend requires it, sir.' Mr Folair paused
with a most impressive look, and diving into the hat before noticed, drew from thence a
small piece of whity−brown paper curiously folded, whence he brought forth a note which it
had served to keep clean, and handing it over to Nicholas, said –
'Have the goodness to read that, sir.'
Nicholas, in a state of much amazement, took the note and broke the seal, glancing at
Mr Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and pursing up his mouth with great dignity,
was sitting with his eyes steadily fixed upon the ceiling.
It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair, Esq.; and the
astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when he found it to be couched in the
following laconic terms: –
"Mr Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr Johnson, and will feel obliged if he will
inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be most convenient to him to meet Mr L.
at the Theatre, for the purpose of having his nose pulled in the presence of the company.
"Mr Lenville requests Mr Johnson not to neglect making an appointment, as he has
invited two or three professional friends to witness the ceremony, and cannot disappoint
them upon any account whatever.
«PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT.»
Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so exquisitely absurd in
such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was obliged to bite his lip and read the note over two
or three times before he could muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile
messenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the expression of his
face in the slightest degree.
'Do you know the contents of this note, sir?' he asked, at length.
'Yes,' rejoined Mr Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately carrying his
eyes back again to the ceiling.
'And how dare you bring it here, sir?' asked Nicholas, tearing it into very little pieces,
and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger. 'Had you no fear of being kicked
downstairs, sir?'
Mr Folair turned his head – now ornamented with several fragments of the note –
towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity, briefly replied 'No.'
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.359
'Then,' said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the door, 'you had
better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you may find yourself very disagreeably
deceived, and that within a dozen seconds.'
'I say, Johnson,' remonstrated Mr Folair, suddenly losing all his dignity, 'none of that,
you know. No tricks with a gentleman's wardrobe.'
'Leave the room,' returned Nicholas. 'How could you presume to come here on such an
errand, you scoundrel?'
'Pooh! pooh!' said Mr Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually getting himself
out of it. 'There – that's enough.'
'Enough!' cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. 'Take yourself off, sir.'
'Pooh! pooh! I tell you,' returned Mr Folair, waving his hand in deprecation of any
further wrath; 'I wasn't in earnest. I only brought it in joke.'
'You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,' said Nicholas, 'or you
may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a dangerous reminder for the subject of your
facetiousness. Was it written in joke, too, pray?'
'No, no, that's the best of it,' returned the actor; 'right down earnest – honour bright.'
Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which, at all times more
calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially so at that moment, when with one
knee upon the ground, Mr Folair twirled his old hat round upon his hand, and affected the
extremest agony lest any of the nap should have been knocked off – an ornament which it is
almost superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.
'Come, sir,' said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. 'Have the goodness to explain.'
'Why, I'll tell you how it is,' said Mr Folair, sitting himself down in a chair with great
coolness. 'Since you came here Lenville has done nothing but second business, and, instead
of having a reception every night as he used to have, they have let him come on as if he was
nobody.'
'What do you mean by a reception?' asked Nicholas.
'Jupiter!' exclaimed Mr Folair, 'what an unsophisticated shepherd you are, Johnson!
Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he has gone on night after night,
never getting a hand, and you getting a couple of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at
length he got quite desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a real sword,
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.360
and pink you – not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up for a month or two.'
'Very considerate,' remarked Nicholas.
'Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional reputation being at stake,'
said Mr Folair, quite seriously. 'But his heart failed him, and he cast about for some other
way of annoying you, and making himself popular at the same time – for that's the point.
Notoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,' said Mr Folair, stopping
to make a calculation in his mind, 'it would have been worth – ah, it would have been worth
eight or ten shillings a week to him. All the town would have come to see the actor who
nearly killed a man by mistake; I shouldn't wonder if it had got him an engagement in
London. However, he was obliged to try some other mode of getting popular, and this one
occurred to him. It's clever idea, really. If you had shown the white feather, and let him pull
your nose, he'd have got it into the paper; if you had sworn the peace against him, it would
have been in the paper too, and he'd have been just as much talked about as you – don't you
see?'
'Oh, certainly,' rejoined Nicholas; 'but suppose I were to turn the tables, and pull HIS
nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?'
'Why, I don't think it would,' replied Mr Folair, scratching his head, 'because there
wouldn't be any romance about it, and he wouldn't be favourably known. To tell you the
truth though, he didn't calculate much upon that, for you're always so mild−spoken, and are
so popular among the women, that we didn't suspect you of showing fight. If you did,
however, he has a way of getting out of it easily, depend upon that.'
'Has he?' rejoined Nicholas. 'We will try, tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you can
give whatever account of our interview you like best. Good−night.'
As Mr Folair was pretty well known among his fellow−actors for a man who delighted
in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not much doubt but that he had
secretly prompted the tragedian in the course he had taken, and, moreover, that he would
have carried his mission with a very high hand if he had not been disconcerted by the very
unexpected demonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worth his while to be
serious with him, however, so he dismissed the pantomimist, with a gentle hint that if he
offended again it would be under the penalty of a broken head; and Mr Folair, taking the
caution in exceedingly good part, walked away to confer with his principal, and give such an
account of his proceedings as he might think best calculated to carry on the joke.
He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state of extreme bodily fear; for when
that young gentleman walked with much deliberation down to the theatre next morning at
the usual hour, he found all the company assembled in evident expectation, and Mr Lenville,
with his severest stage face, sitting majestically on a table, whistling defiance.
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.361
Now the ladies were on the side of Nicholas, and the gentlemen (being jealous) were on
the side of the disappointed tragedian; so that the latter formed a little group about the
redoubtable Mr Lenville, and the former looked on at a little distance in some trepidation
and anxiety. On Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr Lenville laughed a scornful laugh, and
made some general remark touching the natural history of puppies.
'Oh!' said Nicholas, looking quietly round, 'are you there?'
'Slave!' returned Mr Lenville, flourishing his right arm, and approaching Nicholas with
a theatrical stride. But somehow he appeared just at that moment a little startled, as if
Nicholas did not look quite so frightened as he had expected, and came all at once to an
awkward halt, at which the assembled ladies burst into a shrill laugh.
'Object of my scorn and hatred!' said Mr Lenville, 'I hold ye in contempt.'
Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of this performance; and the ladies, by
way of encouragement, laughed louder than before; whereat Mr Lenville assumed his
bitterest smile, and expressed his opinion that they were 'minions'.
'But they shall not protect ye!' said the tragedian, taking an upward look at Nicholas,
beginning at his boots and ending at the crown of his head, and then a downward one,
beginning at the crown of his head, and ending at his boots – which two looks, as everybody
knows, express defiance on the stage. 'They shall not protect ye – boy!'
Thus speaking, Mr Lenville folded his arms, and treated Nicholas to that expression of
face with which, in melodramatic performances, he was in the habit of regarding the
tyrannical kings when they said, 'Away with him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle
moat;' and which, accompanied with a little jingling of fetters, had been known to produce
great effects in its time.
Whether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no very deep impression on Mr
Lenville's adversary, however, but rather seemed to increase the good−humour expressed in
his countenance; in which stage of the contest, one or two gentlemen, who had come out
expressly to witness the pulling of Nicholas's nose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it
were to be done at all it had better be done at once, and that if Mr Lenville didn't mean to do
it he had better say so, and not keep them waiting there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted
the cuff of his right coat sleeve for the performance of the operation, and walked in a very
stately manner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to within the requisite
distance, and then, without the smallest discomposure, knocked him down.
Before the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from the boards, Mrs Lenville
(who, as has been before hinted, was in an interesting state) rushed from the rear rank of
ladies, and uttering a piercing scream threw herself upon the body.
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'Do you see this, monster? Do you see THIS?' cried Mr Lenville, sitting up, and
pointing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him very tight round the waist.
'Come,' said Nicholas, nodding his head, 'apologise for the insolent note you wrote to
me last night, and waste no more time in talking.'
'Never!' cried Mr Lenville.
'Yes – yes – yes!' screamed his wife. 'For my sake – for mine, Lenville – forego all idle
forms, unless you would see me a blighted corse at your feet.'
'This is affecting!' said Mr Lenville, looking round him, and drawing the back of his
hand across his eyes. 'The ties of nature are strong. The weak husband and the father – the
father that is yet to be – relents. I apologise.'
'Humbly and submissively?' said Nicholas.
'Humbly and submissively,' returned the tragedian, scowling upwards. 'But only to save
her, – for a time will come – '
'Very good,' said Nicholas; 'I hope Mrs Lenville may have a good one; and when it does
come, and you are a father, you shall retract it if you have the courage. There. Be careful, sir,
to what lengths your jealousy carries you another time; and be careful, also, before you
venture too far, to ascertain your rival's temper.' With this parting advice Nicholas picked up
Mr Lenville's ash stick which had flown out of his hand, and breaking it in half, threw him
the pieces and withdrew, bowing slightly to the spectators as he walked out.
The profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, and the people who had
been most anxious to have his nose pulled in the morning, embraced occasions of taking him
aside, and telling him with great feeling, how very friendly they took it that he should have
treated that Lenville so properly, who was a most unbearable fellow, and on whom they had
all, by a remarkable coincidence, at one time or other contemplated the infliction of condign
punishment, which they had only been restrained from administering by considerations of
mercy; indeed, to judge from the invariable termination of all these stories, there never was
such a charitable and kind−hearted set of people as the male members of Mr Crummles's
company.
Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the little world of the theatre, with
the utmost moderation and good humour. The crestfallen Mr Lenville made an expiring
effort to obtain revenge by sending a boy into the gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to
popular indignation, and was promptly turned out without having his money back.
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.363
'Well, Smike,' said Nicholas when the first piece was over, and he had almost finished
dressing to go home, 'is there any letter yet?'
'Yes,' replied Smike, 'I got this one from the post−office.'
'From Newman Noggs,' said Nicholas, casting his eye upon the cramped direction; 'it's
no easy matter to make his writing out. Let me see – let me see.'
By dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrived to make himself master of
the contents, which were certainly not of a nature to set his mind at ease. Newman took upon
himself to send back the ten pounds, observing that he had ascertained that neither Mrs
Nickleby nor Kate was in actual want of money at the moment, and that a time might shortly
come when Nicholas might want it more. He entreated him not to be alarmed at what he was
about to say; – there was no bad news – they were in good health – but he thought
circumstances might occur, or were occurring, which would render it absolutely necessary
that Kate should have her brother's protection, and if so, Newman said, he would write to
him to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.
Nicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thought of it the more he began
to fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph. Once or twice he felt tempted to repair to
London at all hazards without an hour's delay, but a little reflection assured him that if such
a step were necessary, Newman would have spoken out and told him so at once.
'At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility of my going away suddenly,'
said Nicholas; 'I should lose no time in doing that.' As the thought occurred to him, he took
up his hat and hurried to the green−room.
'Well, Mr Johnson,' said Mrs Crummles, who was seated there in full regal costume,
with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her maternal arms, 'next week for Ryde, then for
Winchester, then for – '
'I have some reason to fear,' interrupted Nicholas, 'that before you leave here my career
with you will have closed.'
'Closed!' cried Mrs Crummles, raising her hands in astonishment.
'Closed!' cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tights that she actually laid
her hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for support.
'Why he don't mean to say he's going!' exclaimed Mrs Grudden, making her way
towards Mrs Crummles. 'Hoity toity! Nonsense.'
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The phenomenon, being of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable, raised a loud
cry, and Miss Belvawney and Miss Bravassa actually shed tears. Even the male performers
stopped in their conversation, and echoed the word 'Going!' although some among them (and
they had been the loudest in their congratulations that day) winked at each other as though
they would not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an opinion, indeed, which the honest
Mr Folair, who was ready dressed for the savage, openly stated in so many words to a
demon with whom he was sharing a pot of porter.
Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although he could not yet speak with
any degree of certainty; and getting away as soon as he could, went home to con Newman's
letter once more, and speculate upon it afresh.
How trifling all that had been occupying his time and thoughts for many weeks seemed
to him during that sleepless night, and how constantly and incessantly present to his
imagination was the one idea that Kate in the midst of some great trouble and distress might
even then be looking – and vainly too – for him!
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CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.365
CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas,
w
ho suddenly withdraws himself from the Society of Mr Vincent Crummles and his
Theatrical Companions
Mr Vincent Crummles was no sooner acquainted with the public announcement which
Nicholas had made relative to the probability of his shortly ceasing to be a member of the
company, than he evinced many tokens of grief and consternation; and, in the extremity of
his despair, even held out certain vague promises of a speedy improvement not only in the
amount of his regular salary, but also in the contingent emoluments appertaining to his
authorship. Finding Nicholas bent upon quitting the society – for he had now determined
that, even if no further tidings came from Newman, he would, at all hazards, ease his mind
by repairing to London and ascertaining the exact position of his sister – Mr Crummles was
fain to content himself by calculating the chances of his coming back again, and taking
prompt and energetic measures to make the most of him before he went away.
'Let me see,' said Mr Crummles, taking off his outlaw's wig, the better to arrive at a
cool−headed view of the whole case. 'Let me see. This is Wednesday night. We'll have
posters out the first thing in the morning, announcing positively your last appearance for
tomorrow.'
'But perhaps it may not be my last appearance, you know,' said Nicholas. 'Unless I am
summoned away, I should be sorry to inconvenience you by leaving before the end of the
week.'
'So much the better,' returned Mr Crummles. 'We can have positively your last
appearance, on Thursday – re−engagement for one night more, on Friday – and, yielding to
the wishes of numerous influential patrons, who were disappointed in obtaining seats, on
Saturday. That ought to bring three very decent houses.'
'Then I am to make three last appearances, am I?' inquired Nicholas, smiling.
'Yes,' rejoined the manager, scratching his head with an air of some vexation; 'three is
not enough, and it's very bungling and irregular not to have more, but if we can't help it we
can't, so there's no use in talking. A novelty would be very desirable. You couldn't sing a
comic song on the pony's back, could you?'
'No,' replied Nicholas, 'I couldn't indeed.'
'It has drawn money before now,' said Mr Crummles, with a look of disappointment.
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 366
'What do you think of a brilliant display of fireworks?'
'That it would be rather expensive,' replied Nicholas, drily.
'Eighteen−pence would do it,' said Mr Crummles. 'You on the top of a pair of steps with
the phenomenon in an attitude; «Farewell!» on a transparency behind; and nine people at the
wings with a squib in each hand – all the dozen and a half going off at once – it would be
very grand – awful from the front, quite awful.'
As Nicholas appeared by no means impressed with the solemnity of the proposed effect,
but, on the contrary, received the proposition in a most irreverent manner, and laughed at it
very heartily, Mr Crummles abandoned the project in its birth, and gloomily observed that
they must make up the best bill they could with combats and hornpipes, and so stick to the
legitimate drama.
For the purpose of carrying this object into instant execution, the manager at once
repaired to a small dressing−room, adjacent, where Mrs Crummles was then occupied in
exchanging the habiliments of a melodramatic empress for the ordinary attire of matrons in
the nineteenth century. And with the assistance of this lady, and the accomplished Mrs
Grudden (who had quite a genius for making out bills, being a great hand at throwing in the
notes of admiration, and knowing from long experience exactly where the largest capitals
ought to go), he seriously applied himself to the composition of the poster.
'Heigho!' sighed Nicholas, as he threw himself back in the prompter's chair, after
telegraphing the needful directions to Smike, who had been playing a meagre tailor in the
interlude, with one skirt to his coat, and a little pocket−handkerchief with a large hole in it,
and a woollen nightcap, and a red nose, and other distinctive marks peculiar to tailors on the
stage. 'Heigho! I wish all this were over.'
'Over, Mr Johnson!' repeated a female voice behind him, in a kind of plaintive surprise.
'It was an ungallant speech, certainly,' said Nicholas, looking up to see who the speaker
was, and recognising Miss Snevellicci. 'I would not have made it if I had known you had
been within hearing.'
'What a dear that Mr Digby is!' said Miss Snevellicci, as the tailor went off on the
opposite side, at the end of the piece, with great applause. (Smike's theatrical name was
Digby.)
'I'll tell him presently, for his gratification, that you said so,' returned Nicholas.
'Oh you naughty thing!' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. 'I don't know though, that I should
much mind HIS knowing my opinion of him; with some other people, indeed, it might be – '
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 367
Here Miss Snevellicci stopped, as though waiting to be questioned, but no questioning came,
for Nicholas was thinking about more serious matters.
'How kind it is of you,' resumed Miss Snevellicci, after a short silence, 'to sit waiting
here for him night after night, night after night, no matter how tired you are; and taking so
much pains with him, and doing it all with as much delight and readiness as if you were
coining gold by it!'
'He well deserves all the kindness I can show him, and a great deal more,' said Nicholas.
'He is the most grateful, single−hearted, affectionate creature that ever breathed.'
'So odd, too,' remarked Miss Snevellicci, 'isn't he?'
'God help him, and those who have made him so; he is indeed,' rejoined Nicholas,
shaking his head.
'He is such a devilish close chap,' said Mr Folair, who had come up a little before, and
now joined in the conversation. 'Nobody can ever get anything out of him.'
'What SHOULD they get out of him?' asked Nicholas, turning round with some
abruptness.
'Zooks! what a fire−eater you are, Johnson!' returned Mr Folair, pulling up the heel of
his dancing shoe. 'I'm only talking of the natural curiosity of the people here, to know what
he has been about all his life.'
'Poor fellow! it is pretty plain, I should think, that he has not the intellect to have been
about anything of much importance to them or anybody else,' said Nicholas.
'Ay,' rejoined the actor, contemplating the effect of his face in a lamp reflector, 'but that
involves the whole question, you know.'
'What question?' asked Nicholas.
'Why, the who he is and what he is, and how you two, who are so different, came to be
such close companions,' replied Mr Folair, delighted with the opportunity of saying
something disagreeable. 'That's in everybody's mouth.'
'The «everybody» of the theatre, I suppose?' said Nicholas, contemptuously.
'In it and out of it too,' replied the actor. 'Why, you know, Lenville says – '
'I thought I had silenced him effectually,' interrupted Nicholas, reddening.
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 368
'Perhaps you have,' rejoined the immovable Mr Folair; 'if you have, he said this before
he was silenced: Lenville says that you're a regular stick of an actor, and that it's only the
mystery about you that has caused you to go down with the people here, and that Crummles
keeps it up for his own sake; though Lenville says he don't believe there's anything at all in
it, except your having got into a scrape and run away from somewhere, for doing something
or other.'
'Oh!' said Nicholas, forcing a smile.
'That's a part of what he says,' added Mr Folair. 'I mention it as the friend of both
parties, and in strict confidence. I don't agree with him, you know. He says he takes Digby to
be more knave than fool; and old Fluggers, who does the heavy business you know, HE says
that when he delivered messages at Covent Garden the season before last, there used to be a
pickpocket hovering about the coach− stand who had exactly the face of Digby; though, as
he very properly says, Digby may not be the same, but only his brother, or some near
relation.'
'Oh!' cried Nicholas again.
'Yes,' said Mr Folair, with undisturbed calmness, 'that's what they say. I thought I'd tell
you, because really you ought to know. Oh! here's this blessed phenomenon at last. Ugh, you
little imposition, I should like to – quite ready, my darling, – humbug – Ring up, Mrs G.,
and let the favourite wake 'em.'
Uttering in a loud voice such of the latter allusions as were complimentary to the
unconscious phenomenon, and giving the rest in a confidential 'aside' to Nicholas, Mr Folair
followed the ascent of the curtain with his eyes, regarded with a sneer the reception of Miss
Crummles as the Maiden, and, falling back a step or two to advance with the better effect,
uttered a preliminary howl, and 'went on' chattering his teeth and brandishing his tin
tomahawk as the Indian Savage.
'So these are some of the stories they invent about us, and bandy from mouth to mouth!'
thought Nicholas. 'If a man would commit an inexpiable offence against any society, large
or small, let him be successful. They will forgive him any crime but that.'
'You surely don't mind what that malicious creature says, Mr Johnson?' observed Miss
Snevellicci in her most winning tones.
'Not I,' replied Nicholas. 'If I were going to remain here, I might think it worth my while
to embroil myself. As it is, let them talk till they are hoarse. But here,' added Nicholas, as
Smike approached, 'here comes the subject of a portion of their good− nature, so let he and I
say good night together.'
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 369
'No, I will not let either of you say anything of the kind,' returned Miss Snevellicci. 'You
must come home and see mama, who only came to Portsmouth today, and is dying to behold
you. Led, my dear, persuade Mr Johnson.'
'Oh, I'm sure,' returned Miss Ledrook, with considerable vivacity, 'if YOU can't
persuade him – ' Miss Ledrook said no more, but intimated, by a dexterous playfulness, that
if Miss Snevellicci couldn't persuade him, nobody could.
'Mr and Mrs Lillyvick have taken lodgings in our house, and share our sitting−room for
the present,' said Miss Snevellicci. 'Won't that induce you?'
'Surely,' returned Nicholas, 'I can require no possible inducement beyond your
invitation.'
'Oh no! I dare say,' rejoined Miss Snevellicci. And Miss Ledrook said, 'Upon my word!'
Upon which Miss Snevellicci said that Miss Ledrook was a giddy thing; and Miss Ledrook
said that Miss Snevellicci needn't colour up quite so much; and Miss Snevellicci beat Miss
Ledrook, and Miss Ledrook beat Miss Snevellicci.
'Come,' said Miss Ledrook, 'it's high time we were there, or we shall have poor Mrs
Snevellicci thinking that you have run away with her daughter, Mr Johnson; and then we
should have a pretty to−do.'
'My dear Led,' remonstrated Miss Snevellicci, 'how you do talk!'
Miss Ledrook made no answer, but taking Smike's arm in hers, left her friend and
Nicholas to follow at their pleasure; which it pleased them, or rather pleased Nicholas, who
had no great fancy for a TETE−A−TETE under the circumstances, to do at once.
There were not wanting matters of conversation when they reached the street, for it
turned out that Miss Snevellicci had a small basket to carry home, and Miss Ledrook a small
bandbox, both containing such minor articles of theatrical costume as the lady performers
usually carried to and fro every evening. Nicholas would insist upon carrying the basket, and
Miss Snevellicci would insist upon carrying it herself, which gave rise to a struggle, in
which Nicholas captured the basket and the bandbox likewise. Then Nicholas said, that he
wondered what could possibly be inside the basket, and attempted to peep in, whereat Miss
Snevellicci screamed, and declared that if she thought he had seen, she was sure she should
faint away. This declaration was followed by a similar attempt on the bandbox, and similar
demonstrations on the part of Miss Ledrook, and then both ladies vowed that they wouldn't
move a step further until Nicholas had promised that he wouldn't offer to peep again. At last
Nicholas pledged himself to betray no further curiosity, and they walked on: both ladies
giggling very much, and declaring that they never had seen such a wicked creature in all
their born days – never.
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 370
Lightening the way with such pleasantry as this, they arrived at the tailor's house in no
time; and here they made quite a little party, there being present besides Mr Lillyvick and
Mrs Lillyvick, not only Miss Snevellicci's mama, but her papa also. And an uncommonly
fine man Miss Snevellicci's papa was, with a hook nose, and a white forehead, and curly
black hair, and high cheek bones, and altogether quite a handsome face, only a little pimply
as though with drinking. He had a very broad chest had Miss Snevellicci's papa, and he wore
a threadbare blue dress−coat buttoned with gilt buttons tight across it; and he no sooner saw
Nicholas come into the room, than he whipped the two forefingers of his right hand in
between the two centre buttons, and sticking his other arm gracefully a−kimbo seemed to
say, 'Now, here I am, my buck, and what have you got to say to me?'
Such was, and in such an attitude sat Miss Snevellicci's papa, who had been in the
profession ever since he had first played the ten− year−old imps in the Christmas
pantomimes; who could sing a little, dance a little, fence a little, act a little, and do
everything a little, but not much; who had been sometimes in the ballet, and sometimes in
the chorus, at every theatre in London; who was always selected in virtue of his figure to
play the military visitors and the speechless noblemen; who always wore a smart dress, and
came on arm−in−arm with a smart lady in short petticoats, – and always did it too with such
an air that people in the pit had been several times known to cry out 'Bravo!' under the
impression that he was somebody. Such was Miss Snevellicci's papa, upon whom some
envious persons cast the imputation that he occasionally beat Miss Snevellicci's mama, who
was still a dancer, with a neat little figure and some remains of good looks; and who now
sat, as she danced, – being rather too old for the full glare of the foot−lights, – in the
background.
To these good people Nicholas was presented with much formality. The introduction
being completed, Miss Snevellicci's papa (who was scented with rum−and−water) said that
he was delighted to make the acquaintance of a gentleman so highly talented; and
furthermore remarked, that there hadn't been such a hit made – no, not since the first
appearance of his friend Mr Glavormelly, at the Coburg.
'You have seen him, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa.
'No, really I never did,' replied Nicholas.
'You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir!' said Miss Snevellicci's papa. 'Then you
have never seen acting yet. If he had lived – '
'Oh, he is dead, is he?' interrupted Nicholas.
'He is,' said Mr Snevellicci, 'but he isn't in Westminster Abbey, more's the shame. He
was a – . Well, no matter. He is gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns. I hope
he is appreciated THERE.'
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 371
So saying Miss Snevellicci's papa rubbed the tip of his nose with a very yellow silk
handkerchief, and gave the company to understand that these recollections overcame him.
'Well, Mr Lillyvick,' said Nicholas, 'and how are you?'
'Quite well, sir,' replied the collector. 'There is nothing like the married state, sir, depend
upon it.'
'Indeed!' said Nicholas, laughing.
'Ah! nothing like it, sir,' replied Mr Lillyvick solemnly. 'How do you think,' whispered
the collector, drawing him aside, 'how do you think she looks tonight?'
'As handsome as ever,' replied Nicholas, glancing at the late Miss Petowker.
'Why, there's air about her, sir,' whispered the collector, 'that I never saw in anybody.
Look at her, now she moves to put the kettle on. There! Isn't it fascination, sir?'
'You're a lucky man,' said Nicholas.
'Ha, ha, ha!' rejoined the collector. 'No. Do you think I am though, eh? Perhaps I may
be, perhaps I may be. I say, I couldn't have done much better if I had been a young man,
could I? You couldn't have done much better yourself, could you – eh – could you?' With
such inquires, and many more such, Mr Lillyvick jerked his elbow into Nicholas's side, and
chuckled till his face became quite purple in the attempt to keep down his satisfaction.
By this time the cloth had been laid under the joint superintendence of all the ladies,
upon two tables put together, one being high and narrow, and the other low and broad. There
were oysters at the top, sausages at the bottom, a pair of snuffers in the centre, and baked
potatoes wherever it was most convenient to put them. Two additional chairs were brought
in from the bedroom: Miss Snevellicci sat at the head of the table, and Mr Lillyvick at the
foot; and Nicholas had not only the honour of sitting next Miss Snevellicci, but of having
Miss Snevellicci's mama on his right hand, and Miss Snevellicci's papa over the way. In
short, he was the hero of the feast; and when the table was cleared and something warm
introduced, Miss Snevellicci's papa got up and proposed his health in a speech containing
such affecting allusions to his coming departure, that Miss Snevellicci wept, and was
compelled to retire into the bedroom.
'Hush! Don't take any notice of it,' said Miss Ledrook, peeping in from the bedroom.
'Say, when she comes back, that she exerts herself too much.'
Miss Ledrook eked out this speech with so many mysterious nods and frowns before
she shut the door again, that a profound silence came upon all the company, during which
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 372
Miss Snevellicci's papa looked very big indeed – several sizes larger than life – at everybody
in turn, but particularly at Nicholas, and kept on perpetually emptying his tumbler and filling
it again, until the ladies returned in a cluster, with Miss Snevellicci among them.
'You needn't alarm yourself a bit, Mr Snevellicci,' said Mrs Lillyvick. 'She is only a
little weak and nervous; she has been so ever since the morning.'
'Oh,' said Mr Snevellicci, 'that's all, is it?'
'Oh yes, that's all. Don't make a fuss about it,' cried all the ladies together.
Now this was not exactly the kind of reply suited to Mr Snevellicci's importance as a
man and a father, so he picked out the unfortunate Mrs Snevellicci, and asked her what the
devil she meant by talking to him in that way.
'Dear me, my dear!' said Mrs Snevellicci.
'Don't call me your dear, ma'am,' said Mr Snevellicci, 'if you please.'
'Pray, pa, don't,' interposed Miss Snevellicci.
'Don't what, my child?'
'Talk in that way.'
'Why not?' said Mr Snevellicci. 'I hope you don't suppose there's anybody here who is to
prevent my talking as I like?'
'Nobody wants to, pa,' rejoined his daughter.
'Nobody would if they did want to,' said Mr Snevellicci. 'I am not ashamed of myself,
Snevellicci is my name; I'm to be found in Broad Court, Bow Street, when I'm in town. If
I'm not at home, let any man ask for me at the stage−door. Damme, they know me at the
stage− door I suppose. Most men have seen my portrait at the cigar shop round the corner.
I've been mentioned in the newspapers before now, haven't I? Talk! I'll tell you what; if I
found out that any man had been tampering with the affections of my daughter, I wouldn't
talk. I'd astonish him without talking; that's my way.'
So saying, Mr Snevellicci struck the palm of his left hand three smart blows with his
clenched fist; pulled a phantom nose with his right thumb and forefinger, and swallowed
another glassful at a draught. 'That's my way,' repeated Mr Snevellicci.
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 373
Most public characters have their failings; and the truth is that Mr Snevellicci was a
little addicted to drinking; or, if the whole truth must be told, that he was scarcely ever
sober. He knew in his cups three distinct stages of intoxication, – the dignified – the
quarrelsome – the amorous. When professionally engaged he never got beyond the
dignified; in private circles he went through all three, passing from one to another with a
rapidity of transition often rather perplexing to those who had not the honour of his
acquaintance.
Thus Mr Snevellicci had no sooner swallowed another glassful than he smiled upon all
present in happy forgetfulness of having exhibited symptoms of pugnacity, and proposed
'The ladies! Bless their hearts!' in a most vivacious manner.
'I love 'em,' said Mr Snevellicci, looking round the table, 'I love 'em, every one.'
'Not every one,' reasoned Mr Lillyvick, mildly.
'Yes, every one,' repeated Mr Snevellicci.
'That would include the married ladies, you know,' said Mr Lillyvick.
'I love them too, sir,' said Mr Snevellicci.
The collector looked into the surrounding faces with an aspect of grave astonishment,
seeming to say, 'This is a nice man!' and appeared a little surprised that Mrs Lillyvick's
manner yielded no evidences of horror and indignation.
'One good turn deserves another,' said Mr Snevellicci. 'I love them and they love me.'
And as if this avowal were not made in sufficient disregard and defiance of all moral
obligations, what did Mr Snevellicci do? He winked – winked openly and undisguisedly;
winked with his right eye – upon Henrietta Lillyvick!
The collector fell back in his chair in the intensity of his astonishment. If anybody had
winked at her as Henrietta Petowker, it would have been indecorous in the last degree; but as
Mrs Lillyvick! While he thought of it in a cold perspiration, and wondered whether it was
possible that he could be dreaming, Mr Snevellicci repeated the wink, and drinking to Mrs
Lillyvick in dumb show, actually blew her a kiss! Mr Lillyvick left his chair, walked straight
up to the other end of the table, and fell upon him – literally fell upon him – instantaneously.
Mr Lillyvick was no light weight, and consequently when he fell upon Mr Snevellicci, Mr
Snevellicci fell under the table. Mr Lillyvick followed him, and the ladies screamed.
'What is the matter with the men! Are they mad?' cried Nicholas, diving under the table,
dragging up the collector by main force, and thrusting him, all doubled up, into a chair, as if
he had been a stuffed figure. 'What do you mean to do? What do you want to do? What is
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 374
the matter with you?'
While Nicholas raised up the collector, Smike had performed the same office for Mr
Snevellicci, who now regarded his late adversary in tipsy amazement.
'Look here, sir,' replied Mr Lillyvick, pointing to his astonished wife, 'here is purity and
elegance combined, whose feelings have been outraged – violated, sir!'
'Lor, what nonsense he talks!' exclaimed Mrs Lillyvick in answer to the inquiring look
of Nicholas. 'Nobody has said anything to me.'
'Said, Henrietta!' cried the collector. 'Didn't I see him – ' Mr Lillyvick couldn't bring
himself to utter the word, but he counterfeited the motion of the eye.
'Well!' cried Mrs Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose nobody is ever to look at me? A pretty
thing to be married indeed, if that was law!'
'You didn't mind it?' cried the collector.
'Mind it!' repeated Mrs Lillyvick contemptuously. 'You ought to go down on your knees
and beg everybody's pardon, that you ought.'
'Pardon, my dear?' said the dismayed collector.
'Yes, and mine first,' replied Mrs Lillyvick. 'Do you suppose I ain't the best judge of
what's proper and what's improper?'
'To be sure,' cried all the ladies. 'Do you suppose WE shouldn't be the first to speak, if
there was anything that ought to be taken notice of?'
'Do you suppose THEY don't know, sir?' said Miss Snevellicci's papa, pulling up his
collar, and muttering something about a punching of heads, and being only withheld by
considerations of age. With which Miss Snevellicci's papa looked steadily and sternly at Mr
Lillyvick for some seconds, and then rising deliberately from his chair, kissed the ladies all
round, beginning with Mrs Lillyvick.
The unhappy collector looked piteously at his wife, as if to see whether there was any
one trait of Miss Petowker left in Mrs Lillyvick, and finding too surely that there was not,
begged pardon of all the company with great humility, and sat down such a crest− fallen,
dispirited, disenchanted man, that despite all his selfishness and dotage, he was quite an
object of compassion.
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Miss Snevellicci's papa being greatly exalted by this triumph, and incontestable proof of
his popularity with the fair sex, quickly grew convivial, not to say uproarious; volunteering
more than one song of no inconsiderable length, and regaling the social circle
between−whiles with recollections of divers splendid women who had been supposed to
entertain a passion for himself, several of whom he toasted by name, taking occasion to
remark at the same time that if he had been a little more alive to his own interest, he might
have been rolling at that moment in his chariot−and−four. These reminiscences appeared to
awaken no very torturing pangs in the breast of Mrs Snevellicci, who was sufficiently
occupied in descanting to Nicholas upon the manifold accomplishments and merits of her
daughter. Nor was the young lady herself at all behind−hand in displaying her choicest
allurements; but these, heightened as they were by the artifices of Miss Ledrook, had no
effect whatever in increasing the attentions of Nicholas, who, with the precedent of Miss
Squeers still fresh in his memory, steadily resisted every fascination, and placed so strict a
guard upon his behaviour that when he had taken his leave the ladies were unanimous in
pronouncing him quite a monster of insensibility.
Next day the posters appeared in due course, and the public were informed, in all the
colours of the rainbow, and in letters afflicted with every possible variation of spinal
deformity, how that Mr Johnson would have the honour of making his last appearance that
evening, and how that an early application for places was requested, in consequence of the
extraordinary overflow attendant on his performances, – it being a remarkable fact in
theatrical history, but one long since established beyond dispute, that it is a hopeless
endeavour to attract people to a theatre unless they can be first brought to believe that they
will never get into it.
Nicholas was somewhat at a loss, on entering the theatre at night, to account for the
unusual perturbation and excitement visible in the countenances of all the company, but he
was not long in doubt as to the cause, for before he could make any inquiry respecting it Mr
Crummles approached, and in an agitated tone of voice, informed him that there was a
London manager in the boxes.
'It's the phenomenon, depend upon it, sir,' said Crummles, dragging Nicholas to the little
hole in the curtain that he might look through at the London manager. 'I have not the
smallest doubt it's the fame of the phenomenon – that's the man; him in the great−coat and
no shirt−collar. She shall have ten pound a week, Johnson; she shall not appear on the
London boards for a farthing less. They shan't engage her either, unless they engage Mrs
Crummles too – twenty pound a week for the pair; or I'll tell you what, I'll throw in myself
and the two boys, and they shall have the family for thirty. I can't say fairer than that. They
must take us all, if none of us will go without the others. That's the way some of the London
people do, and it always answers. Thirty pound a week – it's too cheap, Johnson. It's dirt
cheap.'
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 376
Nicholas replied, that it certainly was; and Mr Vincent Crummles taking several huge
pinches of snuff to compose his feelings, hurried away to tell Mrs Crummles that he had
quite settled the only terms that could be accepted, and had resolved not to abate one single
farthing.
When everybody was dressed and the curtain went up, the excitement occasioned by the
presence of the London manager increased a thousand−fold. Everybody happened to know
that the London manager had come down specially to witness his or her own performance,
and all were in a flutter of anxiety and expectation. Some of those who were not on in the
first scene, hurried to the wings, and there stretched their necks to have a peep at him; others
stole up into the two little private boxes over the stage−doors, and from that position
reconnoitred the London manager. Once the London manager was seen to smile – he smiled
at the comic countryman's pretending to catch a blue−bottle, while Mrs Crummles was
making her greatest effect. 'Very good, my fine fellow,' said Mr Crummles, shaking his fist
at the comic countryman when he came off, 'you leave this company next Saturday night.'
In the same way, everybody who was on the stage beheld no audience but one
individual; everybody played to the London manager. When Mr Lenville in a sudden burst
of passion called the emperor a miscreant, and then biting his glove, said, 'But I must
dissemble,' instead of looking gloomily at the boards and so waiting for his cue, as is proper
in such cases, he kept his eye fixed upon the London manager. When Miss Bravassa sang
her song at her lover, who according to custom stood ready to shake hands with her between
the verses, they looked, not at each other, but at the London manager. Mr Crummles died
point blank at him; and when the two guards came in to take the body off after a very hard
death, it was seen to open its eyes and glance at the London manager. At length the London
manager was discovered to be asleep, and shortly after that he woke up and went away,
whereupon all the company fell foul of the unhappy comic countryman, declaring that his
buffoonery was the sole cause; and Mr Crummles said, that he had put up with it a long
time, but that he really couldn't stand it any longer, and therefore would feel obliged by his
looking out for another engagement.
All this was the occasion of much amusement to Nicholas, whose only feeling upon the
subject was one of sincere satisfaction that the great man went away before he appeared. He
went through his part in the two last pieces as briskly as he could, and having been received
with unbounded favour and unprecedented applause – so said the bills for next day, which
had been printed an hour or two before – he took Smike's arm and walked home to bed.
With the post next morning came a letter from Newman Noggs, very inky, very short,
very dirty, very small, and very mysterious, urging Nicholas to return to London instantly;
not to lose an instant; to be there that night if possible.
'I will,' said Nicholas. 'Heaven knows I have remained here for the best, and sorely
against my own will; but even now I may have dallied too long. What can have happened?
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 377
Smike, my good fellow, here – take my purse. Put our things together, and pay what little
debts we owe – quick, and we shall be in time for the morning coach. I will only tell them
that we are going, and will return to you immediately.'
So saying, he took his hat, and hurrying away to the lodgings of Mr Crummles, applied
his hand to the knocker with such hearty good− will, that he awakened that gentleman, who
was still in bed, and caused Mr Bulph the pilot to take his morning's pipe very nearly out of
his mouth in the extremity of his surprise.
The door being opened, Nicholas ran upstairs without any ceremony, and bursting into
the darkened sitting−room on the one−pair front, found that the two Master Crummleses had
sprung out of the sofa− bedstead and were putting on their clothes with great rapidity, under
the impression that it was the middle of the night, and the next house was on fire.
Before he could undeceive them, Mr Crummles came down in a flannel gown and
nightcap; and to him Nicholas briefly explained that circumstances had occurred which
rendered it necessary for him to repair to London immediately.
'So goodbye,' said Nicholas; 'goodbye, goodbye.'
He was half−way downstairs before Mr Crummles had sufficiently recovered his
surprise to gasp out something about the posters.
'I can't help it,' replied Nicholas. 'Set whatever I may have earned this week against
them, or if that will not repay you, say at once what will. Quick, quick.'
'We'll cry quits about that,' returned Crummles. 'But can't we have one last night more?'
'Not an hour – not a minute,' replied Nicholas, impatiently.
'Won't you stop to say something to Mrs Crummles?' asked the manager, following him
down to the door.
'I couldn't stop if it were to prolong my life a score of years,' rejoined Nicholas. 'Here,
take my hand, and with it my hearty thanks. – Oh! that I should have been fooling here!'
Accompanying these words with an impatient stamp upon the ground, he tore himself
from the manager's detaining grasp, and darting rapidly down the street was out of sight in
an instant.
'Dear me, dear me,' said Mr Crummles, looking wistfully towards the point at which he
had just disappeared; 'if he only acted like that, what a deal of money he'd draw! He should
have kept upon this circuit; he'd have been very useful to me. But he don't know what's good
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CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 378
for him. He is an impetuous youth. Young men are rash, very rash.'
Mr Crummles being in a moralising mood, might possibly have moralised for some
minutes longer if he had not mechanically put his hand towards his waistcoat pocket, where
he was accustomed to keep his snuff. The absence of any pocket at all in the usual direction,
suddenly recalled to his recollection the fact that he had no waistcoat on; and this leading
him to a contemplation of the extreme scantiness of his attire, he shut the door abruptly, and
retired upstairs with great precipitation.
Smike had made good speed while Nicholas was absent, and with his help everything
was soon ready for their departure. They scarcely stopped to take a morsel of breakfast, and
in less than half an hour arrived at the coach−office: quite out of breath with the haste they
had made to reach it in time. There were yet a few minutes to spare, so, having secured the
places, Nicholas hurried into a slopseller's hard by, and bought Smike a great−coat. It would
have been rather large for a substantial yeoman, but the shopman averring (and with
considerable truth) that it was a most uncommon fit, Nicholas would have purchased it in his
impatience if it had been twice the size.
As they hurried up to the coach, which was now in the open street and all ready for
starting, Nicholas was not a little astonished to find himself suddenly clutched in a close and
violent embrace, which nearly took him off his legs; nor was his amazement at all lessened
by hearing the voice of Mr Crummles exclaim, 'It is he – my friend, my friend!'
'Bless my heart,' cried Nicholas, struggling in the manager's arms, 'what are you about?'
The manager made no reply, but strained him to his breast again, exclaiming as he did
so, 'Farewell, my noble, my lion−hearted boy!'
In fact, Mr Crummles, who could never lose any opportunity for professional display,
had turned out for the express purpose of taking a public farewell of Nicholas; and to render
it the more imposing, he was now, to that young gentleman's most profound annoyance,
inflicting upon him a rapid succession of stage embraces, which, as everybody knows, are
performed by the embracer's laying his or her chin on the shoulder of the object of affection,
and looking over it. This Mr Crummles did in the highest style of melodrama, pouring forth
at the same time all the most dismal forms of farewell he could think of, out of the stock
pieces. Nor was this all, for the elder Master Crummles was going through a similar
ceremony with Smike; while Master Percy Crummles, with a very little second−hand camlet
cloak, worn theatrically over his left shoulder, stood by, in the attitude of an attendant
officer, waiting to convey the two victims to the scaffold.
The lookers−on laughed very heartily, and as it was as well to put a good face upon the
matter, Nicholas laughed too when he had succeeded in disengaging himself; and rescuing
the astonished Smike, climbed up to the coach roof after him, and kissed his hand in honour
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 379
of the absent Mrs Crummles as they rolled away.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas, 380
CHAPTER 31 − Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and
some wise Precautions, the success or failure of which will
appear in the Sequel.
I
n blissful unconsciousness that his nephew was hastening at the utmost speed of four
good horses towards his sphere of action, and that every passing minute diminished the
distance between them, Ralph Nickleby sat that morning occupied in his customary
avocations, and yet unable to prevent his thoughts wandering from time to time back to the
interview which had taken place between himself and his niece on the previous day. At such
intervals, after a few moments of abstraction, Ralph would mutter some peevish interjection,
and apply himself with renewed steadiness of purpose to the ledger before him, but again
and again the same train of thought came back despite all his efforts to prevent it, confusing
him in his calculations, and utterly distracting his attention from the figures over which he
bent. At length Ralph laid down his pen, and threw himself back in his chair as though he
had made up his mind to allow the obtrusive current of reflection to take its own course, and,
by giving it full scope, to rid himself of it effectually.
'I am not a man to be moved by a pretty face,' muttered Ralph sternly. 'There is a
grinning skull beneath it, and men like me who look and work below the surface see that,
and not its delicate covering. And yet I almost like the girl, or should if she had been less
proudly and squeamishly brought up. If the boy were drowned or hanged, and the mother
dead, this house should be her home. I wish they were, with all my soul.'
Notwithstanding the deadly hatred which Ralph felt towards Nicholas, and the bitter
contempt with which he sneered at poor Mrs Nickleby – notwithstanding the baseness with
which he had behaved, and was then behaving, and would behave again if his interest
prompted him, towards Kate herself – still there was, strange though it may seem, something
humanising and even gentle in his thoughts at that moment. He thought of what his home
might be if Kate were there; he placed her in the empty chair, looked upon her, heard her
speak; he felt again upon his arm the gentle pressure of the trembling hand; he strewed his
costly rooms with the hundred silent tokens of feminine presence and occupation; he came
back again to the cold fireside and the silent dreary splendour; and in that one glimpse of a
better nature, born as it was in selfish thoughts, the rich man felt himself friendless,
childless, and alone. Gold, for the instant, lost its lustre in his eyes, for there were countless
treasures of the heart which it could never purchase.
A very slight circumstance was sufficient to banish such reflections from the mind of
such a man. As Ralph looked vacantly out across the yard towards the window of the other
office, he became suddenly aware of the earnest observation of Newman Noggs, who, with
his red nose almost touching the glass, feigned to be mending a pen with a rusty fragment of
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a knife, but was in reality staring at his employer with a countenance of the closest and most
eager scrutiny.
Ralph exchanged his dreamy posture for his accustomed business attitude: the face of
Newman disappeared, and the train of thought took to flight, all simultaneously, and in an
instant.
After a few minutes, Ralph rang his bell. Newman answered the summons, and Ralph
raised his eyes stealthily to his face, as if he almost feared to read there, a knowledge of his
recent thoughts.
There was not the smallest speculation, however, in the countenance of Newman
Noggs. If it be possible to imagine a man, with two eyes in his head, and both wide open,
looking in no direction whatever, and seeing nothing, Newman appeared to be that man
while Ralph Nickleby regarded him.
'How now?' growled Ralph.
'Oh!' said Newman, throwing some intelligence into his eyes all at once, and dropping
them on his master, 'I thought you rang.' With which laconic remark Newman turned round
and hobbled away.
'Stop!' said Ralph.
Newman stopped; not at all disconcerted.
'I did ring.'
'I knew you did.'
'Then why do you offer to go if you know that?'
'I thought you rang to say you didn't ring" replied Newman. 'You often do.'
'How dare you pry, and peer, and stare at me, sirrah?' demanded Ralph.
'Stare!' cried Newman, 'at YOU! Ha, ha!' which was all the explanation Newman
deigned to offer.
'Be careful, sir,' said Ralph, looking steadily at him. 'Let me have no drunken fooling
here. Do you see this parcel?'
'It's big enough,' rejoined Newman.
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'Carry it into the city; to Cross, in Broad Street, and leave it there – quick. Do you hear?'
Newman gave a dogged kind of nod to express an affirmative reply, and, leaving the
room for a few seconds, returned with his hat. Having made various ineffective attempts to
fit the parcel (which was some two feet square) into the crown thereof, Newman took it
under his arm, and after putting on his fingerless gloves with great precision and nicety,
keeping his eyes fixed upon Mr Ralph Nickleby all the time, he adjusted his hat upon his
head with as much care, real or pretended, as if it were a bran−new one of the most
expensive quality, and at last departed on his errand.
He executed his commission with great promptitude and dispatch, only calling at one
public−house for half a minute, and even that might be said to be in his way, for he went in
at one door and came out at the other; but as he returned and had got so far homewards as
the Strand, Newman began to loiter with the uncertain air of a man who has not quite made
up his mind whether to halt or go straight forwards. After a very short consideration, the
former inclination prevailed, and making towards the point he had had in his mind, Newman
knocked a modest double knock, or rather a nervous single one, at Miss La Creevy's door.
It was opened by a strange servant, on whom the odd figure of the visitor did not appear
to make the most favourable impression possible, inasmuch as she no sooner saw him than
she very nearly closed it, and placing herself in the narrow gap, inquired what he wanted.
But Newman merely uttering the monosyllable 'Noggs,' as if it were some cabalistic word, at
sound of which bolts would fly back and doors open, pushed briskly past and gained the
door of Miss La Creevy's sitting−room, before the astonished servant could offer any
opposition.
'Walk in if you please,' said Miss La Creevy in reply to the sound of Newman's
knuckles; and in he walked accordingly.
'Bless us!' cried Miss La Creevy, starting as Newman bolted in; 'what did you want, sir?'
'You have forgotten me,' said Newman, with an inclination of the head. 'I wonder at
that. That nobody should remember me who knew me in other days, is natural enough; but
there are few people who, seeing me once, forget me NOW.' He glanced, as he spoke, at his
shabby clothes and paralytic limb, and slightly shook his head.
'I did forget you, I declare,' said Miss La Creevy, rising to receive Newman, who met
her half−way, 'and I am ashamed of myself for doing so; for you are a kind, good creature,
Mr Noggs. Sit down and tell me all about Miss Nickleby. Poor dear thing! I haven't seen her
for this many a week.'
'How's that?' asked Newman.
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'Why, the truth is, Mr Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy, 'that I have been out on a visit – the
first visit I have made for fifteen years.'
'That is a long time,' said Newman, sadly.
'So it is a very long time to look back upon in years, though, somehow or other, thank
Heaven, the solitary days roll away peacefully and happily enough,' replied the miniature
painter. 'I have a brother, Mr Noggs – the only relation I have – and all that time I never saw
him once. Not that we ever quarrelled, but he was apprenticed down in the country, and he
got married there; and new ties and affections springing up about him, he forgot a poor little
woman like me, as it was very reasonable he should, you know. Don't suppose that I
complain about that, because I always said to myself, «It is very natural; poor dear John is
making his way in the world, and has a wife to tell his cares and troubles to, and children
now to play about him, so God bless him and them, and send we may all meet together one
day where we shall part no more.» But what do you think, Mr Noggs,' said the miniature
painter, brightening up and clapping her hands, 'of that very same brother coming up to
London at last, and never resting till he found me out; what do you think of his coming here
and sitting down in that very chair, and crying like a child because he was so glad to see me
– what do you think of his insisting on taking me down all the way into the country to his
own house (quite a sumptuous place, Mr Noggs, with a large garden and I don't know how
many fields, and a man in livery waiting at table, and cows and horses and pigs and I don't
know what besides), and making me stay a whole month, and pressing me to stop there all
my life – yes, all my life – and so did his wife, and so did the children – and there were four
of them, and one, the eldest girl of all, they – they had named her after me eight good years
before, they had indeed. I never was so happy; in all my life I never was!' The worthy soul
hid her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud; for it was the first opportunity she had
had of unburdening her heart, and it would have its way.
'But bless my life,' said Miss La Creevy, wiping her eyes after a short pause, and
cramming her handkerchief into her pocket with great bustle and dispatch; 'what a foolish
creature I must seem to you, Mr Noggs! I shouldn't have said anything about it, only I
wanted to explain to you how it was I hadn't seen Miss Nickleby.'
'Have you seen the old lady?' asked Newman.
'You mean Mrs Nickleby?' said Miss La Creevy. 'Then I tell you what, Mr Noggs, if
you want to keep in the good books in that quarter, you had better not call her the old lady
any more, for I suspect she wouldn't be best pleased to hear you. Yes, I went there the night
before last, but she was quite on the high ropes about something, and was so grand and
mysterious, that I couldn't make anything of her: so, to tell you the truth, I took it into my
head to be grand too, and came away in state. I thought she would have come round again
before this, but she hasn't been here.'
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CHAPTER 31 − Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel.384
'About Miss Nickleby – ' said Newman.
'Why, she was here twice while I was away,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'I was afraid she
mightn't like to have me calling on her among those great folks in what's−its−name Place, so
I thought I'd wait a day or two, and if I didn't see her, write.'
'Ah!' exclaimed Newman, cracking his fingers.
'However, I want to hear all the news about them from you,' said Miss La Creevy. 'How
is the old rough and tough monster of Golden Square? Well, of course; such people always
are. I don't mean how is he in health, but how is he going on: how is he behaving himself?'
'Damn him!' cried Newman, dashing his cherished hat on the floor; 'like a false hound.'
'Gracious, Mr Noggs, you quite terrify me!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, turning pale.
'I should have spoilt his features yesterday afternoon if I could have afforded it,' said
Newman, moving restlessly about, and shaking his fist at a portrait of Mr Canning over the
mantelpiece. 'I was very near it. I was obliged to put my hands in my pockets, and keep 'em
there very tight. I shall do it some day in that little back− parlour, I know I shall. I should
have done it before now, if I hadn't been afraid of making bad worse. I shall double−lock
myself in with him and have it out before I die, I'm quite certain of it.'
'I shall scream if you don't compose yourself, Mr Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy; 'I'm sure
I shan't be able to help it.'
'Never mind,' rejoined Newman, darting violently to and fro. 'He's coming up tonight: I
wrote to tell him. He little thinks I know; he little thinks I care. Cunning scoundrel! he don't
think that. Not he, not he. Never mind, I'll thwart him – I, Newman Noggs. Ho, ho, the
rascal!'
Lashing himself up to an extravagant pitch of fury, Newman Noggs jerked himself
about the room with the most eccentric motion ever beheld in a human being: now sparring
at the little miniatures on the wall, and now giving himself violent thumps on the head, as if
to heighten the delusion, until he sank down in his former seat quite breathless and
exhausted.
'There,' said Newman, picking up his hat; 'that's done me good. Now I'm better, and I'll
tell you all about it.'
It took some little time to reassure Miss La Creevy, who had been almost frightened out
of her senses by this remarkable demonstration; but that done, Newman faithfully related all
that had passed in the interview between Kate and her uncle, prefacing his narrative with a
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CHAPTER 31 − Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel.385
statement of his previous suspicions on the subject, and his reasons for forming them; and
concluding with a communication of the step he had taken in secretly writing to Nicholas.
Though little Miss La Creevy's indignation was not so singularly displayed as
Newman's, it was scarcely inferior in violence and intensity. Indeed, if Ralph Nickleby had
happened to make his appearance in the room at that moment, there is some doubt whether
he would not have found Miss La Creevy a more dangerous opponent than even Newman
Noggs himself.
'God forgive me for saying so,' said Miss La Creevy, as a wind−up to all her
expressions of anger, 'but I really feel as if I could stick this into him with pleasure.'
It was not a very awful weapon that Miss La Creevy held, it being in fact nothing more
nor less than a black−lead pencil; but discovering her mistake, the little portrait painter
exchanged it for a mother− of−pearl fruit knife, wherewith, in proof of her desperate
thoughts, she made a lunge as she spoke, which would have scarcely disturbed the crumb of
a half−quartern loaf.
'She won't stop where she is after tonight,' said Newman. 'That's a comfort.'
'Stop!' cried Miss La Creevy, 'she should have left there, weeks ago.'
' – If we had known of this,' rejoined Newman. 'But we didn't. Nobody could properly
interfere but her mother or brother. The mother's weak – poor thing – weak. The dear young
man will be here tonight.'
'Heart alive!' cried Miss La Creevy. 'He will do something desperate, Mr Noggs, if you
tell him all at once.'
Newman left off rubbing his hands, and assumed a thoughtful look.
'Depend upon it,' said Miss La Creevy, earnestly, 'if you are not very careful in breaking
out the truth to him, he will do some violence upon his uncle or one of these men that will
bring some terrible calamity upon his own head, and grief and sorrow to us all.'
'I never thought of that,' rejoined Newman, his countenance falling more and more. 'I
came to ask you to receive his sister in case he brought her here, but – '
'But this is a matter of much greater importance,' interrupted Miss La Creevy; 'that you
might have been sure of before you came, but the end of this, nobody can foresee, unless
you are very guarded and careful.'
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'What CAN I do?' cried Newman, scratching his head with an air of great vexation and
perplexity. 'If he was to talk of pistoling 'em all, I should be obliged to say, «Certainly –
serve 'em right.»'
Miss La Creevy could not suppress a small shriek on hearing this, and instantly set
about extorting a solemn pledge from Newman that he would use his utmost endeavours to
pacify the wrath of Nicholas; which, after some demur, was conceded. They then consulted
together on the safest and surest mode of communicating to him the circumstances which
had rendered his presence necessary.
'He must have time to cool before he can possibly do anything,' said Miss La Creevy.
'That is of the greatest consequence. He must not be told until late at night.'
'But he'll be in town between six and seven this evening,' replied Newman. 'I can't keep
it from him when he asks me.'
'Then you must go out, Mr Noggs,' said Miss La Creevy. 'You can easily have been kept
away by business, and must not return till nearly midnight.'
'Then he will come straight here,' retorted Newman.
'So I suppose,' observed Miss La Creevy; 'but he won't find me at home, for I'll go
straight to the city the instant you leave me, make up matters with Mrs Nickleby, and take
her away to the theatre, so that he may not even know where his sister lives.'
Upon further discussion, this appeared the safest and most feasible mode of proceeding
that could possibly be adopted. Therefore it was finally determined that matters should be so
arranged, and Newman, after listening to many supplementary cautions and entreaties, took
his leave of Miss La Creevy and trudged back to Golden Square; ruminating as he went
upon a vast number of possibilities and impossibilities which crowded upon his brain, and
arose out of the conversation that had just terminated.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 31 − Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions, the success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel.387
CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable
Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it
gives rise.
'L
ondon at last!' cried Nicholas, throwing back his greatcoat and rousing Smike from a
long nap. 'It seemed to me as though we should never reach it.'
'And yet you came along at a tidy pace too,' observed the coachman, looking over his
shoulder at Nicholas with no very pleasant expression of countenance.
'Ay, I know that,' was the reply; 'but I have been very anxious to be at my journey's end,
and that makes the way seem long.'
'Well,' remarked the coachman, 'if the way seemed long with such cattle as you've sat
behind, you MUST have been most uncommon anxious;' and so saying, he let out his
whip−lash and touched up a little boy on the calves of his legs by way of emphasis.
They rattled on through the noisy, bustling, crowded street of London, now displaying
long double rows of brightly−burning lamps, dotted here and there with the chemists' glaring
lights, and illuminated besides with the brilliant flood that streamed from the windows of the
shops, where sparkling jewellery, silks and velvets of the richest colours, the most inviting
delicacies, and most sumptuous articles of luxurious ornament, succeeded each other in rich
and glittering profusion. Streams of people apparently without end poured on and on,
jostling each other in the crowd and hurrying forward, scarcely seeming to notice the riches
that surrounded them on every side; while vehicles of all shapes and makes, mingled up
together in one moving mass, like running water, lent their ceaseless roar to swell the noise
and tumult.
As they dashed by the quickly−changing and ever−varying objects, it was curious to
observe in what a strange procession they passed before the eye. Emporiums of splendid
dresses, the materials brought from every quarter of the world; tempting stores of everything
to stimulate and pamper the sated appetite and give new relish to the oft−repeated feast;
vessels of burnished gold and silver, wrought into every exquisite form of vase, and dish,
and goblet; guns, swords, pistols, and patent engines of destruction; screws and irons for the
crooked, clothes for the newly−born, drugs for the sick, coffins for the dead, and
churchyards for the buried – all these jumbled each with the other and flocking side by side,
seemed to flit by in motley dance like the fantastic groups of the old Dutch painter, and with
the same stern moral for the unheeding restless crowd.
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Nor were there wanting objects in the crowd itself to give new point and purpose to the
shifting scene. The rags of the squalid ballad− singer fluttered in the rich light that showed
the goldsmith's treasures, pale and pinched−up faces hovered about the windows where was
tempting food, hungry eyes wandered over the profusion guarded by one thin sheet of brittle
glass – an iron wall to them; half−naked shivering figures stopped to gaze at Chinese shawls
and golden stuffs of India. There was a christening party at the largest coffin−maker's and a
funeral hatchment had stopped some great improvements in the bravest mansion. Life and
death went hand in hand; wealth and poverty stood side by side; repletion and starvation laid
them down together.
But it was London; and the old country lady inside, who had put her head out of the
coach−window a mile or two this side Kingston, and cried out to the driver that she was sure
he must have passed it and forgotten to set her down, was satisfied at last.
Nicholas engaged beds for himself and Smike at the inn where the coach stopped, and
repaired, without the delay of another moment, to the lodgings of Newman Noggs; for his
anxiety and impatience had increased with every succeeding minute, and were almost
beyond control.
There was a fire in Newman's garret; and a candle had been left burning; the floor was
cleanly swept, the room was as comfortably arranged as such a room could be, and meat and
drink were placed in order upon the table. Everything bespoke the affectionate care and
attention of Newman Noggs, but Newman himself was not there.
'Do you know what time he will be home?' inquired Nicholas, tapping at the door of
Newman's front neighbour.
'Ah, Mr Johnson!' said Crowl, presenting himself. 'Welcome, sir. How well you're
looking! I never could have believed – '
'Pardon me,' interposed Nicholas. 'My question – I am extremely anxious to know.'
'Why, he has a troublesome affair of business,' replied Crowl, 'and will not be home
before twelve o'clock. He was very unwilling to go, I can tell you, but there was no help for
it. However, he left word that you were to make yourself comfortable till he came back, and
that I was to entertain you, which I shall be very glad to do.'
In proof of his extreme readiness to exert himself for the general entertainment, Mr
Crowl drew a chair to the table as he spoke, and helping himself plentifully to the cold meat,
invited Nicholas and Smike to follow his example.
Disappointed and uneasy, Nicholas could touch no food, so, after he had seen Smike
comfortably established at the table, he walked out (despite a great many dissuasions uttered
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.389
by Mr Crowl with his mouth full), and left Smike to detain Newman in case he returned
first.
As Miss La Creevy had anticipated, Nicholas betook himself straight to her house.
Finding her from home, he debated within himself for some time whether he should go to
his mother's residence, and so compromise her with Ralph Nickleby. Fully persuaded,
however, that Newman would not have solicited him to return unless there was some strong
reason which required his presence at home, he resolved to go there, and hastened eastwards
with all speed.
Mrs Nickleby would not be at home, the girl said, until past twelve, or later. She
believed Miss Nickleby was well, but she didn't live at home now, nor did she come home
except very seldom. She couldn't say where she was stopping, but it was not at Madame
Mantalini's. She was sure of that.
With his heart beating violently, and apprehending he knew not what disaster, Nicholas
returned to where he had left Smike. Newman had not been home. He wouldn't be, till
twelve o'clock; there was no chance of it. Was there no possibility of sending to fetch him if
it were only for an instant, or forwarding to him one line of writing to which he might return
a verbal reply? That was quite impracticable. He was not at Golden Square, and probably
had been sent to execute some commission at a distance.
Nicholas tried to remain quietly where he was, but he felt so nervous and excited that he
could not sit still. He seemed to be losing time unless he was moving. It was an absurd
fancy, he knew, but he was wholly unable to resist it. So, he took up his hat and rambled out
again.
He strolled westward this time, pacing the long streets with hurried footsteps, and
agitated by a thousand misgivings and apprehensions which he could not overcome. He
passed into Hyde Park, now silent and deserted, and increased his rate of walking as if in the
hope of leaving his thoughts behind. They crowded upon him more thickly, however, now
there were no passing objects to attract his attention; and the one idea was always
uppermost, that some stroke of ill− fortune must have occurred so calamitous in its nature
that all were fearful of disclosing it to him. The old question arose again and again – What
could it be? Nicholas walked till he was weary, but was not one bit the wiser; and indeed he
came out of the Park at last a great deal more confused and perplexed than when he went in.
He had taken scarcely anything to eat or drink since early in the morning, and felt quite
worn out and exhausted. As he returned languidly towards the point from which he had
started, along one of the thoroughfares which lie between Park Lane and Bond Street, he
passed a handsome hotel, before which he stopped mechanically.
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CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.390
'An expensive place, I dare say,' thought Nicholas; 'but a pint of wine and a biscuit are
no great debauch wherever they are had. And yet I don't know.'
He walked on a few steps, but looking wistfully down the long vista of gas−lamps
before him, and thinking how long it would take to reach the end of it and being besides in
that kind of mood in which a man is most disposed to yield to his first impulse – and being,
besides, strongly attracted to the hotel, in part by curiosity, and in part by some odd mixture
of feelings which he would have been troubled to define – Nicholas turned back again, and
walked into the coffee−room.
It was very handsomely furnished. The walls were ornamented with the choicest
specimens of French paper, enriched with a gilded cornice of elegant design. The floor was
covered with a rich carpet; and two superb mirrors, one above the chimneypiece and one at
the opposite end of the room reaching from floor to ceiling, multiplied the other beauties and
added new ones of their own to enhance the general effect. There was a rather noisy party of
four gentlemen in a box by the fire−place, and only two other persons present – both elderly
gentlemen, and both alone.
Observing all this in the first comprehensive glance with which a stranger surveys a
place that is new to him, Nicholas sat himself down in the box next to the noisy party, with
his back towards them, and postponing his order for a pint of claret until such time as the
waiter and one of the elderly gentlemen should have settled a disputed question relative to
the price of an item in the bill of fare, took up a newspaper and began to read.
He had not read twenty lines, and was in truth himself dozing, when he was startled by
the mention of his sister's name. 'Little Kate Nickleby' were the words that caught his ear.
He raised his head in amazement, and as he did so, saw by the reflection in the opposite
glass, that two of the party behind him had risen and were standing before the fire. 'It must
have come from one of them,' thought Nicholas. He waited to hear more with a countenance
of some indignation, for the tone of speech had been anything but respectful, and the
appearance of the individual whom he presumed to have been the speaker was coarse and
swaggering.
This person – so Nicholas observed in the same glance at the mirror which had enabled
him to see his face – was standing with his back to the fire conversing with a younger man,
who stood with his back to the company, wore his hat, and was adjusting his shirt−collar by
the aid of the glass. They spoke in whispers, now and then bursting into a loud laugh, but
Nicholas could catch no repetition of the words, nor anything sounding at all like the words,
which had attracted his attention.
At length the two resumed their seats, and more wine being ordered, the party grew
louder in their mirth. Still there was no reference made to anybody with whom he was
acquainted, and Nicholas became persuaded that his excited fancy had either imagined the
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.391
sounds altogether, or converted some other words into the name which had been so much in
his thoughts.
'It is remarkable too,' thought Nicholas: 'if it had been «Kate» or «Kate Nickleby,» I
should not have been so much surprised: but «little Kate Nickleby!»'
The wine coming at the moment prevented his finishing the sentence. He swallowed a
glassful and took up the paper again. At that instant –
'Little Kate Nickleby!' cried the voice behind him.
'I was right,' muttered Nicholas as the paper fell from his hand. 'And it was the man I
supposed.'
'As there was a proper objection to drinking her in heel−taps,' said the voice, 'we'll give
her the first glass in the new magnum. Little Kate Nickleby!'
'Little Kate Nickleby,' cried the other three. And the glasses were set down empty.
Keenly alive to the tone and manner of this slight and careless mention of his sister's
name in a public place, Nicholas fired at once; but he kept himself quiet by a great effort,
and did not even turn his head.
'The jade!' said the same voice which had spoken before. 'She's a true Nickleby – a
worthy imitator of her old uncle Ralph – she hangs back to be more sought after – so does
he; nothing to be got out of Ralph unless you follow him up, and then the money comes
doubly welcome, and the bargain doubly hard, for you're impatient and he isn't. Oh! infernal
cunning.'
'Infernal cunning,' echoed two voices.
Nicholas was in a perfect agony as the two elderly gentlemen opposite, rose one after
the other and went away, lest they should be the means of his losing one word of what was
said. But the conversation was suspended as they withdrew, and resumed with even greater
freedom when they had left the room.
'I am afraid,' said the younger gentleman, 'that the old woman has grown jea−a−lous,
and locked her up. Upon my soul it looks like it.'
'If they quarrel and little Nickleby goes home to her mother, so much the better,' said the
first. 'I can do anything with the old lady. She'll believe anything I tell her.'
'Egad that's true,' returned the other voice. 'Ha, ha, ha! Poor deyvle!'
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CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.392
The laugh was taken up by the two voices which always came in together, and became
general at Mrs Nickleby's expense. Nicholas turned burning hot with rage, but he
commanded himself for the moment, and waited to hear more.
What he heard need not be repeated here. Suffice it that as the wine went round he
heard enough to acquaint him with the characters and designs of those whose conversation
he overhead; to possess him with the full extent of Ralph's villainy, and the real reason of his
own presence being required in London. He heard all this and more. He heard his sister's
sufferings derided, and her virtuous conduct jeered at and brutally misconstrued; he heard
her name bandied from mouth to mouth, and herself made the subject of coarse and insolent
wagers, free speech, and licentious jesting.
The man who had spoken first, led the conversation, and indeed almost engrossed it,
being only stimulated from time to time by some slight observation from one or other of his
companions. To him then Nicholas addressed himself when he was sufficiently composed to
stand before the party, and force the words from his parched and scorching throat.
'Let me have a word with you, sir,' said Nicholas.
'With me, sir?' retorted Sir Mulberry Hawk, eyeing him in disdainful surprise.
'I said with you,' replied Nicholas, speaking with great difficulty, for his passion choked
him.
'A mysterious stranger, upon my soul!' exclaimed Sir Mulberry, raising his wine−glass
to his lips, and looking round upon his friends.
'Will you step apart with me for a few minutes, or do you refuse?' said Nicholas sternly.
Sir Mulberry merely paused in the act of drinking, and bade him either name his
business or leave the table.
Nicholas drew a card from his pocket, and threw it before him.
'There, sir,' said Nicholas; 'my business you will guess.'
A momentary expression of astonishment, not unmixed with some confusion, appeared
in the face of Sir Mulberry as he read the name; but he subdued it in an instant, and tossing
the card to Lord Verisopht, who sat opposite, drew a toothpick from a glass before him, and
very leisurely applied it to his mouth.
'Your name and address?' said Nicholas, turning paler as his passion kindled.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.393
'I shall give you neither,' replied Sir Mulberry.
'If there is a gentleman in this party,' said Nicholas, looking round and scarcely able to
make his white lips form the words, 'he will acquaint me with the name and residence of this
man.'
There was a dead silence.
'I am the brother of the young lady who has been the subject of conversation here,' said
Nicholas. 'I denounce this person as a liar, and impeach him as a coward. If he has a friend
here, he will save him the disgrace of the paltry attempt to conceal his name – and utterly
useless one – for I will find it out, nor leave him until I have.'
Sir Mulberry looked at him contemptuously, and, addressing his companions, said –
'Let the fellow talk, I have nothing serious to say to boys of his station; and his pretty
sister shall save him a broken head, if he talks till midnight.'
'You are a base and spiritless scoundrel!' said Nicholas, 'and shall be proclaimed so to
the world. I WILL know you; I will follow you home if you walk the streets till morning.'
Sir Mulberry's hand involuntarily closed upon the decanter, and he seemed for an
instant about to launch it at the head of his challenger. But he only filled his glass, and
laughed in derision.
Nicholas sat himself down, directly opposite to the party, and, summoning the waiter,
paid his bill.
'Do you know that person's name?' he inquired of the man in an audible voice; pointing
out Sir Mulberry as he put the question.
Sir Mulberry laughed again, and the two voices which had always spoken together,
echoed the laugh; but rather feebly.
'That gentleman, sir?' replied the waiter, who, no doubt, knew his cue, and answered
with just as little respect, and just as much impertinence as he could safely show: 'no, sir, I
do not, sir.'
'Here, you sir,' cried Sir Mulberry, as the man was retiring; 'do you know
THAT person's name?'
'Name, sir? No, sir.'
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CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.394
'Then you'll find it there,' said Sir Mulberry, throwing Nicholas's card towards him; 'and
when you have made yourself master of it, put that piece of pasteboard in the fire – do you
hear me?'
The man grinned, and, looking doubtfully at Nicholas, compromised the matter by
sticking the card in the chimney−glass. Having done this, he retired.
Nicholas folded his arms, and biting his lip, sat perfectly quiet; sufficiently expressing
by his manner, however, a firm determination to carry his threat of following Sir Mulberry
home, into steady execution.
It was evident from the tone in which the younger member of the party appeared to
remonstrate with his friend, that he objected to this course of proceeding, and urged him to
comply with the request which Nicholas had made. Sir Mulberry, however, who was not
quite sober, and who was in a sullen and dogged state of obstinacy, soon silenced the
representations of his weak young friend, and further seemed – as if to save himself from a
repetition of them – to insist on being left alone. However this might have been, the young
gentleman and the two who had always spoken together, actually rose to go after a short
interval, and presently retired, leaving their friend alone with Nicholas.
It will be very readily supposed that to one in the condition of Nicholas, the minutes
appeared to move with leaden wings indeed, and that their progress did not seem the more
rapid from the monotonous ticking of a French clock, or the shrill sound of its little bell
which told the quarters. But there he sat; and in his old seat on the opposite side of the room
reclined Sir Mulberry Hawk, with his legs upon the cushion, and his handkerchief thrown
negligently over his knees: finishing his magnum of claret with the utmost coolness and
indifference.
Thus they remained in perfect silence for upwards of an hour – Nicholas would have
thought for three hours at least, but that the little bell had only gone four times. Twice or
thrice he looked angrily and impatiently round; but there was Sir Mulberry in the same
attitude, putting his glass to his lips from time to time, and looking vacantly at the wall, as if
he were wholly ignorant of the presence of any living person.
At length he yawned, stretched himself, and rose; walked coolly to the glass, and having
surveyed himself therein, turned round and honoured Nicholas with a long and
contemptuous stare. Nicholas stared again with right good−will; Sir Mulberry shrugged his
shoulders, smiled slightly, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to help him on with his
greatcoat.
The man did so, and held the door open.
'Don't wait,' said Sir Mulberry; and they were alone again.
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Sir Mulberry took several turns up and down the room, whistling carelessly all the time;
stopped to finish the last glass of claret which he had poured out a few minutes before,
walked again, put on his hat, adjusted it by the glass, drew on his gloves, and, at last, walked
slowly out. Nicholas, who had been fuming and chafing until he was nearly wild, darted
from his seat, and followed him: so closely, that before the door had swung upon its hinges
after Sir Mulberry's passing out, they stood side by side in the street together.
There was a private cabriolet in waiting; the groom opened the apron, and jumped out to
the horse's head.
'Will you make yourself known to me?' asked Nicholas in a suppressed voice.
'No,' replied the other fiercely, and confirming the refusal with an oath. 'No.'
'If you trust to your horse's speed, you will find yourself mistaken,' said Nicholas. 'I will
accompany you. By Heaven I will, if I hang on to the foot−board.'
'You shall be horsewhipped if you do,' returned Sir Mulberry.
'You are a villain,' said Nicholas.
'You are an errand−boy for aught I know,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk.
'I am the son of a country gentleman,' returned Nicholas, 'your equal in birth and
education, and your superior I trust in everything besides. I tell you again, Miss Nickleby is
my sister. Will you or will you not answer for your unmanly and brutal conduct?'
'To a proper champion – yes. To you – no,' returned Sir Mulberry, taking the reins in his
hand. 'Stand out of the way, dog. William, let go her head.'
'You had better not,' cried Nicholas, springing on the step as Sir Mulberry jumped in,
and catching at the reins. 'He has no command over the horse, mind. You shall not go – you
shall not, I swear – till you have told me who you are.'
The groom hesitated, for the mare, who was a high−spirited animal and thorough−bred,
plunged so violently that he could scarcely hold her.
'Leave go, I tell you!' thundered his master.
The man obeyed. The animal reared and plunged as though it would dash the carriage
into a thousand pieces, but Nicholas, blind to all sense of danger, and conscious of nothing
but his fury, still maintained his place and his hold upon the reins.
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'Will you unclasp your hand?'
'Will you tell me who you are?'
'No!'
'No!'
In less time than the quickest tongue could tell it, these words were exchanged, and Sir
Mulberry shortening his whip, applied it furiously to the head and shoulders of Nicholas. It
was broken in the struggle; Nicholas gained the heavy handle, and with it laid open one side
of his antagonist's face from the eye to the lip. He saw the gash; knew that the mare had
darted off at a wild mad gallop; a hundred lights danced in his eyes, and he felt himself flung
violently upon the ground.
He was giddy and sick, but staggered to his feet directly, roused by the loud shouts of
the men who were tearing up the street, and screaming to those ahead to clear the way. He
was conscious of a torrent of people rushing quickly by – looking up, could discern the
cabriolet whirled along the foot−pavement with frightful rapidity – then heard a loud cry, the
smashing of some heavy body, and the breaking of glass – and then the crowd closed in in
the distance, and he could see or hear no more.
The general attention had been entirely directed from himself to the person in the
carriage, and he was quite alone. Rightly judging that under such circumstances it would be
madness to follow, he turned down a bye−street in search of the nearest coach−stand,
finding after a minute or two that he was reeling like a drunken man, and aware for the first
time of a stream of blood that was trickling down his face and breast.
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CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.397
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very
expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.
S
mike and Newman Noggs, who in his impatience had returned home long before the
time agreed upon, sat before the fire, listening anxiously to every footstep on the stairs, and
the slightest sound that stirred within the house, for the approach of Nicholas. Time had
worn on, and it was growing late. He had promised to be back in an hour; and his prolonged
absence began to excite considerable alarm in the minds of both, as was abundantly testified
by the blank looks they cast upon each other at every new disappointment.
At length a coach was heard to stop, and Newman ran out to light Nicholas up the stairs.
Beholding him in the trim described at the conclusion of the last chapter, he stood aghast in
wonder and consternation.
'Don't be alarmed,' said Nicholas, hurrying him back into the room. 'There is no harm
done, beyond what a basin of water can repair.'
'No harm!' cried Newman, passing his hands hastily over the back and arms of Nicholas,
as if to assure himself that he had broken no bones. 'What have you been doing?'
'I know all,' interrupted Nicholas; 'I have heard a part, and guessed the rest. But before I
remove one jot of these stains, I must hear the whole from you. You see I am collected. My
resolution is taken. Now, my good friend, speak out; for the time for any palliation or
concealment is past, and nothing will avail Ralph Nickleby now.'
'Your dress is torn in several places; you walk lame, and I am sure you are suffering
pain,' said Newman. 'Let me see to your hurts first.'
'I have no hurts to see to, beyond a little soreness and stiffness that will soon pass off,'
said Nicholas, seating himself with some difficulty. 'But if I had fractured every limb, and
still preserved my senses, you should not bandage one till you had told me what I have the
right to know. Come,' said Nicholas, giving his hand to Noggs. 'You had a sister of your
own, you told me once, who died before you fell into misfortune. Now think of her, and tell
me, Newman.'
'Yes, I will, I will,' said Noggs. 'I'll tell you the whole truth.'
Newman did so. Nicholas nodded his head from time to time, as it corroborated the
particulars he had already gleaned; but he fixed his eyes upon the fire, and did not look
round once.
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His recital ended, Newman insisted upon his young friend's stripping off his coat and
allowing whatever injuries he had received to be properly tended. Nicholas, after some
opposition, at length consented, and, while some pretty severe bruises on his arms and
shoulders were being rubbed with oil and vinegar, and various other efficacious remedies
which Newman borrowed from the different lodgers, related in what manner they had been
received. The recital made a strong impression on the warm imagination of Newman; for
when Nicholas came to the violent part of the quarrel, he rubbed so hard, as to occasion him
the most exquisite pain, which he would not have exhibited, however, for the world, it being
perfectly clear that, for the moment, Newman was operating on Sir Mulberry Hawk, and had
quite lost sight of his real patient.
This martyrdom over, Nicholas arranged with Newman that while he was otherwise
occupied next morning, arrangements should be made for his mother's immediately quitting
her present residence, and also for dispatching Miss La Creevy to break the intelligence to
her. He then wrapped himself in Smike's greatcoat, and repaired to the inn where they were
to pass the night, and where (after writing a few lines to Ralph, the delivery of which was to
be intrusted to Newman next day), he endeavoured to obtain the repose of which he stood so
much in need.
Drunken men, they say, may roll down precipices, and be quite unconscious of any
serious personal inconvenience when their reason returns. The remark may possibly apply to
injuries received in other kinds of violent excitement: certain it is, that although Nicholas
experienced some pain on first awakening next morning, he sprung out of bed as the clock
struck seven, with very little difficulty, and was soon as much on the alert as if nothing had
occurred.
Merely looking into Smike's room, and telling him that Newman Noggs would call for
him very shortly, Nicholas descended into the street, and calling a hackney coach, bade the
man drive to Mrs Wititterly's, according to the direction which Newman had given him on
the previous night.
It wanted a quarter to eight when they reached Cadogan Place. Nicholas began to fear
that no one might be stirring at that early hour, when he was relieved by the sight of a
female servant, employed in cleaning the door−steps. By this functionary he was referred to
the doubtful page, who appeared with dishevelled hair and a very warm and glossy face, as
of a page who had just got out of bed.
By this young gentleman he was informed that Miss Nickleby was then taking her
morning's walk in the gardens before the house. On the question being propounded whether
he could go and find her, the page desponded and thought not; but being stimulated with a
shilling, the page grew sanguine and thought he could.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.399
'Say to Miss Nickleby that her brother is here, and in great haste to see her,' said
Nicholas.
The plated buttons disappeared with an alacrity most unusual to them, and Nicholas
paced the room in a state of feverish agitation which made the delay even of a minute
insupportable. He soon heard a light footstep which he well knew, and before he could
advance to meet her, Kate had fallen on his neck and burst into tears.
'My darling girl,' said Nicholas as he embraced her. 'How pale you are!'
'I have been so unhappy here, dear brother,' sobbed poor Kate; 'so very, very miserable.
Do not leave me here, dear Nicholas, or I shall die of a broken heart.'
'I will leave you nowhere,' answered Nicholas – 'never again, Kate,' he cried, moved in
spite of himself as he folded her to his heart. 'Tell me that I acted for the best. Tell me that
we parted because I feared to bring misfortune on your head; that it was a trial to me no less
than to yourself, and that if I did wrong it was in ignorance of the world and unknowingly.'
'Why should I tell you what we know so well?' returned Kate soothingly. 'Nicholas –
dear Nicholas – how can you give way thus?'
'It is such bitter reproach to me to know what you have undergone,' returned her brother;
'to see you so much altered, and yet so kind and patient – God!' cried Nicholas, clenching his
fist and suddenly changing his tone and manner, 'it sets my whole blood on fire again. You
must leave here with me directly; you should not have slept here last night, but that I knew
all this too late. To whom can I speak, before we drive away?'
This question was most opportunely put, for at that instant Mr Wititterly walked in, and
to him Kate introduced her brother, who at once announced his purpose, and the
impossibility of deferring it.
'The quarter's notice,' said Mr Wititterly, with the gravity of a man on the right side, 'is
not yet half expired. Therefore – '
'Therefore,' interposed Nicholas, 'the quarter's salary must be lost, sir. You will excuse
this extreme haste, but circumstances require that I should immediately remove my sister,
and I have not a moment's time to lose. Whatever she brought here I will send for, if you
will allow me, in the course of the day.'
Mr Wititterly bowed, but offered no opposition to Kate's immediate departure; with
which, indeed, he was rather gratified than otherwise, Sir Tumley Snuffim having given it as
his opinion, that she rather disagreed with Mrs Wititterly's constitution.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.400
'With regard to the trifle of salary that is due,' said Mr Wititterly, 'I will' – here he was
interrupted by a violent fit of coughing – 'I will – owe it to Miss Nickleby.'
Mr Wititterly, it should be observed, was accustomed to owe small accounts, and to
leave them owing. All men have some little pleasant way of their own; and this was Mr
Wititterly's.
'If you please,' said Nicholas. And once more offering a hurried apology for so sudden a
departure, he hurried Kate into the vehicle, and bade the man drive with all speed into the
city.
To the city they went accordingly, with all the speed the hackney coach could make;
and as the horses happened to live at Whitechapel and to be in the habit of taking their
breakfast there, when they breakfasted at all, they performed the journey with greater
expedition than could reasonably have been expected.
Nicholas sent Kate upstairs a few minutes before him, that his unlooked−for appearance
might not alarm his mother, and when the way had been paved, presented himself with much
duty and affection. Newman had not been idle, for there was a little cart at the door, and the
effects were hurrying out already.
Now, Mrs Nickleby was not the sort of person to be told anything in a hurry, or rather to
comprehend anything of peculiar delicacy or importance on a short notice. Wherefore,
although the good lady had been subjected to a full hour's preparation by little Miss La
Creevy, and was now addressed in most lucid terms both by Nicholas and his sister, she was
in a state of singular bewilderment and confusion, and could by no means be made to
comprehend the necessity of such hurried proceedings.
'Why don't you ask your uncle, my dear Nicholas, what he can possibly mean by it?'
said Mrs Nickleby.
'My dear mother,' returned Nicholas, 'the time for talking has gone by. There is but one
step to take, and that is to cast him off with the scorn and indignation he deserves. Your own
honour and good name demand that, after the discovery of his vile proceedings, you should
not be beholden to him one hour, even for the shelter of these bare walls.'
'To be sure,' said Mrs Nickleby, crying bitterly, 'he is a brute, a monster; and the walls
are very bare, and want painting too, and I have had this ceiling whitewashed at the expense
of eighteen−pence, which is a very distressing thing, considering that it is so much gone into
your uncle's pocket. I never could have believed it – never.'
'Nor I, nor anybody else,' said Nicholas.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.401
'Lord bless my life!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby. 'To think that that Sir Mulberry Hawk
should be such an abandoned wretch as Miss La Creevy says he is, Nicholas, my dear; when
I was congratulating myself every day on his being an admirer of our dear Kate's, and
thinking what a thing it would be for the family if he was to become connected with us, and
use his interest to get you some profitable government place. There are very good places to
be got about the court, I know; for a friend of ours (Miss Cropley, at Exeter, my dear Kate,
you recollect), he had one, and I know that it was the chief part of his duty to wear silk
stockings, and a bag wig like a black watch−pocket; and to think that it should come to this
after all – oh, dear, dear, it's enough to kill one, that it is!' With which expressions of sorrow,
Mrs Nickleby gave fresh vent to her grief, and wept piteously.
As Nicholas and his sister were by this time compelled to superintend the removal of
the few articles of furniture, Miss La Creevy devoted herself to the consolation of the
matron, and observed with great kindness of manner that she must really make an effort, and
cheer up.
'Oh I dare say, Miss La Creevy,' returned Mrs Nickleby, with a petulance not unnatural
in her unhappy circumstances, 'it's very easy to say cheer up, but if you had as many
occasions to cheer up as I have had – and there,' said Mrs Nickleby, stopping short. 'Think of
Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck, two of the most perfect gentlemen that ever lived, what am I too say
to them – what can I say to them? Why, if I was to say to them, «I'm told your friend Sir
Mulberry is a base wretch,» they'd laugh at me.'
'They will laugh no more at us, I take it,' said Nicholas, advancing. 'Come, mother, there
is a coach at the door, and until Monday, at all events, we will return to our old quarters.'
' – Where everything is ready, and a hearty welcome into the bargain,' added Miss La
Creevy. 'Now, let me go with you downstairs.'
But Mrs Nickleby was not to be so easily moved, for first she insisted on going upstairs
to see that nothing had been left, and then on going downstairs to see that everything had
been taken away; and when she was getting into the coach she had a vision of a forgotten
coffee−pot on the back−kitchen hob, and after she was shut in, a dismal recollection of a
green umbrella behind some unknown door. At last Nicholas, in a condition of absolute
despair, ordered the coachman to drive away, and in the unexpected jerk of a sudden
starting, Mrs Nickleby lost a shilling among the straw, which fortunately confined her
attention to the coach until it was too late to remember anything else.
Having seen everything safely out, discharged the servant, and locked the door,
Nicholas jumped into a cabriolet and drove to a bye place near Golden Square where he had
appointed to meet Noggs; and so quickly had everything been done, that it was barely
half−past nine when he reached the place of meeting.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.402
'Here is the letter for Ralph,' said Nicholas, 'and here the key. When you come to me
this evening, not a word of last night. Ill news travels fast, and they will know it soon
enough. Have you heard if he was much hurt?'
Newman shook his head.
'I will ascertain that myself without loss of time,' said Nicholas.
'You had better take some rest,' returned Newman. 'You are fevered and ill.'
Nicholas waved his hand carelessly, and concealing the indisposition he really felt, now
that the excitement which had sustained him was over, took a hurried farewell of Newman
Noggs, and left him.
Newman was not three minutes' walk from Golden Square, but in the course of that
three minutes he took the letter out of his hat and put it in again twenty times at least. First
the front, then the back, then the sides, then the superscription, then the seal, were objects of
Newman's admiration. Then he held it at arm's length as if to take in the whole at one
delicious survey, and then he rubbed his hands in a perfect ecstasy with his commission.
He reached the office, hung his hat on its accustomed peg, laid the letter and key upon
the desk, and waited impatiently until Ralph Nickleby should appear. After a few minutes,
the well−known creaking of his boots was heard on the stairs, and then the bell rung.
'Has the post come in?'
'No.'
'Any other letters?'
'One.' Newman eyed him closely, and laid it on the desk.
'What's this?' asked Ralph, taking up the key.
'Left with the letter; – a boy brought them – quarter of an hour ago, or less.'
Ralph glanced at the direction, opened the letter, and read as follows: –
'You are known to me now. There are no reproaches I could heap upon your head which
would carry with them one thousandth part of the grovelling shame that this assurance will
awaken even in your breast.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.403
'Your brother's widow and her orphan child spurn the shelter of your roof, and shun you
with disgust and loathing. Your kindred renounce you, for they know no shame but the ties
of blood which bind them in name with you.
'You are an old man, and I leave you to the grave. May every recollection of your life
cling to your false heart, and cast their darkness on your death−bed.'
Ralph Nickleby read this letter twice, and frowning heavily, fell into a fit of musing; the
paper fluttered from his hand and dropped upon the floor, but he clasped his fingers, as if he
held it still.
Suddenly, he started from his seat, and thrusting it all crumpled into his pocket, turned
furiously to Newman Noggs, as though to ask him why he lingered. But Newman stood
unmoved, with his back towards him, following up, with the worn and blackened stump of
an old pen, some figures in an Interest−table which was pasted against the wall, and
apparently quite abstracted from every other object.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.404
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons
with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.
'W
hat a demnition long time you have kept me ringing at this confounded old cracked
tea−kettle of a bell, every tinkle of which is enough to throw a strong man into blue
convulsions, upon my life and soul, oh demmit,' – said Mr Mantalini to Newman Noggs,
scraping his boots, as he spoke, on Ralph Nickleby's scraper.
'I didn't hear the bell more than once,' replied Newman.
'Then you are most immensely and outr−i−geously deaf,' said Mr Mantalini, 'as deaf as
a demnition post.'
Mr Mantalini had got by this time into the passage, and was making his way to the door
of Ralph's office with very little ceremony, when Newman interposed his body; and hinting
that Mr Nickleby was unwilling to be disturbed, inquired whether the client's business was
of a pressing nature.
'It is most demnebly particular,' said Mr Mantalini. 'It is to melt some scraps of dirty
paper into bright, shining, chinking, tinkling, demd mint sauce.'
Newman uttered a significant grunt, and taking Mr Mantalini's proffered card, limped
with it into his master's office. As he thrust his head in at the door, he saw that Ralph had
resumed the thoughtful posture into which he had fallen after perusing his nephew's letter,
and that he seemed to have been reading it again, as he once more held it open in his hand.
The glance was but momentary, for Ralph, being disturbed, turned to demand the cause of
the interruption.
As Newman stated it, the cause himself swaggered into the room, and grasping Ralph's
horny hand with uncommon affection, vowed that he had never seen him looking so well in
all his life.
'There is quite a bloom upon your demd countenance,' said Mr Mantalini, seating
himself unbidden, and arranging his hair and whiskers. 'You look quite juvenile and jolly,
demmit!'
'We are alone,' returned Ralph, tartly. 'What do you want with me?'
'Good!' cried Mr Mantalini, displaying his teeth. 'What did I want! Yes. Ha, ha! Very
good. WHAT did I want. Ha, ha. Oh dem!'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.405
'What DO you want, man?' demanded Ralph, sternly.
'Demnition discount,' returned Mr Mantalini, with a grin, and shaking his head
waggishly.
'Money is scarce,' said Ralph.
'Demd scarce, or I shouldn't want it,' interrupted Mr Mantalini.
'The times are bad, and one scarcely knows whom to trust,' continued Ralph. 'I don't
want to do business just now, in fact I would rather not; but as you are a friend – how many
bills have you there?'
'Two,' returned Mr Mantalini.
'What is the gross amount?'
'Demd trifling – five−and−seventy.'
'And the dates?'
'Two months, and four.'
'I'll do them for you – mind, for YOU; I wouldn't for many people – for
five−and−twenty pounds,' said Ralph, deliberately.
'Oh demmit!' cried Mr Mantalini, whose face lengthened considerably at this handsome
proposal.
'Why, that leaves you fifty,' retorted Ralph. 'What would you have? Let me see the
names.'
'You are so demd hard, Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr Mantalini.
'Let me see the names,' replied Ralph, impatiently extending his hand for the bills.
'Well! They are not sure, but they are safe enough. Do you consent to the terms, and will you
take the money? I don't want you to do so. I would rather you didn't.'
'Demmit, Nickleby, can't you – ' began Mr Mantalini.
'No,' replied Ralph, interrupting him. 'I can't. Will you take the money – down, mind; no
delay, no going into the city and pretending to negotiate with some other party who has no
existence, and never had. Is it a bargain, or is it not?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.406
Ralph pushed some papers from him as he spoke, and carelessly rattled his cash−box, as
though by mere accident. The sound was too much for Mr Mantalini. He closed the bargain
directly it reached his ears, and Ralph told the money out upon the table.
He had scarcely done so, and Mr Mantalini had not yet gathered it all up, when a ring
was heard at the bell, and immediately afterwards Newman ushered in no less a person than
Madame Mantalini, at sight of whom Mr Mantalini evinced considerable discomposure, and
swept the cash into his pocket with remarkable alacrity.
'Oh, you ARE here,' said Madame Mantalini, tossing her head.
'Yes, my life and soul, I am,' replied her husband, dropping on his knees, and pouncing
with kitten−like playfulness upon a stray sovereign. 'I am here, my soul's delight, upon Tom
Tiddler's ground, picking up the demnition gold and silver.'
'I am ashamed of you,' said Madame Mantalini, with much indignation.
'Ashamed – of ME, my joy? It knows it is talking demd charming sweetness, but
naughty fibs,' returned Mr Mantalini. 'It knows it is not ashamed of its own popolorum
tibby.'
Whatever were the circumstances which had led to such a result, it certainly appeared as
though the popolorum tibby had rather miscalculated, for the nonce, the extent of his lady's
affection. Madame Mantalini only looked scornful in reply; and, turning to Ralph, begged
him to excuse her intrusion.
'Which is entirely attributable,' said Madame, 'to the gross misconduct and most
improper behaviour of Mr Mantalini.'
'Of me, my essential juice of pineapple!'
'Of you,' returned his wife. 'But I will not allow it. I will not submit to be ruined by the
extravagance and profligacy of any man. I call Mr Nickleby to witness the course I intend to
pursue with you.'
'Pray don't call me to witness anything, ma'am,' said Ralph. 'Settle it between
yourselves, settle it between yourselves.'
'No, but I must beg you as a favour,' said Madame Mantalini, 'to hear me give him
notice of what it is my fixed intention to do – my fixed intention, sir,' repeated Madame
Mantalini, darting an angry look at her husband.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.407
'Will she call me «Sir»?' cried Mantalini. 'Me who dote upon her with the demdest
ardour! She, who coils her fascinations round me like a pure angelic rattlesnake! It will be
all up with my feelings; she will throw me into a demd state.'
'Don't talk of feelings, sir,' rejoined Madame Mantalini, seating herself, and turning her
back upon him. 'You don't consider mine.'
'I do not consider yours, my soul!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini.
'No,' replied his wife.
And notwithstanding various blandishments on the part of Mr Mantalini, Madame
Mantalini still said no, and said it too with such determined and resolute ill−temper, that Mr
Mantalini was clearly taken aback.
'His extravagance, Mr Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini, addressing herself to Ralph,
who leant against his easy−chair with his hands behind him, and regarded the amiable
couple with a smile of the supremest and most unmitigated contempt, – 'his extravagance is
beyond all bounds.'
'I should scarcely have supposed it,' answered Ralph, sarcastically.
'I assure you, Mr Nickleby, however, that it is,' returned Madame Mantalini. 'It makes
me miserable! I am under constant apprehensions, and in constant difficulty. And even this,'
said Madame Mantalini, wiping her eyes, 'is not the worst. He took some papers of value out
of my desk this morning without asking my permission.'
Mr Mantalini groaned slightly, and buttoned his trousers pocket.
'I am obliged,' continued Madame Mantalini, 'since our late misfortunes, to pay Miss
Knag a great deal of money for having her name in the business, and I really cannot afford
to encourage him in all his wastefulness. As I have no doubt that he came straight here, Mr
Nickleby, to convert the papers I have spoken of, into money, and as you have assisted us
very often before, and are very much connected with us in this kind of matters, I wish you to
know the determination at which his conduct has compelled me to arrive.'
Mr Mantalini groaned once more from behind his wife's bonnet, and fitting a sovereign
into one of his eyes, winked with the other at Ralph. Having achieved this performance with
great dexterity, he whipped the coin into his pocket, and groaned again with increased
penitence.
'I have made up my mind,' said Madame Mantalini, as tokens of impatience manifested
themselves in Ralph's countenance, 'to allowance him.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.408
'To do that, my joy?' inquired Mr Mantalini, who did not seem to have caught the
words.
'To put him,' said Madame Mantalini, looking at Ralph, and prudently abstaining from
the slightest glance at her husband, lest his many graces should induce her to falter in her
resolution, 'to put him upon a fixed allowance; and I say that if he has a hundred and twenty
pounds a year for his clothes and pocket−money, he may consider himself a very fortunate
man.'
Mr Mantalini waited, with much decorum, to hear the amount of the proposed stipend,
but when it reached his ears, he cast his hat and cane upon the floor, and drawing out his
pocket−handkerchief, gave vent to his feelings in a dismal moan.
'Demnition!' cried Mr Mantalini, suddenly skipping out of his chair, and as suddenly
skipping into it again, to the great discomposure of his lady's nerves. 'But no. It is a demd
horrid dream. It is not reality. No!'
Comforting himself with this assurance, Mr Mantalini closed his eyes and waited
patiently till such time as he should wake up.
'A very judicious arrangement,' observed Ralph with a sneer, 'if your husband will keep
within it, ma'am – as no doubt he will.'
'Demmit!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini, opening his eyes at the sound of Ralph's voice, 'it is
a horrid reality. She is sitting there before me. There is the graceful outline of her form; it
cannot be mistaken – there is nothing like it. The two countesses had no outlines at all, and
the dowager's was a demd outline. Why is she so excruciatingly beautiful that I cannot be
angry with her, even now?'
'You have brought it upon yourself, Alfred,' returned Madame Mantalini – still
reproachfully, but in a softened tone.
'I am a demd villain!' cried Mr Mantalini, smiting himself on the head. 'I will fill my
pockets with change for a sovereign in halfpence and drown myself in the Thames; but I will
not be angry with her, even then, for I will put a note in the twopenny−post as I go along, to
tell her where the body is. She will be a lovely widow. I shall be a body. Some handsome
women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.'
'Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature,' said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at the dreadful
picture.
'She calls me cruel – me – me – who for her sake will become a demd, damp, moist,
unpleasant body!' exclaimed Mr Mantalini.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.409
'You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a thing,' replied
Madame Mantalini.
'Can I live to be mistrusted?' cried her husband. 'Have I cut my heart into a demd
extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them all away, one after another, to the
same little engrossing demnition captivater, and can I live to be suspected by her? Demmit,
no I can't.'
'Ask Mr Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one,' reasoned
Madame Mantalini.
'I don't want any sum,' replied her disconsolate husband; 'I shall require no demd
allowance. I will be a body.'
On this repetition of Mr Mantalini's fatal threat, Madame Mantalini wrung her hands,
and implored the interference of Ralph Nickleby; and after a great quantity of tears and
talking, and several attempts on the part of Mr Mantalini to reach the door, preparatory to
straightway committing violence upon himself, that gentleman was prevailed upon, with
difficulty, to promise that he wouldn't be a body. This great point attained, Madame
Mantalini argued the question of the allowance, and Mr Mantalini did the same, taking
occasion to show that he could live with uncommon satisfaction upon bread and water, and
go clad in rags, but that he could not support existence with the additional burden of being
mistrusted by the object of his most devoted and disinterested affection. This brought fresh
tears into Madame Mantalini's eyes, which having just begun to open to some few of the
demerits of Mr Mantalini, were only open a very little way, and could be easily closed again.
The result was, that without quite giving up the allowance question, Madame Mantalini,
postponed its further consideration; and Ralph saw, clearly enough, that Mr Mantalini had
gained a fresh lease of his easy life, and that, for some time longer at all events, his
degradation and downfall were postponed.
'But it will come soon enough,' thought Ralph; 'all love – bah! that I should use the cant
of boys and girls – is fleeting enough; though that which has its sole root in the admiration
of a whiskered face like that of yonder baboon, perhaps lasts the longest, as it originates in
the greater blindness and is fed by vanity. Meantime the fools bring grist to my mill, so let
them live out their day, and the longer it is, the better.'
These agreeable reflections occurred to Ralph Nickleby, as sundry small caresses and
endearments, supposed to be unseen, were exchanged between the objects of his thoughts.
'If you have nothing more to say, my dear, to Mr Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini, 'we
will take our leaves. I am sure we have detained him much too long already.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.410
Mr Mantalini answered, in the first instance, by tapping Madame Mantalini several
times on the nose, and then, by remarking in words that he had nothing more to say.
'Demmit! I have, though,' he added almost immediately, drawing Ralph into a corner.
'Here's an affair about your friend Sir Mulberry. Such a demd extraordinary out−of−the−way
kind of thing as never was – eh?'
'What do you mean?' asked Ralph.
'Don't you know, demmit?' asked Mr Mantalini.
'I see by the paper that he was thrown from his cabriolet last night, and severely injured,
and that his life is in some danger,' answered Ralph with great composure; 'but I see nothing
extraordinary in that – accidents are not miraculous events, when men live hard, and drive
after dinner.'
'Whew!' cried Mr Mantalini in a long shrill whistle. 'Then don't you know how it was?'
'Not unless it was as I have just supposed,' replied Ralph, shrugging his shoulders
carelessly, as if to give his questioner to understand that he had no curiosity upon the
subject.
'Demmit, you amaze me,' cried Mantalini.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders again, as if it were no great feat to amaze Mr Mantalini,
and cast a wistful glance at the face of Newman Noggs, which had several times appeared
behind a couple of panes of glass in the room door; it being a part of Newman's duty, when
unimportant people called, to make various feints of supposing that the bell had rung for him
to show them out: by way of a gentle hint to such visitors that it was time to go.
'Don't you know,' said Mr Mantalini, taking Ralph by the button, 'that it wasn't an
accident at all, but a demd, furious, manslaughtering attack made upon him by your
nephew?'
'What!' snarled Ralph, clenching his fists and turning a livid white.
'Demmit, Nickleby, you're as great a tiger as he is,' said Mantalini, alarmed at these
demonstrations.
'Go on,' cried Ralph. 'Tell me what you mean. What is this story? Who told you? Speak,'
growled Ralph. 'Do you hear me?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.411
''Gad, Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini, retreating towards his wife, 'what a demneble fierce
old evil genius you are! You're enough to frighten the life and soul out of her little delicious
wits – flying all at once into such a blazing, ravaging, raging passion as never was, demmit!'
'Pshaw,' rejoined Ralph, forcing a smile. 'It is but manner.'
'It is a demd uncomfortable, private−madhouse−sort of a manner,' said Mr Mantalini,
picking up his cane.
Ralph affected to smile, and once more inquired from whom Mr Mantalini had derived
his information.
'From Pyke; and a demd, fine, pleasant, gentlemanly dog it is,' replied Mantalini.
'Demnition pleasant, and a tip−top sawyer.'
'And what said he?' asked Ralph, knitting his brows.
'That it happened this way – that your nephew met him at a coffeehouse, fell upon him
with the most demneble ferocity, followed him to his cab, swore he would ride home with
him, if he rode upon the horse's back or hooked himself on to the horse's tail; smashed his
countenance, which is a demd fine countenance in its natural state; frightened the horse,
pitched out Sir Mulberry and himself, and – '
'And was killed?' interposed Ralph with gleaming eyes. 'Was he? Is he dead?'
Mantalini shook his head.
'Ugh,' said Ralph, turning away. 'Then he has done nothing. Stay,' he added, looking
round again. 'He broke a leg or an arm, or put his shoulder out, or fractured his collar−bone,
or ground a rib or two? His neck was saved for the halter, but he got some painful and
slow−healing injury for his trouble? Did he? You must have heard that, at least.'
'No,' rejoined Mantalini, shaking his head again. 'Unless he was dashed into such little
pieces that they blew away, he wasn't hurt, for he went off as quiet and comfortable as – as –
as demnition,' said Mr Mantalini, rather at a loss for a simile.
'And what,' said Ralph, hesitating a little, 'what was the cause of quarrel?'
'You are the demdest, knowing hand,' replied Mr Mantalini, in an admiring tone, 'the
cunningest, rummest, superlativest old fox – oh dem! – to pretend now not to know that it
was the little bright−eyed niece – the softest, sweetest, prettiest – '
'Alfred!' interposed Madame Mantalini.
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CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.412
'She is always right,' rejoined Mr Mantalini soothingly, 'and when she says it is time to
go, it is time, and go she shall; and when she walks along the streets with her own tulip, the
women shall say, with envy, she has got a demd fine husband; and the men shall say with
rapture, he has got a demd fine wife; and they shall both be right and neither wrong, upon
my life and soul – oh demmit!'
With which remarks, and many more, no less intellectual and to the purpose, Mr
Mantalini kissed the fingers of his gloves to Ralph Nickleby, and drawing his lady's arm
through his, led her mincingly away.
'So, so,' muttered Ralph, dropping into his chair; 'this devil is loose again, and thwarting
me, as he was born to do, at every turn. He told me once there should be a day of reckoning
between us, sooner or later. I'll make him a true prophet, for it shall surely come.'
'Are you at home?' asked Newman, suddenly popping in his head.
'No,' replied Ralph, with equal abruptness.
Newman withdrew his head, but thrust it in again.
'You're quite sure you're not at home, are you?' said Newman.
'What does the idiot mean?' cried Ralph, testily.
'He has been waiting nearly ever since they first came in, and may have heard your
voice – that's all,' said Newman, rubbing his hands.
'Who has?' demanded Ralph, wrought by the intelligence he had just heard, and his
clerk's provoking coolness, to an intense pitch of irritation.
The necessity of a reply was superseded by the unlooked−for entrance of a third party –
the individual in question – who, bringing his one eye (for he had but one) to bear on Ralph
Nickleby, made a great many shambling bows, and sat himself down in an armchair, with
his hands on his knees, and his short black trousers drawn up so high in the legs by the
exertion of seating himself, that they scarcely reached below the tops of his Wellington
boots.'
'Why, this IS a surprise!' said Ralph, bending his gaze upon the visitor, and half smiling
as he scrutinised him attentively; 'I should know your face, Mr Squeers.'
'Ah!' replied that worthy, 'and you'd have know'd it better, sir, if it hadn't been for all
that I've been a−going through. Just lift that little boy off the tall stool in the back−office,
and tell him to come in here, will you, my man?' said Squeers, addressing himself to
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.413
Newman. 'Oh, he's lifted his−self off. My son, sir, little Wackford. What do you think of
him, sir, for a specimen of the Dotheboys Hall feeding? Ain't he fit to bust out of his clothes,
and start the seams, and make the very buttons fly off with his fatness? Here's flesh!' cried
Squeers, turning the boy about, and indenting the plumpest parts of his figure with divers
pokes and punches, to the great discomposure of his son and heir. 'Here's firmness, here's
solidness! Why you can hardly get up enough of him between your finger and thumb to
pinch him anywheres.'
In however good condition Master Squeers might have been, he certainly did not
present this remarkable compactness of person, for on his father's closing his finger and
thumb in illustration of his remark, he uttered a sharp cry, and rubbed the place in the most
natural manner possible.
'Well,' remarked Squeers, a little disconcerted, 'I had him there; but that's because we
breakfasted early this morning, and he hasn't had his lunch yet. Why you couldn't shut a bit
of him in a door, when he's had his dinner. Look at them tears, sir,' said Squeers, with a
triumphant air, as Master Wackford wiped his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, 'there's
oiliness!'
'He looks well, indeed,' returned Ralph, who, for some purposes of his own, seemed
desirous to conciliate the schoolmaster. 'But how is Mrs Squeers, and how are you?'
'Mrs Squeers, sir,' replied the proprietor of Dotheboys, 'is as she always is – a mother to
them lads, and a blessing, and a comfort, and a joy to all them as knows her. One of our
boys – gorging his−self with vittles, and then turning in; that's their way – got a abscess on
him last week. To see how she operated upon him with a pen−knife! Oh Lor!' said Squeers,
heaving a sigh, and nodding his head a great many times, 'what a member of society that
woman is!'
Mr Squeers indulged in a retrospective look, for some quarter of a minute, as if this
allusion to his lady's excellences had naturally led his mind to the peaceful village of
Dotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire; and then looked at Ralph, as if waiting for him
to say something.
'Have you quite recovered that scoundrel's attack?' asked Ralph.
'I've only just done it, if I've done it now,' replied Squeers. 'I was one blessed bruise, sir,'
said Squeers, touching first the roots of his hair, and then the toes of his boots, 'from
HERE to THERE. Vinegar and brown paper, vinegar and brown paper, from morning to
night. I suppose there was a matter of half a ream of brown paper stuck upon me, from first
to last. As I laid all of a heap in our kitchen, plastered all over, you might have thought I was
a large brown−paper parcel, chock full of nothing but groans. Did I groan loud, Wackford,
or did I groan soft?' asked Mr Squeers, appealing to his son.
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CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.414
'Loud,' replied Wackford.
'Was the boys sorry to see me in such a dreadful condition, Wackford, or was they
glad?' asked Mr Squeers, in a sentimental manner.
'Gl – '
'Eh?' cried Squeers, turning sharp round.
'Sorry,' rejoined his son.
'Oh!' said Squeers, catching him a smart box on the ear. 'Then take your hands out of
your pockets, and don't stammer when you're asked a question. Hold your noise, sir, in a
gentleman's office, or I'll run away from my family and never come back any more; and then
what would become of all them precious and forlorn lads as would be let loose on the world,
without their best friend at their elbers?'
'Were you obliged to have medical attendance?' inquired Ralph.
'Ay, was I,' rejoined Squeers, 'and a precious bill the medical attendant brought in too;
but I paid it though.'
Ralph elevated his eyebrows in a manner which might be expressive of either sympathy
or astonishment – just as the beholder was pleased to take it.
'Yes, I paid it, every farthing,' replied Squeers, who seemed to know the man he had to
deal with, too well to suppose that any blinking of the question would induce him to
subscribe towards the expenses; 'I wasn't out of pocket by it after all, either.'
'No!' said Ralph.
'Not a halfpenny,' replied Squeers. 'The fact is, we have only one extra with our boys,
and that is for doctors when required – and not then, unless we're sure of our customers. Do
you see?'
'I understand,' said Ralph.
'Very good,' rejoined Squeers. 'Then, after my bill was run up, we picked out five little
boys (sons of small tradesmen, as was sure pay) that had never had the scarlet fever, and we
sent one to a cottage where they'd got it, and he took it, and then we put the four others to
sleep with him, and THEY took it, and then the doctor came and attended 'em once all
round, and we divided my total among 'em, and added it on to their little bills, and the
parents paid it. Ha! ha! ha!'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.415
'And a good plan too,' said Ralph, eyeing the schoolmaster stealthily.
'I believe you,' rejoined Squeers. 'We always do it. Why, when Mrs Squeers was
brought to bed with little Wackford here, we ran the hooping−cough through half−a−dozen
boys, and charged her expenses among 'em, monthly nurse included. Ha! ha! ha!'
Ralph never laughed, but on this occasion he produced the nearest approach to it that he
could, and waiting until Mr Squeers had enjoyed the professional joke to his heart's content,
inquired what had brought him to town.
'Some bothering law business,' replied Squeers, scratching his head, 'connected with an
action, for what they call neglect of a boy. I don't know what they would have. He had as
good grazing, that boy had, as there is about us.'
Ralph looked as if he did not quite understand the observation.
'Grazing,' said Squeers, raising his voice, under the impression that as Ralph failed to
comprehend him, he must be deaf. 'When a boy gets weak and ill and don't relish his meals,
we give him a change of diet – turn him out, for an hour or so every day, into a neighbour's
turnip field, or sometimes, if it's a delicate case, a turnip field and a piece of carrots
alternately, and let him eat as many as he likes. There an't better land in the country than this
perwerse lad grazed on, and yet he goes and catches cold and indigestion and what not, and
then his friends brings a lawsuit against ME! Now, you'd hardly suppose,' added Squeers,
moving in his chair with the impatience of an ill−used man, 'that people's ingratitude would
carry them quite as far as that; would you?'
'A hard case, indeed,' observed Ralph.
'You don't say more than the truth when you say that,' replied Squeers. 'I don't suppose
there's a man going, as possesses the fondness for youth that I do. There's youth to the
amount of eight hundred pound a year at Dotheboys Hall at this present time. I'd take sixteen
hundred pound worth if I could get 'em, and be as fond of every individual twenty pound
among 'em as nothing should equal it!'
'Are you stopping at your old quarters?' asked Ralph.
'Yes, we are at the Saracen,' replied Squeers, 'and as it don't want very long to the end of
the half−year, we shall continney to stop there till I've collected the money, and some new
boys too, I hope. I've brought little Wackford up, on purpose to show to parents and
guardians. I shall put him in the advertisement, this time. Look at that boy – himself a pupil.
Why he's a miracle of high feeding, that boy is!'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.416
'I should like to have a word with you,' said Ralph, who had both spoken and listened
mechanically for some time, and seemed to have been thinking.
'As many words as you like, sir,' rejoined Squeers. 'Wackford, you go and play in the
back office, and don't move about too much or you'll get thin, and that won't do. You haven't
got such a thing as twopence, Mr Nickleby, have you?' said Squeers, rattling a bunch of keys
in his coat pocket, and muttering something about its being all silver.
'I – think I have,' said Ralph, very slowly, and producing, after much rummaging in an
old drawer, a penny, a halfpenny, and two farthings.
'Thankee,' said Squeers, bestowing it upon his son. 'Here! You go and buy a tart – Mr
Nickleby's man will show you where – and mind you buy a rich one. Pastry,' added Squeers,
closing the door on Master Wackford, 'makes his flesh shine a good deal, and parents thinks
that a healthy sign.'
With this explanation, and a peculiarly knowing look to eke it out, Mr Squeers moved
his chair so as to bring himself opposite to Ralph Nickleby at no great distance off; and
having planted it to his entire satisfaction, sat down.
'Attend to me,' said Ralph, bending forward a little.
Squeers nodded.
'I am not to suppose,' said Ralph, 'that you are dolt enough to forgive or forget, very
readily, the violence that was committed upon you, or the exposure which accompanied it?'
'Devil a bit,' replied Squeers, tartly.
'Or to lose an opportunity of repaying it with interest, if you could get one?' said Ralph.
'Show me one, and try,' rejoined Squeers.
'Some such object it was, that induced you to call on me?' said Ralph, raising his eyes to
the schoolmaster's face.
'N−n−no, I don't know that,' replied Squeers. 'I thought that if it was in your power to
make me, besides the trifle of money you sent, any compensation – '
'Ah!' cried Ralph, interrupting him. 'You needn't go on.'
After a long pause, during which Ralph appeared absorbed in contemplation, he again
broke silence by asking:
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.417
'Who is this boy that he took with him?'
Squeers stated his name.
'Was he young or old, healthy or sickly, tractable or rebellious? Speak out, man,'
retorted Ralph.
'Why, he wasn't young,' answered Squeers; 'that is, not young for a boy, you know.'
'That is, he was not a boy at all, I suppose?' interrupted Ralph.
'Well,' returned Squeers, briskly, as if he felt relieved by the suggestion, 'he might have
been nigh twenty. He wouldn't seem so old, though, to them as didn't know him, for he was
a little wanting here,' touching his forehead; 'nobody at home, you know, if you knocked
ever so often.'
'And you DID knock pretty often, I dare say?' muttered Ralph.
'Pretty well,' returned Squeers with a grin.
'When you wrote to acknowledge the receipt of this trifle of money as you call it,' said
Ralph, 'you told me his friends had deserted him long ago, and that you had not the faintest
clue or trace to tell you who he was. Is that the truth?'
'It is, worse luck!' replied Squeers, becoming more and more easy and familiar in his
manner, as Ralph pursued his inquiries with the less reserve. 'It's fourteen years ago, by the
entry in my book, since a strange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and left
him there; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in advance. He might have been five
or six year old at that time – not more.'
'What more do you know about him?' demanded Ralph.
'Devilish little, I'm sorry to say,' replied Squeers. 'The money was paid for some six or
eight year, and then it stopped. He had given an address in London, had this chap; but when
it came to the point, of course nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad out of –
out of – '
'Charity?' suggested Ralph drily.
'Charity, to be sure,' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'and when he begins to be
useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoundrel of a Nickleby comes and carries him
off. But the most vexatious and aggeravating part of the whole affair is,' said Squeers,
dropping his voice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph, 'that some questions have
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.418
been asked about him at last – not of me, but, in a roundabout kind of way, of people in our
village. So, that just when I might have had all arrears paid up, perhaps, and perhaps – who
knows? such things have happened in our business before – a present besides for putting him
out to a farmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to disgrace his parents,
supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our boys are – damme, if that villain of a
Nickleby don't collar him in open day, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my
pocket.'
'We will both cry quits with him before long,' said Ralph, laying his hand on the arm of
the Yorkshire schoolmaster.
'Quits!' echoed Squeers. 'Ah! and I should like to leave a small balance in his favour, to
be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs Squeers could catch hold of him. Bless her heart!
She'd murder him, Mr Nickleby – she would, as soon as eat her dinner.'
'We will talk of this again,' said Ralph. 'I must have time to think of it. To wound him
through his own affections and fancies – . If I could strike him through this boy – '
'Strike him how you like, sir,' interrupted Squeers, 'only hit him hard enough, that's all –
and with that, I'll say good−morning. Here! – just chuck that little boy's hat off that corner
peg, and lift him off the stool will you?'
Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr Squeers betook himself to the little
back−office, and fitted on his child's hat with parental anxiety, while Newman, with his pen
behind his ear, sat, stiff and immovable, on his stool, regarding the father and son by turns
with a broad stare.
'He's a fine boy, an't he?' said Squeers, throwing his head a little on one side, and falling
back to the desk, the better to estimate the proportions of little Wackford.
'Very,' said Newman.
'Pretty well swelled out, an't he?' pursued Squeers. 'He has the fatness of twenty boys,
he has.'
'Ah!' replied Newman, suddenly thrusting his face into that of Squeers, 'he has; – the
fatness of twenty! – more! He's got it all. God help that others. Ha! ha! Oh Lord!'
Having uttered these fragmentary observations, Newman dropped upon his desk and
began to write with most marvellous rapidity.
'Why, what does the man mean?' cried Squeers, colouring. 'Is he drunk?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.419
Newman made no reply.
'Is he mad?' said Squeers.
But, still Newman betrayed no consciousness of any presence save his own; so, Mr
Squeers comforted himself by saying that he was both drunk AND mad; and, with this
parting observation, he led his hopeful son away.
In exact proportion as Ralph Nickleby became conscious of a struggling and lingering
regard for Kate, had his detestation of Nicholas augmented. It might be, that to atone for the
weakness of inclining to any one person, he held it necessary to hate some other more
intensely than before; but such had been the course of his feelings. And now, to be defied
and spurned, to be held up to her in the worst and most repulsive colours, to know that she
was taught to hate and despise him: to feel that there was infection in his touch, and taint in
his companionship – to know all this, and to know that the mover of it all was that same
boyish poor relation who had twitted him in their very first interview, and openly bearded
and braved him since, wrought his quiet and stealthy malignity to such a pitch, that there
was scarcely anything he would not have hazarded to gratify it, if he could have seen his
way to some immediate retaliation.
But, fortunately for Nicholas, Ralph Nickleby did not; and although he cast about all
that day, and kept a corner of his brain working on the one anxious subject through all the
round of schemes and business that came with it, night found him at last, still harping on the
same theme, and still pursuing the same unprofitable reflections.
'When my brother was such as he,' said Ralph, 'the first comparisons were drawn
between us – always in my disfavour. HE was open, liberal, gallant, gay; I a crafty hunks of
cold and stagnant blood, with no passion but love of saving, and no spirit beyond a thirst for
gain. I recollected it well when I first saw this whipster; but I remember it better now.'
He had been occupied in tearing Nicholas's letter into atoms; and as he spoke, he
scattered it in a tiny shower about him.
'Recollections like these,' pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, 'flock upon me – when I
resign myself to them – in crowds, and from countless quarters. As a portion of the world
affect to despise the power of money, I must try and show them what it is.'
And being, by this time, in a pleasant frame of mind for slumber, Ralph Nickleby went
to bed.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the Reader has been already made acquainted.420
CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate.
Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days
seem to dawn upon the Family.
H
aving established his mother and sister in the apartments of the kind−hearted
miniature painter, and ascertained that Sir Mulberry Hawk was in no danger of losing his
life, Nicholas turned his thoughts to poor Smike, who, after breakfasting with Newman
Noggs, had remained, in a disconsolate state, at that worthy creature's lodgings, waiting,
with much anxiety, for further intelligence of his protector.
'As he will be one of our own little household, wherever we live, or whatever fortune is
in reserve for us,' thought Nicholas, 'I must present the poor fellow in due form. They will be
kind to him for his own sake, and if not (on that account solely) to the full extent I could
wish, they will stretch a point, I am sure, for mine.'
Nicholas said 'they', but his misgivings were confined to one person. He was sure of
Kate, but he knew his mother's peculiarities, and was not quite so certain that Smike would
find favour in the eyes of Mrs Nickleby.
'However,' thought Nicholas as he departed on his benevolent errand; 'she cannot fail to
become attached to him, when she knows what a devoted creature he is, and as she must
quickly make the discovery, his probation will be a short one.'
'I was afraid,' said Smike, overjoyed to see his friend again, 'that you had fallen into
some fresh trouble; the time seemed so long, at last, that I almost feared you were lost.'
'Lost!' replied Nicholas gaily. 'You will not be rid of me so easily, I promise you. I shall
rise to the surface many thousand times yet, and the harder the thrust that pushes me down,
the more quickly I shall rebound, Smike. But come; my errand here is to take you home.'
'Home!' faltered Smike, drawing timidly back.
'Ay,' rejoined Nicholas, taking his arm. 'Why not?'
'I had such hopes once,' said Smike; 'day and night, day and night, for many years. I
longed for home till I was weary, and pined away with grief, but now – '
'And what now?' asked Nicholas, looking kindly in his face. 'What now, old friend?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family.421
'I could not part from you to go to any home on earth,' replied Smike, pressing his hand;
'except one, except one. I shall never be an old man; and if your hand placed me in the
grave, and I could think, before I died, that you would come and look upon it sometimes
with one of your kind smiles, and in the summer weather, when everything was alive – not
dead like me – I could go to that home almost without a tear.'
'Why do you talk thus, poor boy, if your life is a happy one with me?' said Nicholas.
'Because I should change; not those about me. And if they forgot me, I should never
know it,' replied Smike. 'In the churchyard we are all alike, but here there are none like me. I
am a poor creature, but I know that.'
'You are a foolish, silly creature,' said Nicholas cheerfully. 'If that is what you mean, I
grant you that. Why, here's a dismal face for ladies' company! – my pretty sister too, whom
you have so often asked me about. Is this your Yorkshire gallantry? For shame! for shame!'
Smike brightened up and smiled.
'When I talk of home,' pursued Nicholas, 'I talk of mine – which is yours of course. If it
were defined by any particular four walls and a roof, God knows I should be sufficiently
puzzled to say whereabouts it lay; but that is not what I mean. When I speak of home, I
speak of the place where – in default of a better – those I love are gathered together; and if
that place were a gypsy's tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name
notwithstanding. And now, for what is my present home, which, however alarming your
expectations may be, will neither terrify you by its extent nor its magnificence!'
So saying, Nicholas took his companion by the arm, and saying a great deal more to the
same purpose, and pointing out various things to amuse and interest him as they went along,
led the way to Miss La Creevy's house.
'And this, Kate,' said Nicholas, entering the room where his sister sat alone, 'is the
faithful friend and affectionate fellow−traveller whom I prepared you to receive.'
Poor Smike was bashful, and awkward, and frightened enough, at first, but Kate
advanced towards him so kindly, and said, in such a sweet voice, how anxious she had been
to see him after all her brother had told her, and how much she had to thank him for having
comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that he began to be very doubtful
whether he should shed tears or not, and became still more flurried. However, he managed
to say, in a broken voice, that Nicholas was his only friend, and that he would lay down his
life to help him; and Kate, although she was so kind and considerate, seemed to be so wholly
unconscious of his distress and embarrassment, that he recovered almost immediately and
felt quite at home.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family.422
Then, Miss La Creevy came in; and to her Smike had to be presented also. And Miss La
Creevy was very kind too, and wonderfully talkative: not to Smike, for that would have
made him uneasy at first, but to Nicholas and his sister. Then, after a time, she would speak
to Smike himself now and then, asking him whether he was a judge of likenesses, and
whether he thought that picture in the corner was like herself, and whether he didn't think it
would have looked better if she had made herself ten years younger, and whether he didn't
think, as a matter of general observation, that young ladies looked better not only in pictures,
but out of them too, than old ones; with many more small jokes and facetious remarks,
which were delivered with such good−humour and merriment, that Smike thought, within
himself, she was the nicest lady he had ever seen; even nicer than Mrs Grudden, of Mr
Vincent Crummles's theatre; and she was a nice lady too, and talked, perhaps more, but
certainly louder, than Miss La Creevy.
At length the door opened again, and a lady in mourning came in; and Nicholas kissing
the lady in mourning affectionately, and calling her his mother, led her towards the chair
from which Smike had risen when she entered the room.
'You are always kind−hearted, and anxious to help the oppressed, my dear mother,' said
Nicholas, 'so you will be favourably disposed towards him, I know.'
'I am sure, my dear Nicholas,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking very hard at her new
friend, and bending to him with something more of majesty than the occasion seemed to
require: 'I am sure any friend of yours has, as indeed he naturally ought to have, and must
have, of course, you know, a great claim upon me, and of course, it is a very great pleasure
to me to be introduced to anybody you take an interest in. There can he no doubt about that;
none at all; not the least in the world,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'At the same time I must say,
Nicholas, my dear, as I used to say to your poor dear papa, when he WOULD bring
gentlemen home to dinner, and there was nothing in the house, that if he had come the day
before yesterday – no, I don't mean the day before yesterday now; I should have said,
perhaps, the year before last – we should have been better able to entertain him.'
With which remarks, Mrs Nickleby turned to her daughter, and inquired, in an audible
whisper, whether the gentleman was going to stop all night.
'Because, if he is, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I don't see that it's possible for
him to sleep anywhere, and that's the truth.'
Kate stepped gracefully forward, and without any show of annoyance or irritation,
breathed a few words into her mother's ear.
'La, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, shrinking back, 'how you do tickle one! Of
course, I understand THAT, my love, without your telling me; and I said the same to
Nicholas, and I AM very much pleased. You didn't tell me, Nicholas, my dear,' added Mrs
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family.423
Nickleby, turning round with an air of less reserve than she had before assumed, 'what your
friend's name is.'
'His name, mother,' replied Nicholas, 'is Smike.'
The effect of this communication was by no means anticipated; but the name was no
sooner pronounced, than Mrs Nickleby dropped upon a chair, and burst into a fit of crying.
'What is the matter?' exclaimed Nicholas, running to support her.
'It's so like Pyke,' cried Mrs Nickleby; 'so exactly like Pyke. Oh! don't speak to me – I
shall be better presently.'
And after exhibiting every symptom of slow suffocation in all its stages, and drinking
about a tea−spoonful of water from a full tumbler, and spilling the remainder, Mrs Nickleby
WAS better, and remarked, with a feeble smile, that she was very foolish, she knew.
'It's a weakness in our family,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'so, of course, I can't be blamed for it.
Your grandmama, Kate, was exactly the same – precisely. The least excitement, the slightest
surprise – she fainted away directly. I have heard her say, often and often, that when she was
a young lady, and before she was married, she was turning a corner into Oxford Street one
day, when she ran against her own hairdresser, who, it seems, was escaping from a bear; –
the mere suddenness of the encounter made her faint away directly. Wait, though,' added
Mrs Nickleby, pausing to consider. 'Let me be sure I'm right. Was it her hairdresser who had
escaped from a bear, or was it a bear who had escaped from her hairdresser's? I declare I
can't remember just now, but the hairdresser was a very handsome man, I know, and quite a
gentleman in his manners; so that it has nothing to do with the point of the story.'
Mrs Nickleby having fallen imperceptibly into one of her retrospective moods,
improved in temper from that moment, and glided, by an easy change of the conversation
occasionally, into various other anecdotes, no less remarkable for their strict application to
the subject in hand.
'Mr Smike is from Yorkshire, Nicholas, my dear?' said Mrs Nickleby, after dinner, and
when she had been silent for some time.
'Certainly, mother,' replied Nicholas. 'I see you have not forgotten his melancholy
history.'
'O dear no,' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Ah! melancholy, indeed. You don't happen, Mr Smike,
ever to have dined with the Grimbles of Grimble Hall, somewhere in the North Riding, do
you?' said the good lady, addressing herself to him. 'A very proud man, Sir Thomas
Grimble, with six grown−up and most lovely daughters, and the finest park in the county.'
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'My dear mother,' reasoned Nicholas, 'do you suppose that the unfortunate outcast of a
Yorkshire school was likely to receive many cards of invitation from the nobility and gentry
in the neighbourhood?'
'Really, my dear, I don't know why it should be so very extraordinary,' said Mrs
Nickleby. 'I know that when I was at school, I always went at least twice every half−year to
the Hawkinses at Taunton Vale, and they are much richer than the Grimbles, and connected
with them in marriage; so you see it's not so very unlikely, after all.'
Having put down Nicholas in this triumphant manner, Mrs Nickleby was suddenly
seized with a forgetfulness of Smike's real name, and an irresistible tendency to call him Mr
Slammons; which circumstance she attributed to the remarkable similarity of the two names
in point of sound both beginning with an S, and moreover being spelt with an M. But
whatever doubt there might be on this point, there was none as to his being a most excellent
listener; which circumstance had considerable influence in placing them on the very best
terms, and inducing Mrs Nickleby to express the highest opinion of his general deportment
and disposition.
Thus, the little circle remained, on the most amicable and agreeable footing, until the
Monday morning, when Nicholas withdrew himself from it for a short time, seriously to
reflect upon the state of his affairs, and to determine, if he could, upon some course of life,
which would enable him to support those who were so entirely dependent upon his
exertions.
Mr Crummles occurred to him more than once; but although Kate was acquainted with
the whole history of his connection with that gentleman, his mother was not; and he foresaw
a thousand fretful objections, on her part, to his seeking a livelihood upon the stage. There
were graver reasons, too, against his returning to that mode of life. Independently of those
arising out of its spare and precarious earnings, and his own internal conviction that he could
never hope to aspire to any great distinction, even as a provincial actor, how could he carry
his sister from town to town, and place to place, and debar her from any other associates
than those with whom he would be compelled, almost without distinction, to mingle? 'It
won't do,' said Nicholas, shaking his head; 'I must try something else.'
It was much easier to make this resolution than to carry it into effect. With no greater
experience of the world than he had acquired for himself in his short trials; with a sufficient
share of headlong rashness and precipitation (qualities not altogether unnatural at his time of
life); with a very slender stock of money, and a still more scanty stock of friends; what could
he do? 'Egad!' said Nicholas, 'I'll try that Register Office again.'
He smiled at himself as he walked away with a quick step; for, an instant before, he had
been internally blaming his own precipitation. He did not laugh himself out of the intention,
however, for on he went: picturing to himself, as he approached the place, all kinds of
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splendid possibilities, and impossibilities too, for that matter, and thinking himself, perhaps
with good reason, very fortunate to be endowed with so buoyant and sanguine a
temperament.
The office looked just the same as when he had left it last, and, indeed, with one or two
exceptions, there seemed to be the very same placards in the window that he had seen
before. There were the same unimpeachable masters and mistresses in want of virtuous
servants, and the same virtuous servants in want of unimpeachable masters and mistresses,
and the same magnificent estates for the investment of capital, and the same enormous
quantities of capital to be invested in estates, and, in short, the same opportunities of all sorts
for people who wanted to make their fortunes. And a most extraordinary proof it was of the
national prosperity, that people had not been found to avail themselves of such advantages
long ago.
As Nicholas stopped to look in at the window, an old gentleman happened to stop too;
and Nicholas, carrying his eye along the window−panes from left to right in search of some
capital−text placard which should be applicable to his own case, caught sight of this old
gentleman's figure, and instinctively withdrew his eyes from the window, to observe the
same more closely.
He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad−skirted blue coat, made pretty large, to fit easily,
and with no particular waist; his bulky legs clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, and
his head protected by a low−crowned broad−brimmed white hat, such as a wealthy grazier
might wear. He wore his coat buttoned; and his dimpled double chin rested in the folds of a
white neckerchief – not one of your stiff− starched apoplectic cravats, but a good, easy,
old−fashioned white neckcloth that a man might go to bed in and be none the worse for. But
what principally attracted the attention of Nicholas was the old gentleman's eye, – never was
such a clear, twinkling, honest, merry, happy eye, as that. And there he stood, looking a little
upward, with one hand thrust into the breast of his coat, and the other playing with his
old−fashioned gold watch−chain: his head thrown a little on one side, and his hat a little
more on one side than his head, (but that was evidently accident; not his ordinary way of
wearing it,) with such a pleasant smile playing about his mouth, and such a comical
expression of mingled slyness, simplicity, kind− heartedness, and good−humour, lighting up
his jolly old face, that Nicholas would have been content to have stood there and looked at
him until evening, and to have forgotten, meanwhile, that there was such a thing as a soured
mind or a crabbed countenance to be met with in the whole wide world.
But, even a very remote approach to this gratification was not to be made, for although
he seemed quite unconscious of having been the subject of observation, he looked casually
at Nicholas; and the latter, fearful of giving offence, resumed his scrutiny of the window
instantly.
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Still, the old gentleman stood there, glancing from placard to placard, and Nicholas
could not forbear raising his eyes to his face again. Grafted upon the quaintness and oddity
of his appearance, was something so indescribably engaging, and bespeaking so much
worth, and there were so many little lights hovering about the corners of his mouth and eyes,
that it was not a mere amusement, but a positive pleasure and delight to look at him.
This being the case, it is no wonder that the old man caught Nicholas in the fact, more
than once. At such times, Nicholas coloured and looked embarrassed: for the truth is, that he
had begun to wonder whether the stranger could, by any possibility, be looking for a clerk or
secretary; and thinking this, he felt as if the old gentleman must know it.
Long as all this takes to tell, it was not more than a couple of minutes in passing. As the
stranger was moving away, Nicholas caught his eye again, and, in the awkwardness of the
moment, stammered out an apology.
'No offence. Oh no offence!' said the old man.
This was said in such a hearty tone, and the voice was so exactly what it should have
been from such a speaker, and there was such a cordiality in the manner, that Nicholas was
emboldened to speak again.
'A great many opportunities here, sir,' he said, half smiling as he motioned towards the
window.
'A great many people willing and anxious to be employed have seriously thought so
very often, I dare say,' replied the old man. 'Poor fellows, poor fellows!'
He moved away as he said this; but seeing that Nicholas was about to speak,
good−naturedly slackened his pace, as if he were unwilling to cut him short. After a little of
that hesitation which may be sometimes observed between two people in the street who have
exchanged a nod, and are both uncertain whether they shall turn back and speak, or not,
Nicholas found himself at the old man's side.
'You were about to speak, young gentleman; what were you going to say?'
'Merely that I almost hoped – I mean to say, thought – you had some object in
consulting those advertisements,' said Nicholas.
'Ay, ay? what object now – what object?' returned the old man, looking slyly at
Nicholas. 'Did you think I wanted a situation now – eh? Did you think I did?'
Nicholas shook his head.
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'Ha! ha!' laughed the old gentleman, rubbing his hands and wrists as if he were washing
them. 'A very natural thought, at all events, after seeing me gazing at those bills. I thought
the same of you, at first; upon my word I did.'
'If you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been far from the truth,'
rejoined Nicholas.
'Eh?' cried the old man, surveying him from head to foot. 'What! Dear me! No, no.
Well−behaved young gentleman reduced to such a necessity! No no, no no.'
Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good−morning, turned upon his heel.
'Stay,' said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they could converse
with less interruption. 'What d'ye mean, eh?'
'Merely that your kind face and manner – both so unlike any I have ever seen – tempted
me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger in this wilderness of London, I should not
have dreamt of making,' returned Nicholas.
'Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It IS a wilderness,' said the old man with much
animation. 'It was a wilderness to me once. I came here barefoot. I have never forgotten it.
Thank God!' and he raised his hat from his head, and looked very grave.
'What's the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?' said the old man, laying his
hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking him up the street. 'You're – Eh?' laying his
finger on the sleeve of his black coat. 'Who's it for, eh?'
'My father,' replied Nicholas.
'Ah!' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Bad thing for a young man to lose his father.
Widowed mother, perhaps?'
Nicholas sighed.
'Brothers and sisters too? Eh?'
'One sister,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Poor thing, poor thing! You are a scholar too, I dare say?' said the old man, looking
wistfully into the face of the young one.
'I have been tolerably well educated,' said Nicholas.
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'Fine thing,' said the old gentleman, 'education a great thing: a very great thing! I never
had any. I admire it the more in others. A very fine thing. Yes, yes. Tell me more of your
history. Let me hear it all. No impertinent curiosity – no, no, no.'
There was something so earnest and guileless in the way in which all this was said, and
such a complete disregard of all conventional restraints and coldnesses, that Nicholas could
not resist it. Among men who have any sound and sterling qualities, there is nothing so
contagious as pure openness of heart. Nicholas took the infection instantly, and ran over the
main points of his little history without reserve: merely suppressing names, and touching as
lightly as possible upon his uncle's treatment of Kate. The old man listened with great
attention, and when he had concluded, drew his arm eagerly through his own.
'Don't say another word. Not another word' said he. 'Come along with me. We mustn't
lose a minute.'
So saying, the old gentleman dragged him back into Oxford Street, and hailing an
omnibus on its way to the city, pushed Nicholas in before him, and followed himself.
As he appeared in a most extraordinary condition of restless excitement, and whenever
Nicholas offered to speak, immediately interposed with: 'Don't say another word, my dear
sir, on any account – not another word,' the young man thought it better to attempt no further
interruption. Into the city they journeyed accordingly, without interchanging any
conversation; and the farther they went, the more Nicholas wondered what the end of the
adventure could possibly be.
The old gentleman got out, with great alacrity, when they reached the Bank, and once
more taking Nicholas by the arm, hurried him along Threadneedle Street, and through some
lanes and passages on the right, until they, at length, emerged in a quiet shady little square.
Into the oldest and cleanest−looking house of business in the square, he led the way. The
only inscription on the door−post was 'Cheeryble, Brothers;' but from a hasty glance at the
directions of some packages which were lying about, Nicholas supposed that the brothers
Cheeryble were German merchants.
Passing through a warehouse which presented every indication of a thriving business,
Mr Cheeryble (for such Nicholas supposed him to be, from the respect which had been
shown him by the warehousemen and porters whom they passed) led him into a little
partitioned−off counting−house like a large glass case, in which counting−house there sat –
as free from dust and blemish as if he had been fixed into the glass case before the top was
put on, and had never come out since – a fat, elderly, large−faced clerk, with silver
spectacles and a powdered head.
'Is my brother in his room, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble, with no less kindness of manner
than he had shown to Nicholas.
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'Yes, he is, sir,' replied the fat clerk, turning his spectacle− glasses towards his principal,
and his eyes towards Nicholas, 'but Mr Trimmers is with him.'
'Ay! And what has he come about, Tim?' said Mr Cheeryble.
'He is getting up a subscription for the widow and family of a man who was killed in the
East India Docks this morning, sir,' rejoined Tim. 'Smashed, sir, by a cask of sugar.'
'He is a good creature,' said Mr Cheeryble, with great earnestness. 'He is a kind soul. I
am very much obliged to Trimmers. Trimmers is one of the best friends we have. He makes
a thousand cases known to us that we should never discover of ourselves. I am VERY much
obliged to Trimmers.' Saying which, Mr Cheeryble rubbed his hands with infinite delight,
and Mr Trimmers happening to pass the door that instant, on his way out, shot out after him
and caught him by the hand.
'I owe you a thousand thanks, Trimmers, ten thousand thanks. I take it very friendly of
you, very friendly indeed,' said Mr Cheeryble, dragging him into a corner to get out of
hearing. 'How many children are there, and what has my brother Ned given, Trimmers?'
'There are six children,' replied the gentleman, 'and your brother has given us twenty
pounds.'
'My brother Ned is a good fellow, and you're a good fellow too, Trimmers,' said the old
man, shaking him by both hands with trembling eagerness. 'Put me down for another twenty
– or – stop a minute, stop a minute. We mustn't look ostentatious; put me down ten pound,
and Tim Linkinwater ten pound. A cheque for twenty pound for Mr Trimmers, Tim. God
bless you, Trimmers – and come and dine with us some day this week; you'll always find a
knife and fork, and we shall be delighted. Now, my dear sir – cheque from Mr Linkinwater,
Tim. Smashed by a cask of sugar, and six poor children – oh dear, dear, dear!'
Talking on in this strain, as fast as he could, to prevent any friendly remonstrances from
the collector of the subscription on the large amount of his donation, Mr Cheeryble led
Nicholas, equally astonished and affected by what he had seen and heard in this short space,
to the half−opened door of another room.
'Brother Ned,' said Mr Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and stooping to listen, 'are
you busy, my dear brother, or can you spare time for a word or two with me?'
'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a voice from the inside, so like in its tones to
that which had just spoken, that Nicholas started, and almost thought it was the same, 'don't
ask me such a question, but come in directly.'
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They went in, without further parley. What was the amazement of Nicholas when his
conductor advanced, and exchanged a warm greeting with another old gentleman, the very
type and model of himself – the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and
neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters – nay, there was the very same white hat hanging
against the wall!
As they shook each other by the hand: the face of each lighted up by beaming looks of
affection, which would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which, in men so
old, was inexpressibly touching: Nicholas could observe that the last old gentleman was
something stouter than his brother; this, and a slight additional shade of clumsiness in his
gait and stature, formed the only perceptible difference between them. Nobody could have
doubted their being twin brothers.
'Brother Ned,' said Nicholas's friend, closing the room−door, 'here is a young friend of
mine whom we must assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, in justice to
him as well as to ourselves, and if they are confirmed – as I feel assured they will be – we
must assist him, we must assist him, brother Ned.'
'It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should,' returned the other. 'When you
say that, no further inquiries are needed. He SHALL be assisted. What are his necessities,
and what does he require? Where is Tim Linkinwater? Let us have him here.'
Both the brothers, it may be here remarked, had a very emphatic and earnest delivery;
both had lost nearly the same teeth, which imparted the same peculiarity to their speech; and
both spoke as if, besides possessing the utmost serenity of mind that the kindliest and most
unsuspecting nature could bestow, they had, in collecting the plums from Fortune's choicest
pudding, retained a few for present use, and kept them in their mouths.
'Where is Tim Linkinwater?' said brother Ned.
'Stop, stop, stop!' said brother Charles, taking the other aside. 'I've a plan, my dear
brother, I've a plan. Tim is getting old, and Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and
I don't think pensioning Tim's mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the family
when his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.'
'No, no, no,' replied the other. 'Certainly not. Not half enough, not half.'
'If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the old gentleman, 'and prevail upon him to go
into the country, now and then, and sleep in the fresh air, besides, two or three times a week
(which he could, if he began business an hour later in the morning), old Tim Linkinwater
would grow young again in time; and he's three good years our senior now. Old Tim
Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a
little boy, don't you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim, poor Tim!'
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And the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together: each with a tear of regard for old
Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.
'But hear this first – hear this first, brother Ned,' said the old man, hastily, placing two
chairs, one on each side of Nicholas: 'I'll tell it you myself, brother Ned, because the young
gentleman is modest, and is a scholar, Ned, and I shouldn't feel it right that he should tell us
his story over and over again as if he was a beggar, or as if we doubted him. No, no no.'
'No, no, no,' returned the other, nodding his head gravely. 'Very right, my dear brother,
very right.'
'He will tell me I'm wrong, if I make a mistake,' said Nicholas's friend. 'But whether I do
or not, you'll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time when we were two
friendless lads, and earned our first shilling in this great city.'
The twins pressed each other's hands in silence; and in his own homely manner, brother
Charles related the particulars he had heard from Nicholas. The conversation which ensued
was a long one, and when it was over, a secret conference of almost equal duration took
place between brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater in another room. It is no disparagement to
Nicholas to say, that before he had been closeted with the two brothers ten minutes, he could
only wave his hand at every fresh expression of kindness and sympathy, and sob like a little
child.
At length brother Ned and Tim Linkinwater came back together, when Tim instantly
walked up to Nicholas and whispered in his ear in a very brief sentence (for Tim was
ordinarily a man of few words), that he had taken down the address in the Strand, and would
call upon him that evening, at eight. Having done which, Tim wiped his spectacles and put
them on, preparatory to hearing what more the brothers Cheeryble had got to say.
'Tim,' said brother Charles, 'you understand that we have an intention of taking this
young gentleman into the counting−house?'
Brother Ned remarked that Tim was aware of that intention, and quite approved of it;
and Tim having nodded, and said he did, drew himself up and looked particularly fat, and
very important. After which, there was a profound silence.
'I'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know,' said Tim, breaking out all at
once, and looking very resolute. 'I'm not going to sleep in the fresh air; no, nor I'm not going
into the country either. A pretty thing at this time of day, certainly. Pho!'
'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater,' said brother Charles, looking at him without
the faintest spark of anger, and with a countenance radiant with attachment to the old clerk.
'Damn your obstinacy, Tim Linkinwater, what do you mean, sir?'
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'It's forty−four year,' said Tim, making a calculation in the air with his pen, and drawing
an imaginary line before he cast it up, 'forty−four year, next May, since I first kept the books
of Cheeryble, Brothers. I've opened the safe every morning all that time (Sundays excepted)
as the clock struck nine, and gone over the house every night at half−past ten (except on
Foreign Post nights, and then twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors fastened, and
the fires out. I've never slept out of the back−attic one single night. There's the same
mignonette box in the middle of the window, and the same four flower−pots, two on each
side, that I brought with me when I first came. There an't – I've said it again and again, and
I'll maintain it – there an't such a square as this in the world. I KNOW there an't,' said Tim,
with sudden energy, and looking sternly about him. 'Not one. For business or pleasure, in
summer−time or winter – I don't care which – there's nothing like it. There's not such a
spring in England as the pump under the archway. There's not such a view in England as the
view out of my window; I've seen it every morning before I shaved, and I ought to know
something about it. I have slept in that room,' added Tim, sinking his voice a little, 'for
four−and−forty year; and if it wasn't inconvenient, and didn't interfere with business, I
should request leave to die there.'
'Damn you, Tim Linkinwater, how dare you talk about dying?' roared the twins by one
impulse, and blowing their old noses violently.
'That's what I've got to say, Mr Edwin and Mr Charles,' said Tim, squaring his shoulders
again. 'This isn't the first time you've talked about superannuating me; but, if you please,
we'll make it the last, and drop the subject for evermore.'
With these words, Tim Linkinwater stalked out, and shut himself up in his glass case,
with the air of a man who had had his say, and was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.
The brothers interchanged looks, and coughed some half−dozen times without speaking.
'He must be done something with, brother Ned,' said the other, warmly; 'we must
disregard his old scruples; they can't be tolerated, or borne. He must be made a partner,
brother Ned; and if he won't submit to it peaceably, we must have recourse to violence.'
'Quite right,' replied brother Ned, nodding his head as a man thoroughly determined;
'quite right, my dear brother. If he won't listen to reason, we must do it against his will, and
show him that we are determined to exert our authority. We must quarrel with him, brother
Charles.'
'We must. We certainly must have a quarrel with Tim Linkinwater,' said the other. 'But
in the meantime, my dear brother, we are keeping our young friend; and the poor lady and
her daughter will be anxious for his return. So let us say goodbye for the present, and –
there, there – take care of that box, my dear sir – and – no, no, not a word now; but be
careful of the crossings and – '
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And with any disjointed and unconnected words which would prevent Nicholas from
pouring forth his thanks, the brothers hurried him out: shaking hands with him all the way,
and affecting very unsuccessfully – they were poor hands at deception! – to be wholly
unconscious of the feelings that completely mastered him.
Nicholas's heart was too full to allow of his turning into the street until he had recovered
some composure. When he at last glided out of the dark doorway corner in which he had
been compelled to halt, he caught a glimpse of the twins stealthily peeping in at one corner
of the glass case, evidently undecided whether they should follow up their late attack
without delay, or for the present postpone laying further siege to the inflexible Tim
Linkinwater.
To recount all the delight and wonder which the circumstances just detailed awakened
at Miss La Creevy's, and all the things that were done, said, thought, expected, hoped, and
prophesied in consequence, is beside the present course and purpose of these adventures. It
is sufficient to state, in brief, that Mr Timothy Linkinwater arrived, punctual to his
appointment; that, oddity as he was, and jealous, as he was bound to be, of the proper
exercise of his employers' most comprehensive liberality, he reported strongly and warmly
in favour of Nicholas; and that, next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the
counting−house of Cheeryble, Brothers, with a present salary of one hundred and twenty
pounds a year.
'And I think, my dear brother,' said Nicholas's first friend, 'that if we were to let them
that little cottage at Bow which is empty, at something under the usual rent, now? Eh,
brother Ned?'
'For nothing at all,' said brother Ned. 'We are rich, and should be ashamed to touch the
rent under such circumstances as these. Where is Tim Linkinwater? – for nothing at all, my
dear brother, for nothing at all.'
'Perhaps it would be better to say something, brother Ned,' suggested the other, mildly;
'it would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of
overwhelming obligations. We might say fifteen pound, or twenty pound, and if it was
punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. And I might secretly advance a small
loan towards a little furniture, and you might secretly advance another small loan, brother
Ned; and if we find them doing well – as we shall; there's no fear, no fear – we can change
the loans into gifts. Carefully, brother Ned, and by degrees, and without pressing upon them
too much; what do you say now, brother?'
Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be done, but had it done
too; and, in one short week, Nicholas took possession of the stool, and Mrs Nickleby and
Kate took possession of the house, and all was hope, bustle, and light−heartedness.
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There surely never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as the first week of that
cottage. Every night when Nicholas came home, something new had been found out. One
day it was a grapevine, and another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of the
front−parlour closet at the bottom of the water−butt, and so on through a hundred items.
Then, this room was embellished with a muslin curtain, and that room was rendered quite
elegant by a window−blind, and such improvements were made, as no one would have
supposed possible. Then there was Miss La Creevy, who had come out in the omnibus to
stop a day or two and help, and who was perpetually losing a very small brown−paper parcel
of tin tacks and a very large hammer, and running about with her sleeves tucked up at the
wrists, and falling off pairs of steps and hurting herself very much – and Mrs Nickleby, who
talked incessantly, and did something now and then, but not often – and Kate, who busied
herself noiselessly everywhere, and was pleased with everything – and Smike, who made the
garden a perfect wonder to look upon – and Nicholas, who helped and encouraged them
every one – all the peace and cheerfulness of home restored, with such new zest imparted to
every frugal pleasure, and such delight to every hour of meeting, as misfortune and
separation alone could give!
In short, the poor Nicklebys were social and happy; while the rich Nickleby was alone
and miserable.
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CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family.435
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family
Matters.
S
howing how Mr Kenwigs underwent violent Agitation, and how Mrs Kenwigs was as
well as could be expected
It might have been seven o'clock in the evening, and it was growing dark in the narrow
streets near Golden Square, when Mr Kenwigs sent out for a pair of the cheapest white kid
gloves – those at fourteen− pence – and selecting the strongest, which happened to be the
right− hand one, walked downstairs with an air of pomp and much excitement, and
proceeded to muffle the knob of the street−door knocker therein. Having executed this task
with great nicety, Mr Kenwigs pulled the door to, after him, and just stepped across the road
to try the effect from the opposite side of the street. Satisfied that nothing could possibly
look better in its way, Mr Kenwigs then stepped back again, and calling through the keyhole
to Morleena to open the door, vanished into the house, and was seen no longer.
Now, considered as an abstract circumstance, there was no more obvious cause or
reason why Mr Kenwigs should take the trouble of muffling this particular knocker, than
there would have been for his muffling the knocker of any nobleman or gentleman resident
ten miles off; because, for the greater convenience of the numerous lodgers, the street−door
always stood wide open, and the knocker was never used at all. The first floor, the second
floor, and the third floor, had each a bell of its own. As to the attics, no one ever called on
them; if anybody wanted the parlours, they were close at hand, and all he had to do was to
walk straight into them; while the kitchen had a separate entrance down the area steps. As a
question of mere necessity and usefulness, therefore, this muffling of the knocker was
thoroughly incomprehensible.
But knockers may be muffled for other purposes than those of mere utilitarianism, as, in
the present instance, was clearly shown. There are certain polite forms and ceremonies
which must be observed in civilised life, or mankind relapse into their original barbarism.
No genteel lady was ever yet confined – indeed, no genteel confinement can possibly take
place – without the accompanying symbol of a muffled knocker. Mrs Kenwigs was a lady of
some pretensions to gentility; Mrs Kenwigs was confined. And, therefore, Mr Kenwigs tied
up the silent knocker on the premises in a white kid glove.
'I'm not quite certain neither,' said Mr Kenwigs, arranging his shirt−collar, and walking
slowly upstairs, 'whether, as it's a boy, I won't have it in the papers.'
Pondering upon the advisability of this step, and the sensation it was likely to create in
the neighbourhood, Mr Kenwigs betook himself to the sitting−room, where various
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 436
extremely diminutive articles of clothing were airing on a horse before the fire, and Mr
Lumbey, the doctor, was dandling the baby – that is, the old baby – not the new one.
'It's a fine boy, Mr Kenwigs,' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.
'You consider him a fine boy, do you, sir?' returned Mr Kenwigs.
'It's the finest boy I ever saw in all my life,' said the doctor. 'I never saw such a baby.'
It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer to those who
contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species, that every baby born into the
world is a finer one than the last.
'I ne – ver saw such a baby,' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.
'Morleena was a fine baby,' remarked Mr Kenwigs; as if this were rather an attack, by
implication, upon the family.
'They were all fine babies,' said Mr Lumbey. And Mr Lumbey went on nursing the baby
with a thoughtful look. Whether he was considering under what head he could best charge
the nursing in the bill, was best known to himself.
During this short conversation, Miss Morleena, as the eldest of the family, and natural
representative of her mother during her indisposition, had been hustling and slapping the
three younger Miss Kenwigses, without intermission; which considerate and affectionate
conduct brought tears into the eyes of Mr Kenwigs, and caused him to declare that, in
understanding and behaviour, that child was a woman.
'She will be a treasure to the man she marries, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs, half aside; 'I think
she'll marry above her station, Mr Lumbey.'
'I shouldn't wonder at all,' replied the doctor.
'You never see her dance, sir, did you?' asked Mr Kenwigs.
The doctor shook his head.
'Ay!' said Mr Kenwigs, as though he pitied him from his heart, 'then you don't know
what she's capable of.'
All this time there had been a great whisking in and out of the other room; the door had
been opened and shut very softly about twenty times a minute (for it was necessary to keep
Mrs Kenwigs quiet); and the baby had been exhibited to a score or two of deputations from a
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 437
select body of female friends, who had assembled in the passage, and about the street−door,
to discuss the event in all its bearings. Indeed, the excitement extended itself over the whole
street, and groups of ladies might be seen standing at the doors, (some in the interesting
condition in which Mrs Kenwigs had last appeared in public,) relating their experiences of
similar occurrences. Some few acquired great credit from having prophesied, the day before
yesterday, exactly when it would come to pass; others, again, related, how that they guessed
what it was, directly they saw Mr Kenwigs turn pale and run up the street as hard as ever he
could go. Some said one thing, and some another; but all talked together, and all agreed
upon two points: first, that it was very meritorious and highly praiseworthy in Mrs Kenwigs
to do as she had done: and secondly, that there never was such a skilful and scientific doctor
as that Dr Lumbey.
In the midst of this general hubbub, Dr Lumbey sat in the first− floor front, as before
related, nursing the deposed baby, and talking to Mr Kenwigs. He was a stout bluff−looking
gentleman, with no shirt−collar to speak of, and a beard that had been growing since
yesterday morning; for Dr Lumbey was popular, and the neighbourhood was prolific; and
there had been no less than three other knockers muffled, one after the other within the last
forty−eight hours.
'Well, Mr Kenwigs,' said Dr Lumbey, 'this makes six. You'll have a fine family in time,
sir.'
'I think six is almost enough, sir,' returned Mr Kenwigs.
'Pooh! pooh!' said the doctor. 'Nonsense! not half enough.'
With this, the doctor laughed; but he didn't laugh half as much as a married friend of
Mrs Kenwigs's, who had just come in from the sick chamber to report progress, and take a
small sip of brandy−and− water: and who seemed to consider it one of the best jokes ever
launched upon society.
'They're not altogether dependent upon good fortune, neither,' said Mr Kenwigs, taking
his second daughter on his knee; 'they have expectations.'
'Oh, indeed!' said Mr Lumbey, the doctor.
'And very good ones too, I believe, haven't they?' asked the married lady.
'Why, ma'am,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'it's not exactly for me to say what they may be, or
what they may not be. It's not for me to boast of any family with which I have the honour to
be connected; at the same time, Mrs Kenwigs's is – I should say,' said Mr Kenwigs, abruptly,
and raising his voice as he spoke, 'that my children might come into a matter of a hundred
pound apiece, perhaps. Perhaps more, but certainly that.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 438
'And a very pretty little fortune,' said the married lady.
'There are some relations of Mrs Kenwigs's,' said Mr Kenwigs, taking a pinch of snuff
from the doctor's box, and then sneezing very hard, for he wasn't used to it, 'that might leave
their hundred pound apiece to ten people, and yet not go begging when they had done it.'
'Ah! I know who you mean,' observed the married lady, nodding her head.
'I made mention of no names, and I wish to make mention of no names,' said Mr
Kenwigs, with a portentous look. 'Many of my friends have met a relation of Mrs Kenwigs's
in this very room, as would do honour to any company; that's all.'
'I've met him,' said the married lady, with a glance towards Dr Lumbey.
'It's naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to see such a man as that, a
kissing and taking notice of my children,' pursued Mr Kenwigs. 'It's naterally very gratifying
to my feelings as a man, to know that man. It will be naterally very gratifying to my feelings
as a husband, to make that man acquainted with this ewent.'
Having delivered his sentiments in this form of words, Mr Kenwigs arranged his second
daughter's flaxen tail, and bade her be a good girl and mind what her sister, Morleena, said.
'That girl grows more like her mother every day,' said Mr Lumbey, suddenly stricken
with an enthusiastic admiration of Morleena.
'There!' rejoined the married lady. 'What I always say; what I always did say! She's the
very picter of her.' Having thus directed the general attention to the young lady in question,
the married lady embraced the opportunity of taking another sip of the brandy− and−water –
and a pretty long sip too.
'Yes! there is a likeness,' said Mr Kenwigs, after some reflection. 'But such a woman as
Mrs Kenwigs was, afore she was married! Good gracious, such a woman!'
Mr Lumbey shook his head with great solemnity, as though to imply that he supposed
she must have been rather a dazzler.
'Talk of fairies!' cried Mr Kenwigs 'I never see anybody so light to be alive, never. Such
manners too; so playful, and yet so sewerely proper! As for her figure! It isn't generally
known,' said Mr Kenwigs, dropping his voice; 'but her figure was such, at that time, that the
sign of the Britannia, over in the Holloway Road, was painted from it!'
'But only see what it is now,' urged the married lady. 'Does SHE look like the mother of
six?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 439
'Quite ridiculous,' cried the doctor.
'She looks a deal more like her own daughter,' said the married lady.
'So she does,' assented Mr Lumbey. 'A great deal more.'
Mr Kenwigs was about to make some further observations, most probably in
confirmation of this opinion, when another married lady, who had looked in to keep up Mrs
Kenwigs's spirits, and help to clear off anything in the eating and drinking way that might be
going about, put in her head to announce that she had just been down to answer the bell, and
that there was a gentleman at the door who wanted to see Mr Kenwigs 'most particular.'
Shadowy visions of his distinguished relation flitted through the brain of Mr Kenwigs,
as this message was delivered; and under their influence, he dispatched Morleena to show
the gentleman up straightway.
'Why, I do declare,' said Mr Kenwigs, standing opposite the door so as to get the earliest
glimpse of the visitor, as he came upstairs, 'it's Mr Johnson! How do you find yourself, sir?'
Nicholas shook hands, kissed his old pupils all round, intrusted a large parcel of toys to
the guardianship of Morleena, bowed to the doctor and the married ladies, and inquired after
Mrs Kenwigs in a tone of interest, which went to the very heart and soul of the nurse, who
had come in to warm some mysterious compound, in a little saucepan over the fire.
'I ought to make a hundred apologies to you for calling at such a season,' said Nicholas,
'but I was not aware of it until I had rung the bell, and my time is so fully occupied now, that
I feared it might be some days before I could possibly come again.'
'No time like the present, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs. 'The sitiwation of Mrs Kenwigs, sir, is
no obstacle to a little conversation between you and me, I hope?'
'You are very good,' said Nicholas.
At this juncture, proclamation was made by another married lady, that the baby had
begun to eat like anything; whereupon the two married ladies, already mentioned, rushed
tumultuously into the bedroom to behold him in the act.
'The fact is,' resumed Nicholas, 'that before I left the country, where I have been for
some time past, I undertook to deliver a message to you.'
'Ay, ay?' said Mr Kenwigs.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 440
'And I have been,' added Nicholas, 'already in town for some days, without having had
an opportunity of doing so.'
'It's no matter, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs. 'I dare say it's none the worse for keeping cold.
Message from the country!' said Mr Kenwigs, ruminating; 'that's curious. I don't know
anybody in the country.'
'Miss Petowker,' suggested Nicholas.
'Oh! from her, is it?' said Mr Kenwigs. 'Oh dear, yes. Ah! Mrs Kenwigs will be glad to
hear from her. Henrietta Petowker, eh? How odd things come about, now! That you should
have met her in the country! Well!'
Hearing this mention of their old friend's name, the four Miss Kenwigses gathered
round Nicholas, open eyed and mouthed, to hear more. Mr Kenwigs looked a little curious
too, but quite comfortable and unsuspecting.
'The message relates to family matters,' said Nicholas, hesitating.
'Oh, never mind,' said Kenwigs, glancing at Mr Lumbey, who, having rashly taken
charge of little Lillyvick, found nobody disposed to relieve him of his precious burden. 'All
friends here.'
Nicholas hemmed once or twice, and seemed to have some difficulty in proceeding.
'At Portsmouth, Henrietta Petowker is,' observed Mr Kenwigs.
'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'Mr Lillyvick is there.'
Mr Kenwigs turned pale, but he recovered, and said, THAT was an odd coincidence
also.
'The message is from him,' said Nicholas.
Mr Kenwigs appeared to revive. He knew that his niece was in a delicate state, and had,
no doubt, sent word that they were to forward full particulars. Yes. That was very kind of
him; so like him too!
'He desired me to give his kindest love,' said Nicholas.
'Very much obliged to him, I'm sure. Your great−uncle, Lillyvick, my dears!' interposed
Mr Kenwigs, condescendingly explaining it to the children.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 441
'His kindest love,' resumed Nicholas; 'and to say that he had no time to write, but that he
was married to Miss Petowker.'
Mr Kenwigs started from his seat with a petrified stare, caught his second daughter by
her flaxen tail, and covered his face with his pocket−handkerchief. Morleena fell, all stiff
and rigid, into the baby's chair, as she had seen her mother fall when she fainted away, and
the two remaining little Kenwigses shrieked in affright.
'My children, my defrauded, swindled infants!' cried Mr Kenwigs, pulling so hard, in
his vehemence, at the flaxen tail of his second daughter, that he lifted her up on tiptoe, and
kept her, for some seconds, in that attitude. 'Villain, ass, traitor!'
'Drat the man!' cried the nurse, looking angrily around. 'What does he mean by making
that noise here?'
'Silence, woman!' said Mr Kenwigs, fiercely.
'I won't be silent,' returned the nurse. 'Be silent yourself, you wretch. Have you no
regard for your baby?'
'No!' returned Mr Kenwigs.
'More shame for you,' retorted the nurse. 'Ugh! you unnatural monster.'
'Let him die,' cried Mr Kenwigs, in the torrent of his wrath. 'Let him die! He has no
expectations, no property to come into. We want no babies here,' said Mr Kenwigs
recklessly. 'Take 'em away, take 'em away to the Fondling!'
With these awful remarks, Mr Kenwigs sat himself down in a chair, and defied the
nurse, who made the best of her way into the adjoining room, and returned with a stream of
matrons: declaring that Mr Kenwigs had spoken blasphemy against his family, and must be
raving mad.
Appearances were certainly not in Mr Kenwigs's favour, for the exertion of speaking
with so much vehemence, and yet in such a tone as should prevent his lamentations reaching
the ears of Mrs Kenwigs, had made him very black in the face; besides which, the
excitement of the occasion, and an unwonted indulgence in various strong cordials to
celebrate it, had swollen and dilated his features to a most unusual extent. But, Nicholas and
the doctor – who had been passive at first, doubting very much whether Mr Kenwigs could
be in earnest – interfering to explain the immediate cause of his condition, the indignation of
the matrons was changed to pity, and they implored him, with much feeling, to go quietly to
bed.
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CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 442
'The attention,' said Mr Kenwigs, looking around with a plaintive air, 'the attention that
I've shown to that man! The hyseters he has eat, and the pints of ale he has drank, in this
house – !'
'It's very trying, and very hard to bear, we know,' said one of the married ladies; 'but
think of your dear darling wife.'
'Oh yes, and what she's been a undergoing of, only this day,' cried a great many voices.
'There's a good man, do.'
'The presents that have been made to him,' said Mr Kenwigs, reverting to his calamity,
'the pipes, the snuff−boxes – a pair of india−rubber goloshes, that cost six−and−six – '
'Ah! it won't bear thinking of, indeed,' cried the matrons generally; 'but it'll all come
home to him, never fear.'
Mr Kenwigs looked darkly upon the ladies, as if he would prefer its all coming home to
HIM, as there was nothing to be got by it; but he said nothing, and resting his head upon his
hand, subsided into a kind of doze.
Then, the matrons again expatiated on the expediency of taking the good gentleman to
bed; observing that he would be better tomorrow, and that they knew what was the wear and
tear of some men's minds when their wives were taken as Mrs Kenwigs had been that day,
and that it did him great credit, and there was nothing to be ashamed of in it; far from it; they
liked to see it, they did, for it showed a good heart. And one lady observed, as a case bearing
upon the present, that her husband was often quite light−headed from anxiety on similar
occasions, and that once, when her little Johnny was born, it was nearly a week before he
came to himself again, during the whole of which time he did nothing but cry 'Is it a boy, is
it a boy?' in a manner which went to the hearts of all his hearers.
At length, Morleena (who quite forgot she had fainted, when she found she was not
noticed) announced that a chamber was ready for her afflicted parent; and Mr Kenwigs,
having partially smothered his four daughters in the closeness of his embrace, accepted the
doctor's arm on one side, and the support of Nicholas on the other, and was conducted
upstairs to a bedroom which been secured for the occasion.
Having seen him sound asleep, and heard him snore most satisfactorily, and having
further presided over the distribution of the toys, to the perfect contentment of all the little
Kenwigses, Nicholas took his leave. The matrons dropped off one by one, with the
exception of six or eight particular friends, who had determined to stop all night; the lights
in the houses gradually disappeared; the last bulletin was issued that Mrs Kenwigs was as
well as could be expected; and the whole family were left to their repose.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters. 443
CHAPTER 37 − Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the
brothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
T
he brothers give a Banquet on a great Annual Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home
from it, receives a mysterious and important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs Nickleby
The square in which the counting−house of the brothers Cheeryble was situated,
although it might not wholly realise the very sanguine expectations which a stranger would
be disposed to form on hearing the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim
Linkinwater, was, nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy town like
London, and one which occupied a high place in the affectionate remembrances of several
grave persons domiciled in the neighbourhood, whose recollections, however, dated from a
much more recent period, and whose attachment to the spot was far less absorbing, than
were the recollections and attachment of the enthusiastic Tim.
And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the aristocratic gravity of
Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, the dowager barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy
Square, or the gravel walks and garden seats of the Squares of Russell and Euston, suppose
that the affections of Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers of this particular locality, had
been awakened and kept alive by any refreshing associations with leaves, however dingy, or
grass, however bare and thin. The city square has no enclosure, save the lamp−post in the
middle: and no grass, but the weeds which spring up round its base. It is a quiet,
little−frequented, retired spot, favourable to melancholy and contemplation, and
appointments of long−waiting; and up and down its every side the Appointed saunters idly
by the hour together wakening the echoes with the monotonous sound of his footsteps on the
smooth worn stones, and counting, first the windows, and then the very bricks of the tall
silent houses that hem him round about. In winter−time, the snow will linger there, long
after it has melted from the busy streets and highways. The summer's sun holds it in some
respect, and while he darts his cheerful rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery heat
and glare for noisier and less−imposing precincts. It is so quiet, that you can almost hear the
ticking of your own watch when you stop to cool in its refreshing atmosphere. There is a
distant hum – of coaches, not of insects – but no other sound disturbs the stillness of the
square. The ticket porter leans idly against the post at the corner: comfortably warm, but not
hot, although the day is broiling. His white apron flaps languidly in the air, his head
gradually droops upon his breast, he takes very long winks with both eyes at once; even he
is unable to withstand the soporific influence of the place, and is gradually falling asleep.
But now, he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two, and gazes out before him with
eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or a boy at marbles? Does he see a ghost, or hear an
organ? No; sight more unwonted still – there is a butterfly in the square – a real, live
butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the iron heads of the dusty
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 37 − Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.444
area railings.
But if there were not many matters immediately without the doors of Cheeryble
Brothers, to engage the attention or distract the thoughts of the young clerk, there were not a
few within, to interest and amuse him. There was scarcely an object in the place, animate or
inanimate, which did not partake in some degree of the scrupulous method and punctuality
of Mr Timothy Linkinwater. Punctual as the counting−house dial, which he maintained to be
the best time−keeper in London next after the clock of some old, hidden, unknown church
hard by, (for Tim held the fabled goodness of that at the Horse Guards to be a pleasant
fiction, invented by jealous West−enders,) the old clerk performed the minutest actions of
the day, and arranged the minutest articles in the little room, in a precise and regular order,
which could not have been exceeded if it had actually been a real glass case, fitted with the
choicest curiosities. Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing−wax, wafers, pounce−box, string− box,
fire−box, Tim's hat, Tim's scrupulously−folded gloves, Tim's other coat – looking precisely
like a back view of himself as it hung against the wall – all had their accustomed inches of
space. Except the clock, there was not such an accurate and unimpeachable instrument in
existence as the little thermometer which hung behind the door. There was not a bird of such
methodical and business−like habits in all the world, as the blind blackbird, who dreamed
and dozed away his days in a large snug cage, and had lost his voice, from old age, years
before Tim first bought him. There was not such an eventful story in the whole range of
anecdote, as Tim could tell concerning the acquisition of that very bird; how,
compassionating his starved and suffering condition, he had purchased him, with the view of
humanely terminating his wretched life; how he determined to wait three days and see
whether the bird revived; how, before half the time was out, the bird did revive; and how he
went on reviving and picking up his appetite and good looks until he gradually became what
– 'what you see him now, sir,' – Tim would say, glancing proudly at the cage. And with that,
Tim would utter a melodious chirrup, and cry 'Dick;' and Dick, who, for any sign of life he
had previously given, might have been a wooden or stuffed representation of a blackbird
indifferently executed, would come to the side of the cage in three small jumps, and,
thrusting his bill between the bars, turn his sightless head towards his old master – and at
that moment it would be very difficult to determine which of the two was the happier, the
bird or Tim Linkinwater.
Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflection of the kindly spirit of
the brothers. The warehousemen and porters were such sturdy, jolly fellows, that it was a
treat to see them. Among the shipping announcements and steam−packet list's which
decorated the counting−house wall, were designs for almshouses, statements of charities,
and plans for new hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords hung above the chimney−piece,
for the terror of evil− doers, but the blunderbuss was rusty and shattered, and the swords
were broken and edgeless. Elsewhere, their open display in such a condition would have
realised a smile; but, there, it seemed as though even violent and offensive weapons partook
of the reigning influence, and became emblems of mercy and forbearance.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 37 − Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.445
Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly, on the morning when he first
took possession of the vacant stool, and looked about him, more freely and at ease, than he
had before enjoyed an opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encouraged and stimulated him to
exertion, for, during the next two weeks, all his spare hours, late at night and early in the
morning, were incessantly devoted to acquiring the mysteries of book−keeping and some
other forms of mercantile account. To these, he applied himself with such steadiness and
perseverance that, although he brought no greater amount of previous knowledge to the
subject than certain dim recollections of two or three very long sums entered into a
ciphering−book at school, and relieved for parental inspection by the effigy of a fat swan
tastefully flourished by the writing−master's own hand, he found himself, at the end of a
fortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to Mr Linkinwater, and to claim his
promise that he, Nicholas Nickleby, should now be allowed to assist him in his graver
labours.
It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater slowly bring out a massive ledger and
day−book, and, after turning them over and over, and affectionately dusting their backs and
sides, open the leaves here and there, and cast his eyes, half mournfully, half proudly, upon
the fair and unblotted entries.
'Four−and−forty year, next May!' said Tim. 'Many new ledgers since then.
Four−and−forty year!'
Tim closed the book again.
'Come, come,' said Nicholas, 'I am all impatience to begin.'
Tim Linkinwater shook his head with an air of mild reproof. Mr Nickleby was not
sufficiently impressed with the deep and awful nature of his undertaking. Suppose there
should be any mistake – any scratching out!
Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they will rush upon, sometimes.
Without even taking the precaution of sitting himself down upon his stool, but standing
leisurely at the desk, and with a smile upon his face – actually a smile – there was no
mistake about it; Mr Linkinwater often mentioned it afterwards – Nicholas dipped his pen
into the inkstand before him, and plunged into the books of Cheeryble Brothers!
Tim Linkinwater turned pale, and tilting up his stool on the two legs nearest Nicholas,
looked over his shoulder in breathless anxiety. Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the
counting−house together; but Tim Linkinwater, without looking round, impatiently waved
his hand as a caution that profound silence must be observed, and followed the nib of the
inexperienced pen with strained and eager eyes.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 37 − Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.446
The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but Tim Linkinwater smiled not, nor moved
for some minutes. At length, he drew a long slow breath, and still maintaining his position
on the tilted stool, glanced at brother Charles, secretly pointed with the feather of his pen
towards Nicholas, and nodded his head in a grave and resolute manner, plainly signifying
'He'll do.'
Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing look with brother Ned; but,
just then, Nicholas stopped to refer to some other page, and Tim Linkinwater, unable to
contain his satisfaction any longer, descended from his stool, and caught him rapturously by
the hand.
'He has done it!' said Tim, looking round at his employers and shaking his head
triumphantly. 'His capital B's and D's are exactly like mine; he dots all his small i's and
crosses every t as he writes it. There an't such a young man as this in all London,' said Tim,
clapping Nicholas on the back; 'not one. Don't tell me! The city can't produce his equal. I
challenge the city to do it!'
With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim Linkinwater struck the desk such a blow
with his clenched fist, that the old blackbird tumbled off his perch with the start it gave him,
and actually uttered a feeble croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.
'Well said, Tim – well said, Tim Linkinwater!' cried brother Charles, scarcely less
pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his hands gently as he spoke. 'I knew our young
friend would take great pains, and I was quite certain he would succeed, in no time. Didn't I
say so, brother Ned?'
'You did, my dear brother; certainly, my dear brother, you said so, and you were quite
right,' replied Ned. 'Quite right. Tim Linkinwater is excited, but he is justly excited, properly
excited. Tim is a fine fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir – you're a fine fellow.'
'Here's a pleasant thing to think of!' said Tim, wholly regardless of this address to
himself, and raising his spectacles from the ledger to the brothers. 'Here's a pleasant thing.
Do you suppose I haven't often thought of what would become of these books when I was
gone? Do you suppose I haven't often thought that things might go on irregular and untidy
here, after I was taken away? But now,' said Tim, extending his forefinger towards Nicholas,
'now, when I've shown him a little more, I'm satisfied. The business will go on, when I'm
dead, as well as it did when I was alive – just the same – and I shall have the satisfaction of
knowing that there never were such books – never were such books! No, nor never will be
such books – as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.'
Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr Linkinwater gave vent to a short laugh,
indicative of defiance to the cities of London and Westminster, and, turning again to his
desk, quietly carried seventy−six from the last column he had added up, and went on with
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his work.
'Tim Linkinwater, sir,' said brother Charles; 'give me your hand, sir. This is your
birthday. How dare you talk about anything else till you have been wished many happy
returns of the day, Tim Linkinwater? God bless you, Tim! God bless you!'
'My dear brother,' said the other, seizing Tim's disengaged fist, 'Tim Linkinwater looks
ten years younger than he did on his last birthday.'
'Brother Ned, my dear boy,' returned the other old fellow, 'I believe that Tim
Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty years old, and is gradually coming down to
five−and−twenty; for he's younger every birthday than he was the year before.'
'So he is, brother Charles, so he is,' replied brother Ned. 'There's not a doubt about it.'
'Remember, Tim,' said brother Charles, 'that we dine at half−past five today instead of
two o'clock; we always depart from our usual custom on this anniversary, as you very well
know, Tim Linkinwater. Mr Nickleby, my dear sir, you will make one. Tim Linkinwater,
give me your snuff−box as a remembrance to brother Charles and myself of an attached and
faithful rascal, and take that, in exchange, as a feeble mark of our respect and esteem, and
don't open it until you go to bed, and never say another word upon the subject, or I'll kill the
blackbird. A dog! He should have had a golden cage half−a− dozen years ago, if it would
have made him or his master a bit the happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear fellow, I'm ready.
At half−past five, remember, Mr Nickleby! Tim Linkinwater, sir, take care of Mr Nickleby
at half−past five. Now, brother Ned.'
Chattering away thus, according to custom, to prevent the possibility of any thanks or
acknowledgment being expressed on the other side, the twins trotted off, arm−in−arm;
having endowed Tim Linkinwater with a costly gold snuff−box, enclosing a bank note worth
more than its value ten times told.
At a quarter past five o'clock, punctual to the minute, arrived, according to annual
usage, Tim Linkinwater's sister; and a great to− do there was, between Tim Linkinwater's
sister and the old housekeeper, respecting Tim Linkinwater's sister's cap, which had been
dispatched, per boy, from the house of the family where Tim Linkinwater's sister boarded,
and had not yet come to hand: notwithstanding that it had been packed up in a bandbox, and
the bandbox in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief tied on to the boy's arm; and
notwithstanding, too, that the place of its consignment had been duly set forth, at full length,
on the back of an old letter, and the boy enjoined, under pain of divers horrible penalties, the
full extent of which the eye of man could not foresee, to deliver the same with all possible
speed, and not to loiter by the way. Tim Linkinwater's sister lamented; the housekeeper
condoled; and both kept thrusting their heads out of the second−floor window to see if the
boy was 'coming' – which would have been highly satisfactory, and, upon the whole,
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tantamount to his being come, as the distance to the corner was not quite five yards – when,
all of a sudden, and when he was least expected, the messenger, carrying the bandbox with
elaborate caution, appeared in an exactly opposite direction, puffing and panting for breath,
and flushed with recent exercise; as well he might be; for he had taken the air, in the first
instance, behind a hackney coach that went to Camberwell, and had followed two Punches
afterwards and had seen the Stilts home to their own door. The cap was all safe, however –
that was one comfort – and it was no use scolding him – that was another; so the boy went
upon his way rejoicing, and Tim Linkinwater's sister presented herself to the company
below−stairs, just five minutes after the half−hour had struck by Tim Linkinwater's own
infallible clock.
The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, Tim Linkinwater, a ruddy−faced
white−headed friend of Tim's (who was a superannuated bank clerk), and Nicholas, who was
presented to Tim Linkinwater's sister with much gravity and solemnity. The party being now
completed, brother Ned rang for dinner, and, dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led
Tim Linkinwater's sister into the next room, where it was set forth with great preparation.
Then, brother Ned took the head of the table, and brother Charles the foot; and Tim
Linkinwater's sister sat on the left hand of brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater himself on his
right: and an ancient butler of apoplectic appearance, and with very short legs, took up his
position at the back of brother Ned's armchair, and, waving his right arm preparatory to
taking off the covers with a flourish, stood bolt upright and motionless.
'For these and all other blessings, brother Charles,' said Ned.
'Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned,' said Charles.
Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the soup tureen, and shot, all at
once, into a state of violent activity.
There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its ever flagging, for the
good−humour of the glorious old twins drew everybody out, and Tim Linkinwater's sister
went off into a long and circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater's infancy, immediately
after the very first glass of champagne – taking care to premise that she was very much
Tim's junior, and had only become acquainted with the facts from their being preserved and
handed down in the family. This history concluded, brother Ned related how that, exactly
thirty−five years ago, Tim Linkinwater was suspected to have received a love−letter, and
how that vague information had been brought to the counting−house of his having been seen
walking down Cheapside with an uncommonly handsome spinster; at which there was a roar
of laughter, and Tim Linkinwater being charged with blushing, and called upon to explain,
denied that the accusation was true; and further, that there would have been any harm in it if
it had been; which last position occasioned the superannuated bank clerk to laugh
tremendously, and to declare that it was the very best thing he had ever heard in his life, and
that Tim Linkinwater might say a great many things before he said anything which would
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beat THAT.
There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both the matter and manner of which
made a very strong impression upon Nicholas. The cloth having been removed and the
decanters sent round for the first time, a profound silence succeeded, and in the cheerful
faces of the brothers there appeared an expression, not of absolute melancholy, but of quiet
thoughtfulness very unusual at a festive table. As Nicholas, struck by this sudden alteration,
was wondering what it could portend, the brothers rose together, and the one at the top of the
table leaning forward towards the other, and speaking in a low voice as if he were
addressing him individually, said:
'Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another association connected with this day
which must never be forgotten, and never can be forgotten, by you and me. This day, which
brought into the world a most faithful and excellent and exemplary fellow, took from it the
kindest and very best of parents, the very best of parents to us both. I wish that she could
have seen us in our prosperity, and shared it, and had the happiness of knowing how dearly
we loved her in it, as we did when we were two poor boys; but that was not to be. My dear
brother – The Memory of our Mother.'
'Good Lord!' thought Nicholas, 'and there are scores of people of their own station,
knowing all this, and twenty thousand times more, who wouldn't ask these men to dinner
because they eat with their knives and never went to school!'
But there was no time to moralise, for the joviality again became very brisk, and the
decanter of port being nearly out, brother Ned pulled the bell, which was instantly answered
by the apoplectic butler.
'David,' said brother Ned.
'Sir,' replied the butler.
'A magnum of the double−diamond, David, to drink the health of Mr Linkinwater.'
Instantly, by a feat of dexterity, which was the admiration of all the company, and had
been, annually, for some years past, the apoplectic butler, bringing his left hand from behind
the small of his back, produced the bottle with the corkscrew already inserted; uncorked it at
a jerk; and placed the magnum and the cork before his master with the dignity of conscious
cleverness.
'Ha!' said brother Ned, first examining the cork and afterwards filling his glass, while
the old butler looked complacently and amiably on, as if it were all his own property, but the
company were quite welcome to make free with it, 'this looks well, David.'
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'It ought to, sir,' replied David. 'You'd be troubled to find such a glass of wine as is our
double−diamond, and that Mr Linkinwater knows very well. That was laid down when Mr
Linkinwater first come: that wine was, gentlemen.'
'Nay, David, nay,' interposed brother Charles.
'I wrote the entry in the cellar−book myself, sir, if you please,' said David, in the tone of
a man, quite confident in the strength of his facts. 'Mr Linkinwater had only been here
twenty year, sir, when that pipe of double−diamond was laid down.'
'David is quite right, quite right, brother Charles," said Ned: 'are the people here,
David?'
'Outside the door, sir,' replied the butler.
'Show 'em in, David, show 'em in.'
At this bidding, the older butler placed before his master a small tray of clean glasses,
and opening the door admitted the jolly porters and warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen
below. They were four in all, and as they came in, bowing, and grinning, and blushing, the
housekeeper, and cook, and housemaid, brought up the rear.
'Seven,' said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number of glasses with the
double−diamond, 'and David, eight. There! Now, you're all of you to drink the health of
your best friend Mr Timothy Linkinwater, and wish him health and long life and many
happy returns of this day, both for his own sake and that of your old masters, who consider
him an inestimable treasure. Tim Linkinwater, sir, your health. Devil take you, Tim
Linkinwater, sir, God bless you.'
With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave Tim Linkinwater a slap on
the back, which made him look, for the moment, almost as apoplectic as the butler: and
tossed off the contents of his glass in a twinkling.
The toast was scarcely drunk with all honour to Tim Linkinwater, when the sturdiest
and jolliest subordinate elbowed himself a little in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a
very hot and flushed countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hair in the middle of his
forehead as a respectful salute to the company, and delivered himself as follows – rubbing
the palms of his hands very hard on a blue cotton handkerchief as he did so:
'We're allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen'lemen, and if you please we'll take it
now; there being no time like the present, and no two birds in the hand worth one in the
bush, as is well known – leastways in a contrairy sense, which the meaning is the same. (A
pause – the butler unconvinced.) What we mean to say is, that there never was (looking at
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the butler) – such – (looking at the cook) noble – excellent – (looking everywhere and
seeing nobody) free, generous−spirited masters as them as has treated us so handsome this
day. And here's thanking of 'em for all their goodness as is so constancy a diffusing of itself
over everywhere, and wishing they may live long and die happy!'
When the foregoing speech was over – and it might have been much more elegant and
much less to the purpose – the whole body of subordinates under command of the apoplectic
butler gave three soft cheers; which, to that gentleman's great indignation, were not very
regular, inasmuch as the women persisted in giving an immense number of little shrill
hurrahs among themselves, in utter disregard of the time. This done, they withdrew; shortly
afterwards, Tim Linkinwater's sister withdrew; in reasonable time after that, the sitting was
broken up for tea and coffee, and a round game of cards.
At half−past ten – late hours for the square – there appeared a little tray of sandwiches
and a bowl of bishop, which bishop coming on the top of the double−diamond, and other
excitements, had such an effect upon Tim Linkinwater, that he drew Nicholas aside, and
gave him to understand, confidentially, that it was quite true about the uncommonly
handsome spinster, and that she was to the full as good− looking as she had been described –
more so, indeed – but that she was in too much of a hurry to change her condition, and
consequently, while Tim was courting her and thinking of changing his, got married to
somebody else. 'After all, I dare say it was my fault,' said Tim. 'I'll show you a print I have
got upstairs, one of these days. It cost me five−and−twenty shillings. I bought it soon after
we were cool to each other. Don't mention it, but it's the most extraordinary accidental
likeness you ever saw – her very portrait, sir!'
By this time it was past eleven o'clock; and Tim Linkinwater's sister declaring that she
ought to have been at home a full hour ago, a coach was procured, into which she was
handed with great ceremony by brother Ned, while brother Charles imparted the fullest
directions to the coachman, and besides paying the man a shilling over and above his fare, in
order that he might take the utmost care of the lady, all but choked him with a glass of spirits
of uncommon strength, and then nearly knocked all the breath out of his body in his
energetic endeavours to knock it in again.
At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater's sister being now fairly on her
way home, Nicholas and Tim Linkinwater's friend took their leaves together, and left old
Tim and the worthy brothers to their repose.
As Nicholas had some distance to walk, it was considerably past midnight by the time
he reached home, where he found his mother and Smike sitting up to receive him. It was
long after their usual hour of retiring, and they had expected him, at the very latest, two
hours ago; but the time had not hung heavily on their hands, for Mrs Nickleby had
entertained Smike with a genealogical account of her family by the mother's side,
comprising biographical sketches of the principal members, and Smike had sat wondering
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what it was all about, and whether it was learnt from a book, or said out of Mrs Nickleby's
own head; so that they got on together very pleasantly.
Nicholas could not go to bed without expatiating on the excellences and munificence of
the brothers Cheeryble, and relating the great success which had attended his efforts that
day. But before he had said a dozen words, Mrs Nickleby, with many sly winks and nods,
observed, that she was sure Mr Smike must be quite tired out, and that she positively must
insist on his not sitting up a minute longer.
'A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,' said Mrs Nickleby, when Smike had wished
them good−night and left the room. 'I know you'll excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don't
like to do this before a third person; indeed, before a young man it would not be quite
proper, though really, after all, I don't know what harm there is in it, except that to be sure
it's not a very becoming thing, though some people say it is very much so, and really I don't
know why it should not be, if it's well got up, and the borders are small−plaited; of course, a
good deal depends upon that.'
With which preface, Mrs Nickleby took her nightcap from between the leaves of a very
large prayer−book where it had been folded up small, and proceeded to tie it on: talking
away in her usual discursive manner, all the time.
'People may say what they like,' observed Mrs Nickleby, 'but there's a great deal of
comfort in a nightcap, as I'm sure you would confess, Nicholas my dear, if you would only
have strings to yours, and wear it like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very top of
your head like a blue−coat boy. You needn't think it an unmanly or quizzical thing to be
particular about your nightcap, for I have often heard your poor dear papa, and the Reverend
Mr What's− his−name, who used to read prayers in that old church with the curious little
steeple that the weathercock was blown off the night week before you were born, – I have
often heard them say, that the young men at college are uncommonly particular about their
nightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated for their strength and
goodness; so much so, indeed, that the young men never dream of going to bed without 'em,
and I believe it's admitted on all hands that THEY know what's good, and don't coddle
themselves.'
Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject of this lengthened harangue,
reverted to the pleasant tone of the little birthday party. And as Mrs Nickleby instantly
became very curious respecting it, and made a great number of inquiries touching what they
had had for dinner, and how it was put on table, and whether it was overdone or underdone,
and who was there, and what 'the Mr Cherrybles' said, and what Nicholas said, and what the
Mr Cherrybles said when he said that; Nicholas described the festivities at full length, and
also the occurrences of the morning.
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'Late as it is,' said Nicholas, 'I am almost selfish enough to wish that Kate had been up
to hear all this. I was all impatience, as I came along, to tell her.'
'Why, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby, putting her feet upon the fender, and drawing her chair
close to it, as if settling herself for a long talk. 'Kate has been in bed – oh! a couple of hours
– and I'm very glad, Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to sit up, for I wished
very much to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you. I am naturally anxious
about it, and of course it's a very delightful and consoling thing to have a grown−up son that
one can put confidence in, and advise with; indeed I don't know any use there would be in
having sons at all, unless people could put confidence in them.'
Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to speak: and
looked at her with fixed attention.
'There was a lady in our neighbourhood,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'speaking of sons puts me
in mind of it – a lady in our neighbourhood when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name
was Rogers; indeed I am sure it was if it wasn't Murphy, which is the only doubt I have – '
'Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?' said Nicholas quietly.
'About HER!' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how CAN you be
so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor dear papa, – just his way –
always wandering, never able to fix his thoughts on any one subject for two minutes
together. I think I see him now!' said Mrs Nickleby, wiping her eyes, 'looking at me while I
was talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state of perfect
conglomeration! Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly, would have supposed I was
confusing and distracting him instead of making things plainer; upon my word they would.'
'I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate slowness of
apprehension,' said Nicholas, kindly; 'but I'll do my best to understand you, if you'll only go
straight on: indeed I will.'
'Your poor pa!' said Mrs Nickleby, pondering. 'He never knew, till it was too late, what
I would have had him do!'
This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr Nickleby had not arrived
at the knowledge. Then he died. Neither had Mrs Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort,
an explanation of the circumstance.
'However,' said Mrs Nickleby, drying her tears, 'this has nothing to do – certainly
nothing whatever to do – with the gentleman in the next house.'
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'I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to do with us,'
returned Nicholas.
'There can be no doubt,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'that he IS a gentleman, and has the
manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentleman, although he does wear smalls
and grey worsted stockings. That may be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don't
see why he shouldn't be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel
Lambert, who was also a fat man; HE was proud of his legs. So was Miss Biffin: she was –
no,' added Mrs Nickleby, correcting, herself, 'I think she had only toes, but the principle is
the same.'
Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme. Which seemed
just what Mrs Nickleby had expected him to be.
'You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,' she said, 'I am sure I was. It came upon
me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my blood. The bottom of his garden joins the bottom
of ours, and of course I had several times seen him sitting among the scarlet−beans in his
little arbour, or working at his little hot−beds. I used to think he stared rather, but I didn't
take any particular notice of that, as we were newcomers, and he might be curious to see
what we were like. But when he began to throw his cucumbers over our wall – '
'To throw his cucumbers over our wall!' repeated Nicholas, in great astonishment.
'Yes, Nicholas, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby in a very serious tone; 'his cucumbers
over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.'
'Confound his impudence!' said Nicholas, firing immediately. 'What does he mean by
that?'
'I don't think he means it impertinently at all,' replied Mrs Nickleby.
'What!' said Nicholas, 'cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at the heads of the
family as they walk in their own garden, and not meant impertinently! Why, mother – '
Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of placid triumph,
mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between the borders of Mrs Nickleby's nightcap,
which arrested his attention suddenly.
'He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,' said Mrs Nickleby;
'blamable indeed – at least I suppose other people would consider him so; of course I can't
be expected to express any opinion on that point, especially after always defending your
poor dear papa when other people blamed him for making proposals to me; and to be sure
there can be no doubt that he has taken a very singular way of showing it. Still at the same
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time, his attentions are – that is, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course – a
flattering sort of thing; and although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl
like Kate still unsettled in life – '
'Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?' said Nicholas.
'Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,' returned his mother in a peevish tone, 'isn't that
precisely what I am saying, if you would only let me speak? Of course, I never gave it a
second thought, and I am surprised and astonished that you should suppose me capable of
such a thing. All I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to reject these advances civilly
and delicately, and without hurting his feelings too much, and driving him to despair, or
anything of that kind? My goodness me!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby, with a half− simper,
'suppose he was to go doing anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy again,
Nicholas?'
Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling, as he rejoined,
'Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be likely to ensue from the most cruel
repulse?'
'Upon my word, my dear, I don't know," returned Mrs Nickleby; 'really, I don't know. I
am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday's paper, extracted from one of the
French newspapers, about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an
adjoining village, because she wouldn't shut herself up in an air− tight three−pair−of−stairs,
and charcoal herself to death with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with a
sharp−pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed
himself first, and then all the friends, and then her – no, killed all the friends first, and then
herself, and then HIMself – which it is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,' added
Mrs Nickleby, after a momentary pause, 'they always ARE journeyman shoemakers who do
these things in France, according to the papers. I don't know how it is – something in the
leather, I suppose.'
'But this man, who is not a shoemaker – what has he done, mother, what has he said?'
inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and
patient as Mrs Nickleby herself. 'You know, there is no language of vegetables, which
converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.'
'My dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the ashes in the grate,
'he has done and said all sorts of things.'
'Is there no mistake on your part?' asked Nicholas.
'Mistake!' cried Mrs Nickleby. 'Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I don't know
when a man's in earnest?'
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'Well, well!' muttered Nicholas.
'Every time I go to the window,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'he kisses one hand, and lays the
other upon his heart – of course it's very foolish of him to do so, and I dare say you'll say it's
very wrong, but he does it very respectfully – very respectfully indeed – and very tenderly,
extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt about that.
Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the wall every day, and very fine they
certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of
pickling the rest for next winter. And last evening,' added Mrs Nickleby, with increased
confusion, 'he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the garden, and proposed
marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a musical glass – very like a
musical glass indeed – but of course I didn't listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my
dear, what am I to do?'
'Does Kate know of this?' asked Nicholas.
'I have not said a word about it yet,' answered his mother.
'Then, for Heaven's sake,' rejoined Nicholas, rising, 'do not, for it would make her very
unhappy. And with regard to what you should do, my dear mother, do what your good sense
and feeling, and respect for my father's memory, would prompt. There are a thousand ways
in which you can show your dislike of these preposterous and doting attentions. If you act as
decidedly as you ought and they are still continued, and to your annoyance, I can speedily
put a stop to them. But I should not interfere in a matter so ridiculous, and attach importance
to it, until you have vindicated yourself. Most women can do that, but especially one of your
age and condition, in circumstances like these, which are unworthy of a serious thought. I
would not shame you by seeming to take them to heart, or treat them earnestly for an instant.
Absurd old idiot!'
So saying, Nicholas kissed his mother, and bade her good−night, and they retired to
their respective chambers.
To do Mrs Nickleby justice, her attachment to her children would have prevented her
seriously contemplating a second marriage, even if she could have so far conquered her
recollections of her late husband as to have any strong inclinations that way. But, although
there was no evil and little real selfishness in Mrs Nickleby's heart, she had a weak head and
a vain one; and there was something so flattering in being sought (and vainly sought) in
marriage at this time of day, that she could not dismiss the passion of the unknown
gentleman quite so summarily or lightly as Nicholas appeared to deem becoming.
'As to its being preposterous, and doting, and ridiculous,' thought Mrs Nickleby,
communing with herself in her own room, 'I don't see that, at all. It's hopeless on his part,
certainly; but why he should be an absurd old idiot, I confess I don't see. He is not to be
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supposed to know it's hopeless. Poor fellow! He is to be pitied, I think!'
Having made these reflections, Mrs Nickleby looked in her little dressing−glass, and
walking backward a few steps from it, tried to remember who it was who used to say that
when Nicholas was one−and− twenty he would have more the appearance of her brother
than her son. Not being able to call the authority to mind, she extinguished her candle, and
drew up the window−blind to admit the light of morning, which had, by this time, begun to
dawn.
'It's a bad light to distinguish objects in,' murmured Mrs Nickleby, peering into the
garden, 'and my eyes are not very good – I was short−sighted from a child – but, upon my
word, I think there's another large vegetable marrow sticking, at this moment, on the broken
glass bottles at the top of the wall!'
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CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a
Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.
S
mike unexpectedly encounters a very old Friend, who invites him to his House, and
will take no Denial
Quite unconscious of the demonstrations of their amorous neighbour, or their effects
upon the susceptible bosom of her mama, Kate Nickleby had, by this time, begun to enjoy a
settled feeling of tranquillity and happiness, to which, even in occasional and transitory
glimpses, she had long been a stranger. Living under the same roof with the beloved brother
from whom she had been so suddenly and hardly separated: with a mind at ease, and free
from any persecutions which could call a blush into her cheek, or a pang into her heart, she
seemed to have passed into a new state of being. Her former cheerfulness was restored, her
step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which had forsaken her cheek visited it
once again, and Kate Nickleby looked more beautiful than ever.
Such was the result to which Miss La Creevy's ruminations and observations led her,
when the cottage had been, as she emphatically said, 'thoroughly got to rights, from the
chimney− pots to the street−door scraper,' and the busy little woman had at length a
moment's time to think about its inmates.
'Which I declare I haven't had since I first came down here,' said Miss La Creevy; 'for I
have thought of nothing but hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and gimlets, morning, noon, and
night.'
'You never bestowed one thought upon yourself, I believe,' returned Kate, smiling.
'Upon my word, my dear, when there are so many pleasanter things to think of, I should
be a goose if I did,' said Miss La Creevy. 'By−the−bye, I HAVE thought of somebody too.
Do you know, that I observe a great change in one of this family – a very extraordinary
change?'
'In whom?' asked Kate, anxiously. 'Not in – '
'Not in your brother, my dear,' returned Miss La Creevy, anticipating the close of the
sentence, 'for he is always the same affectionate good−natured clever creature, with a spice
of the – I won't say who – in him when there's any occasion, that he was when I first knew
you. No. Smike, as he WILL be called, poor fellow! for he won't hear of a MR before his
name, is greatly altered, even in this short time.'
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CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.459
'How?' asked Kate. 'Not in health?'
'N – n – o; perhaps not in health exactly,' said Miss La Creevy, pausing to consider,
'although he is a worn and feeble creature, and has that in his face which it would wring my
heart to see in yours. No; not in health.'
'How then?'
'I scarcely know,' said the miniature painter. 'But I have watched him, and he has
brought the tears into my eyes many times. It is not a very difficult matter to do that,
certainly, for I am easily melted; still I think these came with good cause and reason. I am
sure that since he has been here, he has grown, from some strong cause, more conscious of
his weak intellect. He feels it more. It gives him greater pain to know that he wanders
sometimes, and cannot understand very simple things. I have watched him when you have
not been by, my dear, sit brooding by himself, with such a look of pain as I could scarcely
bear to see, and then get up and leave the room: so sorrowfully, and in such dejection, that I
cannot tell you how it has hurt me. Not three weeks ago, he was a light−hearted busy
creature, overjoyed to be in a bustle, and as happy as the day was long. Now, he is another
being – the same willing, harmless, faithful, loving creature – but the same in nothing else.'
'Surely this will all pass off,' said Kate. 'Poor fellow!'
'I hope,' returned her little friend, with a gravity very unusual in her, 'it may. I hope, for
the sake of that poor lad, it may. However,' said Miss La Creevy, relapsing into the cheerful,
chattering tone, which was habitual to her, 'I have said my say, and a very long say it is, and
a very wrong say too, I shouldn't wonder at all. I shall cheer him up tonight, at all events, for
if he is to be my squire all the way to the Strand, I shall talk on, and on, and on, and never
leave off, till I have roused him into a laugh at something. So the sooner he goes, the better
for him, and the sooner I go, the better for me, I am sure, or else I shall have my maid
gallivanting with somebody who may rob the house – though what there is to take away,
besides tables and chairs, I don't know, except the miniatures: and he is a clever thief who
can dispose of them to any great advantage, for I can't, I know, and that's the honest truth.'
So saying, little Miss La Creevy hid her face in a very flat bonnet, and herself in a very
big shawl; and fixing herself tightly into the latter, by means of a large pin, declared that the
omnibus might come as soon as it pleased, for she was quite ready.
But there was still Mrs Nickleby to take leave of; and long before that good lady had
concluded some reminiscences bearing upon, and appropriate to, the occasion, the omnibus
arrived. This put Miss La Creevy in a great bustle, in consequence whereof, as she secretly
rewarded the servant girl with eighteen−pence behind the street−door, she pulled out of her
reticule ten−pennyworth of halfpence, which rolled into all possible corners of the passage,
and occupied some considerable time in the picking up. This ceremony had, of course, to be
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succeeded by a second kissing of Kate and Mrs Nickleby, and a gathering together of the
little basket and the brown−paper parcel, during which proceedings, 'the omnibus,' as Miss
La Creevy protested, 'swore so dreadfully, that it was quite awful to hear it.' At length and at
last, it made a feint of going away, and then Miss La Creevy darted out, and darted in,
apologising with great volubility to all the passengers, and declaring that she wouldn't
purposely have kept them waiting on any account whatever. While she was looking about
for a convenient seat, the conductor pushed Smike in, and cried that it was all right – though
it wasn't – and away went the huge vehicle, with the noise of half−a−dozen brewers' drays at
least.
Leaving it to pursue its journey at the pleasure of the conductor aforementioned, who
lounged gracefully on his little shelf behind, smoking an odoriferous cigar; and leaving it to
stop, or go on, or gallop, or crawl, as that gentleman deemed expedient and advisable; this
narrative may embrace the opportunity of ascertaining the condition of Sir Mulberry Hawk,
and to what extent he had, by this time, recovered from the injuries consequent on being
flung violently from his cabriolet, under the circumstances already detailed.
With a shattered limb, a body severely bruised, a face disfigured by half−healed scars,
and pallid from the exhaustion of recent pain and fever, Sir Mulberry Hawk lay stretched
upon his back, on the couch to which he was doomed to be a prisoner for some weeks yet to
come. Mr Pyke and Mr Pluck sat drinking hard in the next room, now and then varying the
monotonous murmurs of their conversation with a half−smothered laugh, while the young
lord – the only member of the party who was not thoroughly irredeemable, and who really
had a kind heart – sat beside his Mentor, with a cigar in his mouth, and read to him, by the
light of a lamp, such scraps of intelligence from a paper of the day, as were most likely to
yield him interest or amusement.
'Curse those hounds!' said the invalid, turning his head impatiently towards the
adjoining room; 'will nothing stop their infernal throats?'
Messrs Pyke and Pluck heard the exclamation, and stopped immediately: winking to
each other as they did so, and filling their glasses to the brim, as some recompense for the
deprivation of speech.
'Damn!' muttered the sick man between his teeth, and writhing impatiently in his bed.
'Isn't this mattress hard enough, and the room dull enough, and pain bad enough, but
THEY must torture me? What's the time?'
'Half−past eight,' replied his friend.
'Here, draw the table nearer, and let us have the cards again,' said Sir Mulberry. 'More
piquet. Come.'
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It was curious to see how eagerly the sick man, debarred from any change of position
save the mere turning of his head from side to side, watched every motion of his friend in
the progress of the game; and with what eagerness and interest he played, and yet how
warily and coolly. His address and skill were more than twenty times a match for his
adversary, who could make little head against them, even when fortune favoured him with
good cards, which was not often the case. Sir Mulberry won every game; and when his
companion threw down the cards, and refused to play any longer, thrust forth his wasted arm
and caught up the stakes with a boastful oath, and the same hoarse laugh, though
considerably lowered in tone, that had resounded in Ralph Nickleby's dining− room, months
before.
While he was thus occupied, his man appeared, to announce that Mr Ralph Nickleby
was below, and wished to know how he was, tonight.
'Better,' said Sir Mulberry, impatiently.
'Mr Nickleby wishes to know, sir – '
'I tell you, better,' replied Sir Mulberry, striking his hand upon the table.
The man hesitated for a moment or two, and then said that Mr Nickleby had requested
permission to see Sir Mulberry Hawk, if it was not inconvenient.
'It IS inconvenient. I can't see him. I can't see anybody,' said his master, more violently
than before. 'You know that, you blockhead.'
'I am very sorry, sir,' returned the man. 'But Mr Nickleby pressed so much, sir – '
The fact was, that Ralph Nickleby had bribed the man, who, being anxious to earn his
money with a view to future favours, held the door in his hand, and ventured to linger still.
'Did he say whether he had any business to speak about?' inquired Sir Mulberry, after a
little impatient consideration.
'No, sir. He said he wished to see you, sir. Particularly, Mr Nickleby said, sir.'
'Tell him to come up. Here,' cried Sir Mulberry, calling the man back, as he passed his
hand over his disfigured face, 'move that lamp, and put it on the stand behind me. Wheel that
table away, and place a chair there – further off. Leave it so.'
The man obeyed these directions as if he quite comprehended the motive with which
they were dictated, and left the room. Lord Frederick Verisopht, remarking that he would
look in presently, strolled into the adjoining apartment, and closed the folding door behind
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CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.462
him.
Then was heard a subdued footstep on the stairs; and Ralph Nickleby, hat in hand, crept
softly into the room, with his body bent forward as if in profound respect, and his eyes fixed
upon the face of his worthy client.
'Well, Nickleby,' said Sir Mulberry, motioning him to the chair by the couch side, and
waving his hand in assumed carelessness, 'I have had a bad accident, you see.'
'I see,' rejoined Ralph, with the same steady gaze. 'Bad, indeed! I should not have
known you, Sir Mulberry. Dear, dear! This IS bad.'
Ralph's manner was one of profound humility and respect; and the low tone of voice
was that, which the gentlest consideration for a sick man would have taught a visitor to
assume. But the expression of his face, Sir Mulberry's being averted, was in extraordinary
contrast; and as he stood, in his usual attitude, calmly looking on the prostrate form before
him, all that part of his features which was not cast into shadow by his protruding and
contracted brows, bore the impress of a sarcastic smile.
'Sit down,' said Sir Mulberry, turning towards him, as though by a violent effort. 'Am I a
sight, that you stand gazing there?'
As he turned his face, Ralph recoiled a step or two, and making as though he were
irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but was determined not to do so, sat down
with well−acted confusion.
'I have inquired at the door, Sir Mulberry, every day,' said Ralph, 'twice a day, indeed,
at first – and tonight, presuming upon old acquaintance, and past transactions by which we
have mutually benefited in some degree, I could not resist soliciting admission to your
chamber. Have you – have you suffered much?' said Ralph, bending forward, and allowing
the same harsh smile to gather upon his face, as the other closed his eyes.
'More than enough to please me, and less than enough to please some broken−down
hacks that you and I know of, and who lay their ruin between us, I dare say,' returned Sir
Mulberry, tossing his arm restlessly upon the coverlet.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the intense irritation with which this had
been said; for there was an aggravating, cold distinctness in his speech and manner which so
grated on the sick man that he could scarcely endure it.
'And what is it in these «past transactions,» that brought you here tonight?' asked Sir
Mulberry.
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'Nothing,' replied Ralph. 'There are some bills of my lord's which need renewal; but let
them be till you are well. I – I – came,' said Ralph, speaking more slowly, and with harsher
emphasis, 'I came to say how grieved I am that any relative of mine, although disowned by
me, should have inflicted such punishment on you as – '
'Punishment!' interposed Sir Mulberry.
'I know it has been a severe one,' said Ralph, wilfully mistaking the meaning of the
interruption, 'and that has made me the more anxious to tell you that I disown this vagabond
– that I acknowledge him as no kin of mine – and that I leave him to take his deserts from
you, and every man besides. You may wring his neck if you please. I shall not interfere.'
'This story that they tell me here, has got abroad then, has it?' asked Sir Mulberry,
clenching his hands and teeth.
'Noised in all directions,' replied Ralph. 'Every club and gaming−room has rung with it.
There has been a good song made about it, as I am told,' said Ralph, looking eagerly at his
questioner. 'I have not heard it myself, not being in the way of such things, but I have been
told it's even printed – for private circulation – but that's all over town, of course.'
'It's a lie!' said Sir Mulberry; 'I tell you it's all a lie. The mare took fright.'
'They SAY he frightened her,' observed Ralph, in the same unmoved and quiet manner.
'Some say he frightened you, but THAT'S a lie, I know. I have said that boldly – oh, a score
of times! I am a peaceable man, but I can't hear folks tell that of you. No, no.'
When Sir Mulberry found coherent words to utter, Ralph bent forward with his hand to
his ear, and a face as calm as if its every line of sternness had been cast in iron.
'When I am off this cursed bed,' said the invalid, actually striking at his broken leg in
the ecstasy of his passion, 'I'll have such revenge as never man had yet. By God, I will.
Accident favouring him, he has marked me for a week or two, but I'll put a mark on him that
he shall carry to his grave. I'll slit his nose and ears, flog him, maim him for life. I'll do more
than that; I'll drag that pattern of chastity, that pink of prudery, the delicate sister, through – '
It might have been that even Ralph's cold blood tingled in his cheeks at that moment. It
might have been that Sir Mulberry remembered, that, knave and usurer as he was, he must,
in some early time of infancy, have twined his arm about her father's neck. He stopped, and
menacing with his hand, confirmed the unuttered threat with a tremendous oath.
'It is a galling thing,' said Ralph, after a short term of silence, during which he had eyed
the sufferer keenly, 'to think that the man about town, the rake, the ROUE, the rook of
twenty seasons should be brought to this pass by a mere boy!'
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Sir Mulberry darted a wrathful look at him, but Ralph's eyes were bent upon the ground,
and his face wore no other expression than one of thoughtfulness.
'A raw, slight stripling,' continued Ralph, 'against a man whose very weight might crush
him; to say nothing of his skill in – I am right, I think,' said Ralph, raising his eyes, 'you
WERE a patron of the ring once, were you not?'
The sick man made an impatient gesture, which Ralph chose to consider as one of
acquiescence.
'Ha!' he said, 'I thought so. That was before I knew you, but I was pretty sure I couldn't
be mistaken. He is light and active, I suppose. But those were slight advantages compared
with yours. Luck, luck! These hang−dog outcasts have it.'
'He'll need the most he has, when I am well again,' said Sir Mulberry Hawk, 'let him fly
where he will.'
'Oh!' returned Ralph quickly, 'he doesn't dream of that. He is here, good sir, waiting
your pleasure, here in London, walking the streets at noonday; carrying it off jauntily;
looking for you, I swear,' said Ralph, his face darkening, and his own hatred getting the
upper hand of him, for the first time, as this gay picture of Nicholas presented itself; 'if we
were only citizens of a country where it could be safely done, I'd give good money to have
him stabbed to the heart and rolled into the kennel for the dogs to tear.'
As Ralph, somewhat to the surprise of his old client, vented this little piece of sound
family feeling, and took up his hat preparatory to departing, Lord Frederick Verisopht
looked in.
'Why what in the deyvle's name, Hawk, have you and Nickleby been talking about?'
said the young man. 'I neyver heard such an insufferable riot. Croak, croak, croak. Bow,
wow, wow. What has it all been about?'
'Sir Mulberry has been angry, my Lord,' said Ralph, looking towards the couch.
'Not about money, I hope? Nothing has gone wrong in business, has it, Nickleby?'
'No, my Lord, no,' returned Ralph. 'On that point we always agree. Sir Mulberry has
been calling to mind the cause of – '
There was neither necessity nor opportunity for Ralph to proceed; for Sir Mulberry took
up the theme, and vented his threats and oaths against Nicholas, almost as ferociously as
before.
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Ralph, who was no common observer, was surprised to see that as this tirade proceeded,
the manner of Lord Frederick Verisopht, who at the commencement had been twirling his
whiskers with a most dandified and listless air, underwent a complete alteration. He was still
more surprised when, Sir Mulberry ceasing to speak, the young lord angrily, and almost
unaffectedly, requested never to have the subject renewed in his presence.
'Mind that, Hawk!' he added, with unusual energy. 'I never will be a party to, or permit,
if I can help it, a cowardly attack upon this young fellow.'
'Cowardly!' interrupted his friend.
'Ye−es,' said the other, turning full upon him. 'If you had told him who you were; if you
had given him your card, and found out, afterwards, that his station or character prevented
your fighting him, it would have been bad enough then; upon my soul it would have been
bad enough then. As it is, you did wrong. I did wrong too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for
it. What happened to you afterwards, was as much the consequence of accident as design,
and more your fault than his; and it shall not, with my knowledge, be cruelly visited upon
him, it shall not indeed.'
With this emphatic repetition of his concluding words, the young lord turned upon his
heel; but before he had reached the adjoining room he turned back again, and said, with even
greater vehemence than he had displayed before,
'I do believe, now; upon my honour I do believe, that the sister is as virtuous and
modest a young lady as she is a handsome one; and of the brother, I say this, that he acted as
her brother should, and in a manly and spirited manner. And I only wish, with all my heart
and soul, that any one of us came out of this matter half as well as he does.'
So saying, Lord Frederick Verisopht walked out of the room, leaving Ralph Nickleby
and Sir Mulberry in most unpleasant astonishment.
'Is this your pupil?' asked Ralph, softly, 'or has he come fresh from some country
parson?'
'Green fools take these fits sometimes,' replied Sir Mulberry Hawk, biting his lip, and
pointing to the door. 'Leave him to me.'
Ralph exchanged a familiar look with his old acquaintance; for they had suddenly
grown confidential again in this alarming surprise; and took his way home, thoughtfully and
slowly.
While these things were being said and done, and long before they were concluded, the
omnibus had disgorged Miss La Creevy and her escort, and they had arrived at her own
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door. Now, the good− nature of the little miniature painter would by no means allow of
Smike's walking back again, until he had been previously refreshed with just a sip of
something comfortable and a mixed biscuit or so; and Smike, entertaining no objection
either to the sip of something comfortable, or the mixed biscuit, but, considering on the
contrary that they would be a very pleasant preparation for a walk to Bow, it fell out that he
delayed much longer than he originally intended, and that it was some half−hour after dusk
when he set forth on his journey home.
There was no likelihood of his losing his way, for it lay quite straight before him, and
he had walked into town with Nicholas, and back alone, almost every day. So, Miss La
Creevy and he shook hands with mutual confidence, and, being charged with more kind
remembrances to Mrs and Miss Nickleby, Smike started off.
At the foot of Ludgate Hill, he turned a little out of the road to satisfy his curiosity by
having a look at Newgate. After staring up at the sombre walls, from the opposite side of the
way, with great care and dread for some minutes, he turned back again into the old track,
and walked briskly through the city; stopping now and then to gaze in at the window of
some particularly attractive shop, then running for a little way, then stopping again, and so
on, as any other country lad might do.
He had been gazing for a long time through a jeweller's window, wishing he could take
some of the beautiful trinkets home as a present, and imagining what delight they would
afford if he could, when the clocks struck three−quarters past eight; roused by the sound, he
hurried on at a very quick pace, and was crossing the corner of a by−street when he felt
himself violently brought to, with a jerk so sudden that he was obliged to cling to a
lamp−post to save himself from falling. At the same moment, a small boy clung tight round
his leg, and a shrill cry of 'Here he is, father! Hooray!' vibrated in his ears.
Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyes downward towards the
form from which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from head to foot, looked round. Mr
Squeers had hooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his umbrella, and was hanging
on at the other end with all his might and main. The cry of triumph proceeded from Master
Wackford, who, regardless of all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of a
bull−dog!
One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified creature became utterly
powerless and unable to utter a sound.
'Here's a go!' cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand−over−hand down the umbrella,
and only unhooking it when he had got tight hold of the victim's collar. 'Here's a delicious
go! Wackford, my boy, call up one of them coaches.'
'A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.
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'Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the countenance of Smike.
'Damn the expense. Let's have him in a coach.'
'What's he been a doing of?' asked a labourer with a hod of bricks, against whom and a
fellow−labourer Mr Squeers had backed, on the first jerk of the umbrella.
'Everything!' replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in a sort of rapturous
trance. 'Everything – running away, sir – joining in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master –
there's nothing that's bad that he hasn't done. Oh, what a delicious go is this here, good
Lord!'
The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as the poor fellow
possessed, had utterly deserted him. The coach came up; Master Wackford entered; Squeers
pushed in his prize, and following close at his heels, pulled up the glasses. The coachman
mounted his box and drove slowly off, leaving the two bricklayers, and an old
apple−woman, and a town−made little boy returning from an evening school, who had been
the only witnesses of the scene, to meditate upon it at their leisure.
Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to the unfortunate Smike, and,
planting his hands firmly on his knees, looked at him for some five minutes, when, seeming
to recover from his trance, he uttered a loud laugh, and slapped his old pupil's face several
times – taking the right and left sides alternately.
'It isn't a dream!' said Squeers. 'That's real flesh and blood! I know the feel of it!' and
being quite assured of his good fortune by these experiments, Mr Squeers administered a
few boxes on the ear, lest the entertainments should seem to partake of sameness, and
laughed louder and longer at every one.
'Your mother will be fit to jump out of her skin, my boy, when she hears of this,' said
Squeers to his son.
'Oh, won't she though, father?' replied Master Wackford.
'To think,' said Squeers, 'that you and me should be turning out of a street, and come
upon him at the very nick; and that I should have him tight, at only one cast of the umbrella,
as if I had hooked him with a grappling−iron! Ha, ha!'
'Didn't I catch hold of his leg, neither, father?' said little Wackford.
'You did; like a good 'un, my boy,' said Mr Squeers, patting his son's head, 'and you
shall have the best button−over jacket and waistcoat that the next new boy brings down, as a
reward of merit. Mind that. You always keep on in the same path, and do them things that
you see your father do, and when you die you'll go right slap to Heaven and no questions
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asked.'
Improving the occasion in these words, Mr Squeers patted his son's head again, and then
patted Smike's – but harder; and inquired in a bantering tone how he found himself by this
time.
'I must go home,' replied Smike, looking wildly round.
'To be sure you must. You're about right there,' replied Mr Squeers. 'You'll go home
very soon, you will. You'll find yourself at the peaceful village of Dotheboys, in Yorkshire,
in something under a week's time, my young friend; and the next time you get away from
there, I give you leave to keep away. Where's the clothes you run off in, you ungrateful
robber?' said Mr Squeers, in a severe voice.
Smike glanced at the neat attire which the care of Nicholas had provided for him; and
wrung his hands.
'Do you know that I could hang you up, outside of the Old Bailey, for making away
with them articles of property?' said Squeers. 'Do you know that it's a hanging matter – and I
an't quite certain whether it an't an anatomy one besides – to walk off with up'ards of the
valley of five pound from a dwelling−house? Eh? Do you know that? What do you suppose
was the worth of them clothes you had? Do you know that that Wellington boot you wore,
cost eight− and−twenty shillings when it was a pair, and the shoe seven−and− six? But you
came to the right shop for mercy when you came to me, and thank your stars that it IS me as
has got to serve you with the article.'
Anybody not in Mr Squeers's confidence would have supposed that he was quite out of
the article in question, instead of having a large stock on hand ready for all comers; nor
would the opinion of sceptical persons have undergone much alteration when he followed up
the remark by poking Smike in the chest with the ferrule of his umbrella, and dealing a
smart shower of blows, with the ribs of the same instrument, upon his head and shoulders.
'I never threshed a boy in a hackney coach before,' said Mr Squeers, when he stopped to
rest. 'There's inconveniency in it, but the novelty gives it a sort of relish, too!'
Poor Smike! He warded off the blows, as well as he could, and now shrunk into a corner
of the coach, with his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on his knees; he was
stunned and stupefied, and had no more idea that any act of his, would enable him to escape
from the all−powerful Squeers, now that he had no friend to speak to or to advise with, than
he had had in all the weary years of his Yorkshire life which preceded the arrival of
Nicholas.
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The journey seemed endless; street after street was entered and left behind; and still
they went jolting on. At last Mr Squeers began to thrust his head out of the widow every
half−minute, and to bawl a variety of directions to the coachman; and after passing, with
some difficulty, through several mean streets which the appearance of the houses and the
bad state of the road denoted to have been recently built, Mr Squeers suddenly tugged at the
check string with all his might, and cried, 'Stop!'
'What are you pulling a man's arm off for?' said the coachman looking angrily down.
'That's the house,' replied Squeers. 'The second of them four little houses, one story
high, with the green shutters. There's brass plate on the door, with the name of Snawley.'
'Couldn't you say that without wrenching a man's limbs off his body?' inquired the
coachman.
'No!' bawled Mr Squeers. 'Say another word, and I'll summons you for having a broken
winder. Stop!'
Obedient to this direction, the coach stopped at Mr Snawley's door. Mr Snawley may be
remembered as the sleek and sanctified gentleman who confided two sons (in law) to the
parental care of Mr Squeers, as narrated in the fourth chapter of this history. Mr Snawley's
house was on the extreme borders of some new settlements adjoining Somers Town, and Mr
Squeers had taken lodgings therein for a short time, as his stay was longer than usual, and
the Saracen, having experience of Master Wackford's appetite, had declined to receive him
on any other terms than as a full−grown customer.
'Here we are!' said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour, where Mr Snawley
and his wife were taking a lobster supper. 'Here's the vagrant – the felon – the rebel – the
monster of unthankfulness.'
'What! The boy that run away!' cried Snawley, resting his knife and fork upright on the
table, and opening his eyes to their full width.
'The very boy', said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike's nose, and drawing it away
again, and repeating the process several times, with a vicious aspect. 'If there wasn't a lady
present, I'd fetch him such a – : never mind, I'll owe it him.'
And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and where, he had
picked up the runaway.
'It's clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,' said Mr Snawley, casting down his
eyes with an air of humility, and elevating his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it,
towards the ceiling.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.470
'Providence is against him, no doubt,' replied Mr Squeers, scratching his nose. 'Of
course; that was to be expected. Anybody might have known that.'
'Hard−heartedness and evil−doing will never prosper, sir,' said Mr Snawley.
'Never was such a thing known,' rejoined Squeers, taking a little roll of notes from his
pocket−book, to see that they were all safe.
'I have been, Mr Snawley,' said Mr Squeers, when he had satisfied himself upon this
point, 'I have been that chap's benefactor, feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap's
classical, commercial, mathematical, philosophical, and trigonomical friend. My son – my
only son, Wackford – has been his brother; Mrs Squeers has been his mother, grandmother,
aunt, – ah! and I may say uncle too, all in one. She never cottoned to anybody, except them
two engaging and delightful boys of yours, as she cottoned to this chap. What's my return?
What's come of my milk of human kindness? It turns into curds and whey when I look at
him.'
'Well it may, sir,' said Mrs Snawley. 'Oh! Well it may, sir.'
'Where has he been all this time?' inquired Snawley. 'Has he been living with – ?'
'Ah, sir!' interposed Squeers, confronting him again. 'Have you been a living with that
there devilish Nickleby, sir?'
But no threats or cuffs could elicit from Smike one word of reply to this question; for he
had internally resolved that he would rather perish in the wretched prison to which he was
again about to be consigned, than utter one syllable which could involve his first and true
friend. He had already called to mind the strict injunctions of secrecy as to his past life,
which Nicholas had laid upon him when they travelled from Yorkshire; and a confused and
perplexed idea that his benefactor might have committed some terrible crime in bringing
him away, which would render him liable to heavy punishment if detected, had contributed,
in some degree, to reduce him to his present state of apathy and terror.
Such were the thoughts – if to visions so imperfect and undefined as those which
wandered through his enfeebled brain, the term can be applied – which were present to the
mind of Smike, and rendered him deaf alike to intimidation and persuasion. Finding every
effort useless, Mr Squeers conducted him to a little back room up−stairs, where he was to
pass the night; and, taking the precaution of removing his shoes, and coat and waistcoat, and
also of locking the door on the outside, lest he should muster up sufficient energy to make
an attempt at escape, that worthy gentleman left him to his meditations.
What those meditations were, and how the poor creature's heart sunk within him when
he thought – when did he, for a moment, cease to think? – of his late home, and the dear
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.471
friends and familiar faces with which it was associated, cannot be told. To prepare the mind
for such a heavy sleep, its growth must be stopped by rigour and cruelty in childhood; there
must be years of misery and suffering, lightened by no ray of hope; the chords of the heart,
which beat a quick response to the voice of gentleness and affection, must have rusted and
broken in their secret places, and bear the lingering echo of no old word of love or kindness.
Gloomy, indeed, must have been the short day, and dull the long, long twilight, preceding
such a night of intellect as his.
There were voices which would have roused him, even then; but their welcome tones
could not penetrate there; and he crept to bed the same listless, hopeless, blighted creature,
that Nicholas had first found him at the Yorkshire school.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence, which may prove important hereafter.472
CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike,
very opportunely and to some Purpose.
T
he night, fraught with so much bitterness to one poor soul, had given place to a bright
and cloudless summer morning, when a north− country mail−coach traversed, with cheerful
noise, the yet silent streets of Islington, and, giving brisk note of its approach with the lively
winding of the guard's horn, clattered onward to its halting−place hard by the Post Office.
The only outside passenger was a burly, honest−looking countryman on the box, who,
with his eyes fixed upon the dome of St Paul's Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring
wonder, as to be quite insensible to all the bustle of getting out the bags and parcels, until
one of the coach windows being let sharply down, he looked round, and encountered a pretty
female face which was just then thrust out.
'See there, lass!' bawled the countryman, pointing towards the object of his admiration.
'There be Paul's Church. 'Ecod, he be a soizable 'un, he be.'
'Goodness, John! I shouldn't have thought it could have been half the size. What a
monster!'
'Monsther! – Ye're aboot right theer, I reckon, Mrs Browdie,' said the countryman
good−humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge top−coat; 'and wa'at dost thee tak
yon place to be noo – thot'un owor the wa'? Ye'd never coom near it 'gin you thried for
twolve moonths. It's na' but a Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge for dooble−latthers.
A Poast Office! Wa'at dost thee think o' thot? 'Ecod, if thot's on'y a Poast Office, I'd loike to
see where the Lord Mayor o' Lunnun lives.'
So saying, John Browdie – for he it was – opened the coach−door, and tapping Mrs
Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he looked in, burst into a boisterous fit of laughter.
'Weel!' said John. 'Dang my bootuns if she bean't asleep agean!'
'She's been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for a minute or two now and
then,' replied John Browdie's choice, 'and I was very sorry when she woke, for she has been
SO cross!'
The subject of these remarks was a slumbering figure, so muffled in shawl and cloak,
that it would have been matter of impossibility to guess at its sex but for a brown beaver
bonnet and green veil which ornamented the head, and which, having been crushed and
flattened, for two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular angle of the vehicle from which
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.473
the lady's snores now proceeded, presented an appearance sufficiently ludicrous to have
moved less risible muscles than those of John Browdie's ruddy face.
'Hollo!' cried John, twitching one end of the dragged veil. 'Coom, wakken oop, will 'ee?'
After several burrowings into the old corner, and many exclamations of impatience and
fatigue, the figure struggled into a sitting posture; and there, under a mass of crumpled
beaver, and surrounded by a semicircle of blue curl−papers, were the delicate features of
Miss Fanny Squeers.
'Oh, 'Tilda!' cried Miss Squeers, 'how you have been kicking of me through this blessed
night!'
'Well, I do like that,' replied her friend, laughing, 'when you have had nearly the whole
coach to yourself.'
'Don't deny it, 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, impressively, 'because you have, and it's no
use to go attempting to say you haven't. You mightn't have known it in your sleep, 'Tilda,
but I haven't closed my eyes for a single wink, and so I THINK I am to be believed.'
With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil, which nothing but
supernatural interference and an utter suspension of nature's laws could have reduced to any
shape or form; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonly neat, brushed off
the sandwich−crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumulated in her lap, and availing
herself of John Browdie's proffered arm, descended from the coach.
'Noo,' said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the ladies and the luggage
hurried in, 'gang to the Sarah's Head, mun.'
'To the VERE?' cried the coachman.
'Lawk, Mr Browdie!' interrupted Miss Squeers. 'The idea! Saracen's Head.'
'Sure−ly,' said John, 'I know'd it was something aboot Sarah's Son's Head. Dost thou
know thot?'
'Oh, ah! I know that,' replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the door.
''Tilda, dear, really,' remonstrated Miss Squeers, 'we shall be taken for I don't know
what.'
'Let them tak' us as they foind us,' said John Browdie; 'we dean't come to Lunnun to do
nought but 'joy oursel, do we?'
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.474
'I hope not, Mr Browdie,' replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly dismal.
'Well, then,' said John, 'it's no matther. I've only been a married man fower days,
'account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin' it off. Here be a weddin' party – broide and
broide's−maid, and the groom – if a mun dean't 'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it
all, thot's what I want to know.'
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose no time, Mr Browdie
gave his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in wresting another from Miss Squeers, after a
maidenly resistance of scratching and struggling on the part of that young lady, which was
not quite over when they reached the Saracen's Head.
Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment of sleep being necessary after
so long a journey; and here they met again about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by
direction of Mr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an
uninterrupted view of the stables.
To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested of the brown beaver, the green veil, and the
blue curl−papers, and arrayed in all the virgin splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a
white muslin bonnet, and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the inside thereof – her
luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it was impossible they could come out
by any accident, and her bonnet−cap trimmed with little damask roses, which might be
supposed to be so many promising scions of the big rose – to have seen all this, and to have
seen the broad damask belt, matching both the family rose and the little roses, which
encircled her slender waist, and by a happy ingenuity took off from the shortness of the
spencer behind, – to have beheld all this, and to have taken further into account the coral
bracelets (rather short of beads, and with a very visible black string) which clasped her
wrists, and the coral necklace which rested on her neck, supporting, outside her frock, a
lonely cornelian heart, typical of her own disengaged affections – to have contemplated all
these mute but expressive appeals to the purest feelings of our nature, might have thawed the
frost of age, and added new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.
The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had human passions and feelings, and he
looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed the muffins.
'Is my pa in, do you know?' asked Miss Squeers with dignity.
'Beg your pardon, miss?'
'My pa,' repeated Miss Squeers; 'is he in?'
'In where, miss?'
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.475
'In here – in the house!' replied Miss Squeers. 'My pa – Mr Wackford Squeers – he's
stopping here. Is he at home?'
'I didn't know there was any gen'l'man of that name in the house, miss' replied the
waiter. 'There may be, in the coffee−room.'
MAY BE. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, who had been depending,
all the way to London, upon showing her friends how much at home she would be, and how
much respectful notice her name and connections would excite, told that her father
MIGHT be there! 'As if he was a feller!' observed Miss Squeers, with emphatic indignation.
'Ye'd betther inquire, mun,' said John Browdie. 'An' hond up another pigeon−pie, will
'ee? Dang the chap,' muttered John, looking into the empty dish as the waiter retired; 'does
he ca' this a pie – three yoong pigeons and a troifling matther o' steak, and a crust so loight
that you doant know when it's in your mooth and when it's gane? I wonder hoo many pies
goes to a breakfast!'
After a short interval, which John Browdie employed upon the ham and a cold round of
beef, the waiter returned with another pie, and the information that Mr Squeers was not
stopping in the house, but that he came there every day and that directly he arrived, he
should be shown upstairs. With this, he retired; and he had not retired two minutes, when he
returned with Mr Squeers and his hopeful son.
'Why, who'd have thought of this?' said Mr Squeers, when he had saluted the party and
received some private family intelligence from his daughter.
'Who, indeed, pa!' replied that young lady, spitefully. 'But you see 'Tilda IS married at
last.'
'And I stond threat for a soight o' Lunnun, schoolmeasther,' said John, vigorously
attacking the pie.
'One of them things that young men do when they get married,' returned Squeers; 'and
as runs through with their money like nothing at all! How much better wouldn't it be now, to
save it up for the eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come on you,' said Mr
Squeers in a moralising way, 'before you're aware of it; mine did upon me.'
'Will 'ee pick a bit?' said John.
'I won't myself,' returned Squeers; 'but if you'll just let little Wackford tuck into
something fat, I'll be obliged to you. Give it him in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on,
and there's lot of profit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waiter coming, sir,
shove it in your pocket and look out of the window, d'ye hear?'
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.476
'I'm awake, father,' replied the dutiful Wackford.
'Well,' said Squeers, turning to his daughter, 'it's your turn to be married next. You must
make haste.'
'Oh, I'm in no hurry,' said Miss Squeers, very sharply.
'No, Fanny?' cried her old friend with some archness.
'No, 'Tilda,' replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently. 'I can wait.'
'So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,' observed Mrs Browdie.
'They an't draw'd into it by ME, 'Tilda,' retorted Miss Squeers.
'No,' returned her friend; 'that's exceedingly true.'
The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather acrimonious retort from
Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally vicious temper – aggravated, just
now, by travel and recent jolting – was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the
failure of her own designs upon Mr Browdie; and the acrimonious retort might have led to a
great many other retorts, which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject of
conversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr Squeers
himself
'What do you think?' said that gentleman; 'who do you suppose we have laid hands on,
Wackford and me?'
'Pa! not Mr – ?' Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs Browdie did it
for her, and added, 'Nickleby?'
'No,' said Squeers. 'But next door to him though.'
'You can't mean Smike?' cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.
'Yes, I can though,' rejoined her father. 'I've got him, hard and fast.'
'Wa'at!' exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. 'Got that poor – dom'd
scoondrel? Where?'
'Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,' replied Squeers, 'with him on one side, and
the key on the other.'
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.477
'At thy loodgin'! Thee'st gotten him at thy loodgin'? Ho! ho! The schoolmeasther agin
all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I'm darned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot. –
Gotten him at thy loodgin'?'
'Yes,' replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under the congratulatory blow on the chest
which the stout Yorkshireman dealt him; 'thankee. Don't do it again. You mean it kindly, I
know, but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That's not so bad, is it?'
'Ba'ad!' repeated John Browdie. 'It's eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell on.'
'I thought it would surprise you a bit,' said Squeers, rubbing his hands. 'It was pretty
neatly done, and pretty quick too.'
'Hoo wor it?' inquired John, sitting down close to him. 'Tell us all aboot it, mun; coom,
quick!'
Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie's impatience, Mr Squeers related
the lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his hands, as quickly as he could, and,
except when he was interrupted by the admiring remarks of his auditors, paused not in the
recital until he had brought it to an end.
'For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,' observed Squeers, when he had
finished, looking very cunning, 'I've taken three outsides for tomorrow morning – for
Wackford and him and me – and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys to
the agent, don't you see? So it's very lucky you come today, or you'd have missed us; and as
it is, unless you could come and tea with me tonight, we shan't see anything more of you
before we go away.'
'Dean't say anoother wurd,' returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him by the hand. 'We'd
coom, if it was twonty mile.'
'No, would you though?' returned Mr Squeers, who had not expected quite such a ready
acceptance of his invitation, or he would have considered twice before he gave it.
John Browdie's only reply was another squeeze of the hand, and an assurance that they
would not begin to see London till tomorrow, so that they might be at Mr Snawley's at six
o'clock without fail; and after some further conversation, Mr Squeers and his son departed.
During the remainder of the day, Mr Browdie was in a very odd and excitable state;
bursting occasionally into an explosion of laughter, and then taking up his hat and running
into the coach−yard to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantly walking
in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps of uncouth country dances, and, in
short, conducting himself in such a very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined he
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CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.478
was going mad, and, begging her dear 'Tilda not to distress herself, communicated her
suspicions in so many words. Mrs Browdie, however, without discovering any great alarm,
observed that she had seen him so once before, and that although he was almost sure to be ill
after it, it would not be anything very serious, and therefore he was better left alone.
The result proved her to be perfectly correct for, while they were all sitting in Mr
Snawley's parlour that night, and just as it was beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was
taken so ill, and seized with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the whole company
were thrown into the utmost consternation. His good lady, indeed, was the only person
present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he were allowed to lie
down on Mr Squeers's bed for an hour or so, and left entirely to himself, he would be sure to
recover again almost as quickly as he had been taken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the
effect of so reasonable a proposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John was
supported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrous weight, and regularly tumbling
down two steps every time they hoisted him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in
charge of his wife, who, after a short interval, reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying
intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.
Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, John Browdie was sitting on the bed
with the reddest face ever seen, cramming the corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent
his roaring out loud with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded in suppressing this emotion,
than he slipped off his shoes, and creeping to the adjoining room where the prisoner was
confined, turned the key, which was on the outside, and darting in, covered Smike's mouth
with his huge hand before he could utter a sound.
'Ods−bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?' whispered the Yorkshireman to the
bewildered lad. 'Browdie. Chap as met thee efther schoolmeasther was banged?'
'Yes, yes,' cried Smike. 'Oh! help me.'
'Help thee!' replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instant he had said this much.
'Thee didn't need help, if thee warn't as silly yoongster as ever draw'd breath. Wa'at did 'ee
come here for, then?'
'He brought me; oh! he brought me,' cried Smike.
'Brout thee!' replied John. 'Why didn't 'ee punch his head, or lay theeself doon and kick,
and squeal out for the pollis? I'd ha' licked a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee.
But thee be'est a poor broken−doon chap,' said John, sadly, 'and God forgi' me for bragging
ower yan o' his weakest creeturs!'
Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.479
'Stan' still,' said the Yorkshireman, 'and doant'ee speak a morsel o' talk till I tell'ee.'
With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly, and drawing a
screwdriver from his pocket, took off the box of the lock in a very deliberate and
workmanlike manner, and laid it, together with the implement, on the floor.
'See thot?' said John 'Thot be thy doin'. Noo, coot awa'!'
Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning.
'I say, coot awa',' repeated John, hastily. 'Dost thee know where thee livest? Thee dost?
Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or schoolmeasther's?'
'Mine,' replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to the adjoining room, and
pointed out a pair of shoes and a coat which were lying on a chair.
'On wi' 'em,' said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrong sleeve, and winding the
tails of the coat round the fugitive's neck. 'Noo, foller me, and when thee get'st ootside door,
turn to the right, and they wean't see thee pass.'
'But – but – he'll hear me shut the door,' replied Smike, trembling from head to foot.
'Then dean't shut it at all,' retorted John Browdie. 'Dang it, thee bean't afeard o'
schoolmeasther's takkin cold, I hope?'
'N−no,' said Smike, his teeth chattering in his head. 'But he brought me back before, and
will again. He will, he will indeed.'
'He wull, he wull!' replied John impatiently. 'He wean't, he wean't. Look'ee! I wont to do
this neighbourly loike, and let them think thee's gotten awa' o' theeself, but if he cooms oot
o' thot parlour awhiles theer't clearing off, he mun' have mercy on his oun boans, for I
wean't. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I'll put 'un on a wrong scent, I warrant 'ee. But if thee
keep'st a good hart, thee'lt be at whoam afore they know thee'st gotten off. Coom!'
Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it was intended as
encouragement, prepared to follow with tottering steps, when John whispered in his ear.
'Thee'lt just tell yoong Measther that I'm sploiced to 'Tilly Price, and to be heerd on at
the Saracen by latther, and that I bean't jealous of 'un – dang it, I'm loike to boost when I
think o' that neight! 'Cod, I think I see 'un now, a powderin' awa' at the thin bread an'
butther!'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.480
It was rather a ticklish recollection for John just then, for he was within an ace of
breaking out into a loud guffaw. Restraining himself, however, just in time, by a great effort,
he glided downstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself close to the parlour
door, to confront the first person that might come out, signed to him to make off.
Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Opening the house−door gently,
and casting a look of mingled gratitude and terror at his deliverer, he took the direction
which had been indicated to him, and sped away like the wind.
The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but, finding that there was
no pause in the conversation inside, crept back again unheard, and stood, listening over the
stair−rail, for a full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into Mr Squeers's bed,
once more, and drawing the clothes over his head, laughed till he was nearly smothered.
If there could only have been somebody by, to see how the bedclothes shook, and to see
the Yorkshireman's great red face and round head appear above the sheets, every now and
then, like some jovial monster coming to the surface to breathe, and once more dive down
convulsed with the laughter which came bursting forth afresh – that somebody would have
been scarcely less amused than John Browdie himself.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and to some Purpose.481
CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love.
H
e employs a Mediator, whose Proceedings are crowned with unexpected Success,
excepting in one solitary Particular.
Once more out of the clutches of his old persecutor, it needed no fresh stimulation to
call forth the utmost energy and exertion that Smike was capable of summoning to his aid.
Without pausing for a moment to reflect upon the course he was taking, or the probability of
its leading him homewards or the reverse, he fled away with surprising swiftness and
constancy of purpose, borne upon such wings as only Fear can wear, and impelled by
imaginary shouts in the well remembered voice of Squeers, who, with a host of pursuers,
seemed to the poor fellow's disordered senses to press hard upon his track; now left at a
greater distance in the rear, and now gaining faster and faster upon him, as the alternations
of hope and terror agitated him by turns. Long after he had become assured that these sounds
were but the creation of his excited brain, he still held on, at a pace which even weakness
and exhaustion could scarcely retard. It was not until the darkness and quiet of a country
road, recalled him to a sense of external objects, and the starry sky, above, warned him of
the rapid flight of time, that, covered with dust and panting for breath, he stopped to listen
and look about him.
All was still and silent. A glare of light in the distance, casting a warm glow upon the
sky, marked where the huge city lay. Solitary fields, divided by hedges and ditches, through
many of which he had crashed and scrambled in his flight, skirted the road, both by the way
he had come and upon the opposite side. It was late now. They could scarcely trace him by
such paths as he had taken, and if he could hope to regain his own dwelling, it must surely
be at such a time as that, and under cover of the darkness. This, by degrees, became pretty
plain, even to the mind of Smike. He had, at first, entertained some vague and childish idea
of travelling into the country for ten or a dozen miles, and then returning homewards by a
wide circuit, which should keep him clear of London – so great was his apprehension of
traversing the streets alone, lest he should again encounter his dreaded enemy – but, yielding
to the conviction which these thoughts inspired, he turned back, and taking the open road,
though not without many fears and misgivings, made for London again, with scarcely less
speed of foot than that with which he had left the temporary abode of Mr Squeers.
By the time he re−entered it, at the western extremity, the greater part of the shops were
closed. Of the throngs of people who had been tempted abroad after the heat of the day, but
few remained in the streets, and they were lounging home. But of these he asked his way
from time to time, and by dint of repeated inquiries, he at length reached the dwelling of
Newman Noggs.
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All that evening, Newman had been hunting and searching in byways and corners for
the very person who now knocked at his door, while Nicholas had been pursuing the same
inquiry in other directions. He was sitting, with a melancholy air, at his poor supper, when
Smike's timorous and uncertain knock reached his ears. Alive to every sound, in his anxious
and expectant state, Newman hurried downstairs, and, uttering a cry of joyful surprise,
dragged the welcome visitor into the passage and up the stairs, and said not a word until he
had him safe in his own garret and the door was shut behind them, when he mixed a great
mug−full of gin−and−water, and holding it to Smike's mouth, as one might hold a bowl of
medicine to the lips of a refractory child, commanded him to drain it to the last drop.
Newman looked uncommonly blank when he found that Smike did little more than put
his lips to the precious mixture; he was in the act of raising the mug to his own mouth with a
deep sigh of compassion for his poor friend's weakness, when Smike, beginning to relate the
adventures which had befallen him, arrested him half−way, and he stood listening, with the
mug in his hand.
It was odd enough to see the change that came over Newman as Smike proceeded. At
first he stood, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand, as a preparatory ceremony towards
composing himself for a draught; then, at the mention of Squeers, he took the mug under his
arm, and opening his eyes very wide, looked on, in the utmost astonishment. When Smike
came to the assault upon himself in the hackney coach, he hastily deposited the mug upon
the table, and limped up and down the room in a state of the greatest excitement, stopping
himself with a jerk, every now and then, as if to listen more attentively. When John Browdie
came to be spoken of, he dropped, by slow and gradual degrees, into a chair, and rubbing,
his hands upon his knees – quicker and quicker as the story reached its climax – burst, at
last, into a laugh composed of one loud sonorous 'Ha! ha!' having given vent to which, his
countenance immediately fell again as he inquired, with the utmost anxiety, whether it was
probable that John Browdie and Squeers had come to blows.
'No! I think not,' replied Smike. 'I don't think he could have missed me till I had got
quite away.'
Newman scratched his head with a shout of great disappointment, and once more lifting
up the mug, applied himself to the contents; smiling meanwhile, over the rim, with a grim
and ghastly smile at Smike.
'You shall stay here,' said Newman; 'you're tired – fagged. I'll tell them you're come
back. They have been half mad about you. Mr Nicholas – '
'God bless him!' cried Smike.
'Amen!' returned Newman. 'He hasn't had a minute's rest or peace; no more has the old
lady, nor Miss Nickleby.'
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'No, no. Has SHE thought about me?' said Smike. 'Has she though? oh, has she, has
she? Don't tell me so if she has not.'
'She has,' cried Newman. 'She is as noble−hearted as she is beautiful.'
'Yes, yes!' cried Smike. 'Well said!'
'So mild and gentle,' said Newman.
'Yes, yes!' cried Smike, with increasing eagerness.
'And yet with such a true and gallant spirit,' pursued Newman.
He was going on, in his enthusiasm, when, chancing to look at his companion, he saw
that he had covered his face with his hands, and that tears were stealing out between his
fingers.
A moment before, the boy's eyes were sparkling with unwonted fire, and every feature
had been lighted up with an excitement which made him appear, for the moment, quite a
different being.
'Well, well,' muttered Newman, as if he were a little puzzled. 'It has touched ME, more
than once, to think such a nature should have been exposed to such trials; this poor fellow –
yes, yes, – he feels that too – it softens him – makes him think of his former misery. Hah!
That's it? Yes, that's – hum!'
It was by no means clear, from the tone of these broken reflections, that Newman Noggs
considered them as explaining, at all satisfactorily, the emotion which had suggested them.
He sat, in a musing attitude, for some time, regarding Smike occasionally with an anxious
and doubtful glance, which sufficiently showed that he was not very remotely connected
with his thoughts.
At length he repeated his proposition that Smike should remain where he was for that
night, and that he (Noggs) should straightway repair to the cottage to relieve the suspense of
the family. But, as Smike would not hear of this – pleading his anxiety to see his friends
again – they eventually sallied forth together; and the night being, by this time, far
advanced, and Smike being, besides, so footsore that he could hardly crawl along, it was
within an hour of sunrise when they reached their destination.
At the first sound of their voices outside the house, Nicholas, who had passed a
sleepless night, devising schemes for the recovery of his lost charge, started from his bed,
and joyfully admitted them. There was so much noisy conversation, and congratulation, and
indignation, that the remainder of the family were soon awakened, and Smike received a
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warm and cordial welcome, not only from Kate, but from Mrs Nickleby also, who assured
him of her future favour and regard, and was so obliging as to relate, for his entertainment
and that of the assembled circle, a most remarkable account extracted from some work the
name of which she had never known, of a miraculous escape from some prison, but what
one she couldn't remember, effected by an officer whose name she had forgotten, confined
for some crime which she didn't clearly recollect.
At first Nicholas was disposed to give his uncle credit for some portion of this bold
attempt (which had so nearly proved successful) to carry off Smike; but on more mature
consideration, he was inclined to think that the full merit of it rested with Mr Squeers.
Determined to ascertain, if he could, through John Browdie, how the case really stood, he
betook himself to his daily occupation: meditating, as he went, on a great variety of schemes
for the punishment of the Yorkshire schoolmaster, all of which had their foundation in the
strictest principles of retributive justice, and had but the one drawback of being wholly
impracticable.
'A fine morning, Mr Linkinwater!' said Nicholas, entering the office.
'Ah!' replied Tim, 'talk of the country, indeed! What do you think of this, now, for a day
– a London day – eh?'
'It's a little clearer out of town,' said Nicholas.
'Clearer!' echoed Tim Linkinwater. 'You should see it from my bedroom window.'
'You should see it from MINE,' replied Nicholas, with a smile.
'Pooh! pooh!' said Tim Linkinwater, 'don't tell me. Country!' (Bow was quite a rustic
place to Tim.) 'Nonsense! What can you get in the country but new−laid eggs and flowers? I
can buy new−laid eggs in Leadenhall Market, any morning before breakfast; and as to
flowers, it's worth a run upstairs to smell my mignonette, or to see the double wallflower in
the back−attic window, at No. 6, in the court.'
'There is a double wallflower at No. 6, in the court, is there?' said Nicholas.
'Yes, is there!' replied Tim, 'and planted in a cracked jug, without a spout. There were
hyacinths there, this last spring, blossoming, in – but you'll laugh at that, of course.'
'At what?'
'At their blossoming in old blacking−bottles,' said Tim.
'Not I, indeed,' returned Nicholas.
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Tim looked wistfully at him, for a moment, as if he were encouraged by the tone of this
reply to be more communicative on the subject; and sticking behind his ear, a pen that he
had been making, and shutting up his knife with a smart click, said,
'They belong to a sickly bedridden hump−backed boy, and seem to be the only pleasure,
Mr Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many years is it,' said Tim, pondering, 'since I first
noticed him, quite a little child, dragging himself about on a pair of tiny crutches? Well!
Well! Not many; but though they would appear nothing, if I thought of other things, they
seem a long, long time, when I think of him. It is a sad thing,' said Tim, breaking off, 'to see
a little deformed child sitting apart from other children, who are active and merry, watching
the games he is denied the power to share in. He made my heart ache very often.'
'It is a good heart,' said Nicholas, 'that disentangles itself from the close avocations of
every day, to heed such things. You were saying – '
'That the flowers belonged to this poor boy,' said Tim; 'that's all. When it is fine
weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he draws a chair close to the window, and sits there,
looking at them and arranging them, all day long. He used to nod, at first, and then we came
to speak. Formerly, when I called to him of a morning, and asked him how he was, he would
smile, and say, «Better!» but now he shakes his head, and only bends more closely over his
old plants. It must be dull to watch the dark housetops and the flying clouds, for so many
months; but he is very patient.'
'Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help him?' asked Nicholas.
'His father lives there, I believe,' replied Tim, 'and other people too; but no one seems to
care much for the poor sickly cripple. I have asked him, very often, if I can do nothing for
him; his answer is always the same. «Nothing.» His voice is growing weak of late, but I can
SEE that he makes the old reply. He can't leave his bed now, so they have moved it close
beside the window, and there he lies, all day: now looking at the sky, and now at his flowers,
which he still makes shift to trim and water, with his own thin hands. At night, when he sees
my candle, he draws back his curtain, and leaves it so, till I am in bed. It seems such
company to him to know that I am there, that I often sit at my window for an hour or more,
that he may see I am still awake; and sometimes I get up in the night to look at the dull
melancholy light in his little room, and wonder whether he is awake or sleeping.
'The night will not be long coming,' said Tim, 'when he will sleep, and never wake again
on earth. We have never so much as shaken hands in all our lives; and yet I shall miss him
like an old friend. Are there any country flowers that could interest me like these, do you
think? Or do you suppose that the withering of a hundred kinds of the choicest flowers that
blow, called by the hardest Latin names that were ever invented, would give me one fraction
of the pain that I shall feel when these old jugs and bottles are swept away as lumber?
Country!' cried Tim, with a contemptuous emphasis; 'don't you know that I couldn't have
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 486
such a court under my bedroom window, anywhere, but in London?'
With which inquiry, Tim turned his back, and pretending to be absorbed in his accounts,
took an opportunity of hastily wiping his eyes when he supposed Nicholas was looking
another way.
Whether it was that Tim's accounts were more than usually intricate that morning, or
whether it was that his habitual serenity had been a little disturbed by these recollections, it
so happened that when Nicholas returned from executing some commission, and inquired
whether Mr Charles Cheeryble was alone in his room, Tim promptly, and without the
smallest hesitation, replied in the affirmative, although somebody had passed into the room
not ten minutes before, and Tim took especial and particular pride in preventing any
intrusion on either of the brothers when they were engaged with any visitor whatever.
'I'll take this letter to him at once,' said Nicholas, 'if that's the case.' And with that, he
walked to the room and knocked at the door.
No answer.
Another knock, and still no answer.
'He can't be here,' thought Nicholas. 'I'll lay it on his table.'
So, Nicholas opened the door and walked in; and very quickly he turned to walk out
again, when he saw, to his great astonishment and discomfiture, a young lady upon her
knees at Mr Cheeryble's feet, and Mr Cheeryble beseeching her to rise, and entreating a third
person, who had the appearance of the young lady's female attendant, to add her persuasions
to his to induce her to do so.
Nicholas stammered out an awkward apology, and was precipitately retiring, when the
young lady, turning her head a little, presented to his view the features of the lovely girl
whom he had seen at the register−office on his first visit long before. Glancing from her to
the attendant, he recognised the same clumsy servant who had accompanied her then; and
between his admiration of the young lady's beauty, and the confusion and surprise of this
unexpected recognition, he stood stock−still, in such a bewildered state of surprise and
embarrassment that, for the moment, he was quite bereft of the power either to speak or
move.
'My dear ma'am – my dear young lady,' cried brother Charles in violent agitation, 'pray
don't – not another word, I beseech and entreat you! I implore you – I beg of you – to rise.
We – we – are not alone.'
As he spoke, he raised the young lady, who staggered to a chair and swooned away.
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 487
'She has fainted, sir,' said Nicholas, darting eagerly forward.
'Poor dear, poor dear!' cried brother Charles 'Where is my brother Ned? Ned, my dear
brother, come here pray.'
'Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied his brother, hurrying into the room, 'what is
the – ah! what – '
'Hush! hush! – not a word for your life, brother Ned,' returned the other. 'Ring for the
housekeeper, my dear brother – call Tim Linkinwater! Here, Tim Linkinwater, sir – Mr
Nickleby, my dear sir, leave the room, I beg and beseech of you.'
'I think she is better now,' said Nicholas, who had been watching the patient so eagerly,
that he had not heard the request.
'Poor bird!' cried brother Charles, gently taking her hand in his, and laying her head
upon his arm. 'Brother Ned, my dear fellow, you will be surprised, I know, to witness this, in
business hours; but – ' here he was again reminded of the presence of Nicholas, and shaking
him by the hand, earnestly requested him to leave the room, and to send Tim Linkinwater
without an instant's delay.
Nicholas immediately withdrew and, on his way to the counting−house, met both the
old housekeeper and Tim Linkinwater, jostling each other in the passage, and hurrying to the
scene of action with extraordinary speed. Without waiting to hear his message, Tim
Linkinwater darted into the room, and presently afterwards Nicholas heard the door shut and
locked on the inside.
He had abundance of time to ruminate on this discovery, for Tim Linkinwater was
absent during the greater part of an hour, during the whole of which time Nicholas thought
of nothing but the young lady, and her exceeding beauty, and what could possibly have
brought her there, and why they made such a mystery of it. The more he thought of all this,
the more it perplexed him, and the more anxious he became to know who and what she was.
'I should have known her among ten thousand,' thought Nicholas. And with that he walked
up and down the room, and recalling her face and figure (of which he had a peculiarly vivid
remembrance), discarded all other subjects of reflection and dwelt upon that alone.
At length Tim Linkinwater came back – provokingly cool, and with papers in his hand,
and a pen in his mouth, as if nothing had happened.
'Is she quite recovered?' said Nicholas, impetuously.
'Who?' returned Tim Linkinwater.
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 488
'Who!' repeated Nicholas. 'The young lady.'
'What do you make, Mr Nickleby,' said Tim, taking his pen out of his mouth, 'what do
you make of four hundred and twenty−seven times three thousand two hundred and
thirty−eight?'
'Nay,' returned Nicholas, 'what do you make of my question first? I asked you – '
'About the young lady,' said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles. 'To be sure.
Yes. Oh! she's very well.'
'Very well, is she?' returned Nicholas.
'Very well,' replied Mr Linkinwater, gravely.
'Will she be able to go home today?' asked Nicholas.
'She's gone,' said Tim.
'Gone!'
'Yes.'
'I hope she has not far to go?' said Nicholas, looking earnestly at the other.
'Ay,' replied the immovable Tim, 'I hope she hasn't.'
Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it was evident that Tim Linkinwater
had his own reasons for evading the subject, and that he was determined to afford no further
information respecting the fair unknown, who had awakened so much curiosity in the breast
of his young friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse, Nicholas returned to the charge next
day, emboldened by the circumstance of Mr Linkinwater being in a very talkative and
communicative mood; but, directly he resumed the theme, Tim relapsed into a state of most
provoking taciturnity, and from answering in monosyllables, came to returning no answers
at all, save such as were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which only
served to whet that appetite for intelligence in Nicholas, which had already attained a most
unreasonable height.
Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself with watching for the young
lady's next visit, but here again he was disappointed. Day after day passed, and she did not
return. He looked eagerly at the superscription of all the notes and letters, but there was not
one among them which he could fancy to be in her handwriting. On two or three occasions
he was employed on business which took him to a distance, and had formerly been
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 489
transacted by Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help suspecting that, for some reason or
other, he was sent out of the way on purpose, and that the young lady was there in his
absence. Nothing transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion, and Tim could not be
entrapped into any confession or admission tending to support it in the smallest degree.
Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the growth of love, but
they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' is well enough as a
proverb applicable to cases of friendship, though absence is not always necessary to
hollowness of heart, even between friends, and truth and honesty, like precious stones, are
perhaps most easily imitated at a distance, when the counterfeits often pass for real. Love,
however, is very materially assisted by a warm and active imagination: which has a long
memory, and will thrive, for a considerable time, on very slight and sparing food. Thus it is,
that it often attains its most luxuriant growth in separation and under circumstances of the
utmost difficulty; and thus it was, that Nicholas, thinking of nothing but the unknown young
lady, from day to day and from hour to hour, began, at last, to think that he was very
desperately in love with her, and that never was such an ill−used and persecuted lover as he.
Still, though he loved and languished after the most orthodox models, and was only
deterred from making a confidante of Kate by the slight considerations of having never, in
all his life, spoken to the object of his passion, and having never set eyes upon her, except on
two occasions, on both of which she had come and gone like a flash of lightning – or, as
Nicholas himself said, in the numerous conversations he held with himself, like a vision of
youth and beauty much too bright to last – his ardour and devotion remained without its
reward. The young lady appeared no more; so there was a great deal of love wasted (enough
indeed to have set up half−a−dozen young gentlemen, as times go, with the utmost decency),
and nobody was a bit the wiser for it; not even Nicholas himself, who, on the contrary,
became more dull, sentimental, and lackadaisical, every day.
While matters were in this state, the failure of a correspondent of the brothers
Cheeryble, in Germany, imposed upon Tim Linkinwater and Nicholas the necessity of going
through some very long and complicated accounts, extending over a considerable space of
time. To get through them with the greater dispatch, Tim Linkinwater proposed that they
should remain at the counting−house, for a week or so, until ten o'clock at night; to this, as
nothing damped the zeal of Nicholas in the service of his kind patrons – not even romance,
which has seldom business habits – he cheerfully assented. On the very first night of these
later hours, at nine exactly, there came: not the young lady herself, but her servant, who,
being closeted with brother Charles for some time, went away, and returned next night at the
same hour, and on the next, and on the next again.
These repeated visits inflamed the curiosity of Nicholas to the very highest pitch.
Tantalised and excited, beyond all bearing, and unable to fathom the mystery without
neglecting his duty, he confided the whole secret to Newman Noggs, imploring him to be on
the watch next night; to follow the girl home; to set on foot such inquiries relative to the
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name, condition, and history of her mistress, as he could, without exciting suspicion; and to
report the result to him with the least possible delay.
Beyond all measure proud of this commission, Newman Noggs took up his post, in the
square, on the following evening, a full hour before the needful time, and planting himself
behind the pump and pulling his hat over his eyes, began his watch with an elaborate
appearance of mystery, admirably calculated to excite the suspicion of all beholders. Indeed,
divers servant girls who came to draw water, and sundry little boys who stopped to drink at
the ladle, were almost scared out of their senses, by the apparition of Newman Noggs
looking stealthily round the pump, with nothing of him visible but his face, and that wearing
the expression of a meditative Ogre.
Punctual to her time, the messenger came again, and, after an interview of rather longer
duration than usual, departed. Newman had made two appointments with Nicholas: one for
the next evening, conditional on his success: and one the next night following, which was to
be kept under all circumstances. The first night he was not at the place of meeting (a certain
tavern about half−way between the city and Golden Square), but on the second night he was
there before Nicholas, and received him with open arms.
'It's all right,' whispered Newman. 'Sit down. Sit down, there's a dear young man, and let
me tell you all about it.'
Nicholas needed no second invitation, and eagerly inquired what was the news.
'There's a great deal of news,' said Newman, in a flutter of exultation. 'It's all right. Don't
be anxious. I don't know where to begin. Never mind that. Keep up your spirits. It's all right.'
'Well?' said Nicholas eagerly. 'Yes?'
'Yes,' replied Newman. 'That's it.'
'What's it?' said Nicholas. 'The name – the name, my dear fellow!'
'The name's Bobster,' replied Newman.
'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, indignantly.
'That's the name,' said Newman. 'I remember it by lobster.'
'Bobster!' repeated Nicholas, more emphatically than before. 'That must be the servant's
name.'
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'No, it an't,' said Newman, shaking his head with great positiveness. 'Miss Cecilia
Bobster.'
'Cecilia, eh?' returned Nicholas, muttering the two names together over and over again
in every variety of tone, to try the effect. 'Well, Cecilia is a pretty name.'
'Very. And a pretty creature too,' said Newman.
'Who?' said Nicholas.
'Miss Bobster.'
'Why, where have you seen her?' demanded Nicholas.
'Never mind, my dear boy,' retorted Noggs, clapping him on the shoulder. 'I
HAVE seen her. You shall see her. I've managed it all.'
'My dear Newman,' cried Nicholas, grasping his hand, 'are you serious?'
'I am,' replied Newman. 'I mean it all. Every word. You shall see her tomorrow night.
She consents to hear you speak for yourself. I persuaded her. She is all affability, goodness,
sweetness, and beauty.'
'I know she is; I know she must be, Newman!' said Nicholas, wringing his hand.
'You are right,' returned Newman.
'Where does she live?' cried Nicholas. 'What have you learnt of her history? Has she a
father – mother – any brothers – sisters? What did she say? How came you to see her? Was
she not very much surprised? Did you say how passionately I have longed to speak to her?
Did you tell her where I had seen her? Did you tell her how, and when, and where, and how
long, and how often, I have thought of that sweet face which came upon me in my bitterest
distress like a glimpse of some better world – did you, Newman – did you?'
Poor Noggs literally gasped for breath as this flood of questions rushed upon him, and
moved spasmodically in his chair at every fresh inquiry, staring at Nicholas meanwhile with
a most ludicrous expression of perplexity.
'No,' said Newman, 'I didn't tell her that.'
'Didn't tell her which?' asked Nicholas.
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'About the glimpse of the better world,' said Newman. 'I didn't tell her who you were,
either, or where you'd seen her. I said you loved her to distraction.'
'That's true, Newman,' replied Nicholas, with his characteristic vehemence. 'Heaven
knows I do!'
'I said too, that you had admired her for a long time in secret,' said Newman.
'Yes, yes. What did she say to that?' asked Nicholas.
'Blushed,' said Newman.
'To be sure. Of course she would,' said Nicholas approvingly. Newman then went on to
say, that the young lady was an only child, that her mother was dead, that she resided with
her father, and that she had been induced to allow her lover a secret interview, at the
intercession of her servant, who had great influence with her. He further related how it
required much moving and great eloquence to bring the young lady to this pass; how it was
expressly understood that she merely afforded Nicholas an opportunity of declaring his
passion; and how she by no means pledged herself to be favourably impressed with his
attentions. The mystery of her visits to the brothers Cheeryble remained wholly unexplained,
for Newman had not alluded to them, either in his preliminary conversations with the
servant or his subsequent interview with the mistress, merely remarking that he had been
instructed to watch the girl home and plead his young friend's cause, and not saying how far
he had followed her, or from what point. But Newman hinted that from what had fallen from
the confidante, he had been led to suspect that the young lady led a very miserable and
unhappy life, under the strict control of her only parent, who was of a violent and brutal
temper; a circumstance which he thought might in some degree account, both for her having
sought the protection and friendship of the brothers, and her suffering herself to be prevailed
upon to grant the promised interview. The last he held to be a very logical deduction from
the premises, inasmuch as it was but natural to suppose that a young lady, whose present
condition was so unenviable, would be more than commonly desirous to change it.
It appeared, on further questioning – for it was only by a very long and arduous process
that all this could be got out of Newman Noggs – that Newman, in explanation of his shabby
appearance, had represented himself as being, for certain wise and indispensable purposes
connected with that intrigue, in disguise; and, being questioned how he had come to exceed
his commission so far as to procure an interview, he responded, that the lady appearing
willing to grant it, he considered himself bound, both in duty and gallantry, to avail himself
of such a golden means of enabling Nicholas to prosecute his addresses. After these and all
possible questions had been asked and answered twenty times over, they parted, undertaking
to meet on the following night at half−past ten, for the purpose of fulfilling the appointment;
which was for eleven o'clock.
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 493
'Things come about very strangely!' thought Nicholas, as he walked home. 'I never
contemplated anything of this kind; never dreamt of the possibility of it. To know something
of the life of one in whom I felt such interest; to see her in the street, to pass the house in
which she lived, to meet her sometimes in her walks, to hope that a day might come when I
might be in a condition to tell her of my love, this was the utmost extent of my thoughts.
Now, however – but I should be a fool, indeed, to repine at my own good fortune!'
Still, Nicholas was dissatisfied; and there was more in the dissatisfaction than mere
revulsion of feeling. He was angry with the young lady for being so easily won, 'because,'
reasoned Nicholas, 'it is not as if she knew it was I, but it might have been anybody,' – which
was certainly not pleasant. The next moment, he was angry with himself for entertaining
such thoughts, arguing that nothing but goodness could dwell in such a temple, and that the
behaviour of the brothers sufficiently showed the estimation in which they held her. 'The
fact is, she's a mystery altogether,' said Nicholas. This was not more satisfactory than his
previous course of reflection, and only drove him out upon a new sea of speculation and
conjecture, where he tossed and tumbled, in great discomfort of mind, until the clock struck
ten, and the hour of meeting drew nigh.
Nicholas had dressed himself with great care, and even Newman Noggs had trimmed
himself up a little; his coat presenting the phenomenon of two consecutive buttons, and the
supplementary pins being inserted at tolerably regular intervals. He wore his hat, too, in the
newest taste, with a pocket−handkerchief in the crown, and a twisted end of it straggling out
behind after the fashion of a pigtail, though he could scarcely lay claim to the ingenuity of
inventing this latter decoration, inasmuch as he was utterly unconscious of it: being in a
nervous and excited condition which rendered him quite insensible to everything but the
great object of the expedition.
They traversed the streets in profound silence; and after walking at a round pace for
some distance, arrived in one, of a gloomy appearance and very little frequented, near the
Edgeware Road.
'Number twelve,' said Newman.
'Oh!' replied Nicholas, looking about him.
'Good street?' said Newman.
'Yes,' returned Nicholas. 'Rather dull.'
Newman made no answer to this remark, but, halting abruptly, planted Nicholas with
his back to some area railings, and gave him to understand that he was to wait there, without
moving hand or foot, until it was satisfactorily ascertained that the coast was clear. This
done, Noggs limped away with great alacrity; looking over his shoulder every instant, to
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 494
make quite certain that Nicholas was obeying his directions; and, ascending the steps of a
house some half−dozen doors off, was lost to view.
After a short delay, he reappeared, and limping back again, halted midway, and
beckoned Nicholas to follow him.
'Well?' said Nicholas, advancing towards him on tiptoe.
'All right,' replied Newman, in high glee. 'All ready; nobody at home. Couldn't be better.
Ha! ha!'
With this fortifying assurance, he stole past a street−door, on which Nicholas caught a
glimpse of a brass plate, with 'BOBSTER,' in very large letters; and, stopping at the
area−gate, which was open, signed to his young friend to descend.
'What the devil!' cried Nicholas, drawing back. 'Are we to sneak into the kitchen, as if
we came after the forks?'
'Hush!' replied Newman. 'Old Bobster – ferocious Turk. He'd kill 'em all – box the
young lady's ears – he does – often.'
'What!' cried Nicholas, in high wrath, 'do you mean to tell me that any man would dare
to box the ears of such a – '
He had no time to sing the praises of his mistress, just then, for Newman gave him a
gentle push which had nearly precipitated him to the bottom of the area steps. Thinking it
best to take the hint in good part, Nicholas descended, without further remonstrance, but
with a countenance bespeaking anything rather than the hope and rapture of a passionate
lover. Newman followed – he would have followed head first, but for the timely assistance
of Nicholas – and, taking his hand, led him through a stone passage, profoundly dark, into a
back−kitchen or cellar, of the blackest and most pitchy obscurity, where they stopped.
'Well!' said Nicholas, in a discontented whisper, 'this is not all, I suppose, is it?'
'No, no,' rejoined Noggs; 'they'll be here directly. It's all right.'
'I am glad to hear it,' said Nicholas. 'I shouldn't have thought it, I confess.'
They exchanged no further words, and there Nicholas stood, listening to the loud
breathing of Newman Noggs, and imagining that his nose seemed to glow like a red−hot
coal, even in the midst of the darkness which enshrouded them. Suddenly the sound of
cautious footsteps attracted his ear, and directly afterwards a female voice inquired if the
gentleman was there.
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'Yes,' replied Nicholas, turning towards the corner from which the voice proceeded.
'Who is that?'
'Only me, sir,' replied the voice. 'Now if you please, ma'am.'
A gleam of light shone into the place, and presently the servant girl appeared, bearing a
light, and followed by her young mistress, who seemed to be overwhelmed by modesty and
confusion.
At sight of the young lady, Nicholas started and changed colour; his heart beat
violently, and he stood rooted to the spot. At that instant, and almost simultaneously with
her arrival and that of the candle, there was heard a loud and furious knocking at the street−
door, which caused Newman Noggs to jump up, with great agility, from a beer−barrel on
which he had been seated astride, and to exclaim abruptly, and with a face of ashy paleness,
'Bobster, by the Lord!'
The young lady shrieked, the attendant wrung her hands, Nicholas gazed from one to
the other in apparent stupefaction, and Newman hurried to and fro, thrusting his hands into
all his pockets successively, and drawing out the linings of every one in the excess of his
irresolution. It was but a moment, but the confusion crowded into that one moment no
imagination can exaggerate.
'Leave the house, for Heaven's sake! We have done wrong, we deserve it all,' cried the
young lady. 'Leave the house, or I am ruined and undone for ever.'
'Will you hear me say but one word?' cried Nicholas. 'Only one. I will not detain you.
Will you hear me say one word, in explanation of this mischance?'
But Nicholas might as well have spoken to the wind, for the young lady, with distracted
looks, hurried up the stairs. He would have followed her, but Newman, twisting his hand in
his coat collar, dragged him towards the passage by which they had entered.
'Let me go, Newman, in the Devil's name!' cried Nicholas. 'I must speak to her. I will! I
will not leave this house without.'
'Reputation – character – violence – consider,' said Newman, clinging round him with
both arms, and hurrying him away. 'Let them open the door. We'll go, as we came, directly
it's shut. Come. This way. Here.'
Overpowered by the remonstrances of Newman, and the tears and prayers of the girl,
and the tremendous knocking above, which had never ceased, Nicholas allowed himself to
be hurried off; and, precisely as Mr Bobster made his entrance by the street−door, he and
Noggs made their exit by the area−gate.
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CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love. 496
They hurried away, through several streets, without stopping or speaking. At last, they
halted and confronted each other with blank and rueful faces.
'Never mind,' said Newman, gasping for breath. 'Don't be cast down. It's all right. More
fortunate next time. It couldn't be helped. I did MY part.'
'Excellently,' replied Nicholas, taking his hand. 'Excellently, and like the true and
zealous friend you are. Only – mind, I am not disappointed, Newman, and feel just as much
indebted to you – only IT WAS THE WRONG LADY.'
'Eh?' cried Newman Noggs. 'Taken in by the servant?'
'Newman, Newman,' said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder: 'it was the wrong
servant too.'
Newman's under−jaw dropped, and he gazed at Nicholas, with his sound eye fixed fast
and motionless in his head.
'Don't take it to heart,' said Nicholas; 'it's of no consequence; you see I don't care about
it; you followed the wrong person, that's all.'
That WAS all. Whether Newman Noggs had looked round the pump, in a slanting
direction, so long, that his sight became impaired; or whether, finding that there was time to
spare, he had recruited himself with a few drops of something stronger than the pump could
yield – by whatsoever means it had come to pass, this was his mistake. And Nicholas went
home to brood upon it, and to meditate upon the charms of the unknown young lady, now as
far beyond his reach as ever.
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CHAPTER 41 − Containing some Romantic Passages between
Mrs Nickleby and the Gentleman in the Small−clothes next Door.
E
ver since her last momentous conversation with her son, Mrs Nickleby had begun to
display unusual care in the adornment of her person, gradually superadding to those staid
and matronly habiliments, which had, up to that time, formed her ordinary attire, a variety of
embellishments and decorations, slight perhaps in themselves, but, taken together, and
considered with reference to the subject of her disclosure, of no mean importance. Even her
black dress assumed something of a deadly−lively air from the jaunty style in which it was
worn; and, eked out as its lingering attractions were; by a prudent disposal, here and there,
of certain juvenile ornaments of little or no value, which had, for that reason alone, escaped
the general wreck and been permitted to slumber peacefully in odd corners of old drawers
and boxes where daylight seldom shone, her mourning garments assumed quite a new
character. From being the outward tokens of respect and sorrow for the dead, they became
converted into signals of very slaughterous and killing designs upon the living.
Mrs Nickleby might have been stimulated to this proceeding by a lofty sense of duty,
and impulses of unquestionable excellence. She might, by this time, have become impressed
with the sinfulness of long indulgence in unavailing woe, or the necessity of setting a proper
example of neatness and decorum to her blooming daughter. Considerations of duty and
responsibility apart, the change might have taken its rise in feelings of the purest and most
disinterested charity. The gentleman next door had been vilified by Nicholas; rudely
stigmatised as a dotard and an idiot; and for these attacks upon his understanding, Mrs
Nickleby was, in some sort, accountable. She might have felt that it was the act of a good
Christian to show by all means in her power, that the abused gentleman was neither the one
nor the other. And what better means could she adopt, towards so virtuous and laudable an
end, than proving to all men, in her own person, that his passion was the most rational and
reasonable in the world, and just the very result, of all others, which discreet and thinking
persons might have foreseen, from her incautiously displaying her matured charms, without
reserve, under the very eye, as it were, of an ardent and too−susceptible man?
'Ah!' said Mrs Nickleby, gravely shaking her head; 'if Nicholas knew what his poor dear
papa suffered before we were engaged, when I used to hate him, he would have a little more
feeling. Shall I ever forget the morning I looked scornfully at him when he offered to carry
my parasol? Or that night, when I frowned at him? It was a mercy he didn't emigrate. It very
nearly drove him to it.'
Whether the deceased might not have been better off if he had emigrated in his bachelor
days, was a question which his relict did not stop to consider; for Kate entered the room,
with her workbox, in this stage of her reflections; and a much slighter interruption, or no
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interruption at all, would have diverted Mrs Nickleby's thoughts into a new channel at any
time.
'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'I don't know how it is, but a fine warm summer day
like this, with the birds singing in every direction, always puts me in mind of roast pig, with
sage and onion sauce, and made gravy.'
'That's a curious association of ideas, is it not, mama?'
'Upon my word, my dear, I don't know,' replied Mrs Nickleby. 'Roast pig; let me see.
On the day five weeks after you were christened, we had a roast – no, that couldn't have
been a pig, either, because I recollect there were a pair of them to carve, and your poor papa
and I could never have thought of sitting down to two pigs – they must have been partridges.
Roast pig! I hardly think we ever could have had one, now I come to remember, for your
papa could never bear the sight of them in the shops, and used to say that they always put
him in mind of very little babies, only the pigs had much fairer complexions; and he had a
horror of little babies, to, because he couldn't very well afford any increase to his family, and
had a natural dislike to the subject. It's very odd now, what can have put that in my head! I
recollect dining once at Mrs Bevan's, in that broad street round the corner by the
coachmaker's, where the tipsy man fell through the cellar−flap of an empty house nearly a
week before the quarter−day, and wasn't found till the new tenant went in – and we had roast
pig there. It must be that, I think, that reminds me of it, especially as there was a little bird in
the room that would keep on singing all the time of dinner – at least, not a little bird, for it
was a parrot, and he didn't sing exactly, for he talked and swore dreadfully: but I think it
must be that. Indeed I am sure it must. Shouldn't you say so, my dear?'
'I should say there was not a doubt about it, mama,' returned Kate, with a cheerful smile.
'No; but DO you think so, Kate?' said Mrs Nickleby, with as much gravity as if it were a
question of the most imminent and thrilling interest. 'If you don't, say so at once, you know;
because it's just as well to be correct, particularly on a point of this kind, which is very
curious and worth settling while one thinks about it.'
Kate laughingly replied that she was quite convinced; and as her mama still appeared
undetermined whether it was not absolutely essential that the subject should be renewed,
proposed that they should take their work into the summer−house, and enjoy the beauty of
the afternoon. Mrs Nickleby readily assented, and to the summer− house they repaired,
without further discussion.
'Well, I will say,' observed Mrs Nickleby, as she took her seat, 'that there never was
such a good creature as Smike. Upon my word, the pains he has taken in putting this little
arbour to rights, and training the sweetest flowers about it, are beyond anything I could have
– I wish he wouldn't put ALL the gravel on your side, Kate, my dear, though, and leave
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nothing but mould for me.'
'Dear mama,' returned Kate, hastily, 'take this seat – do – to oblige me, mama.'
'No, indeed, my dear. I shall keep my own side,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Well! I declare!'
Kate looked up inquiringly.
'If he hasn't been,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'and got, from somewhere or other, a couple of
roots of those flowers that I said I was so fond of, the other night, and asked you if you were
not – no, that YOU said YOU were so fond of, the other night, and asked me if I wasn't – it's
the same thing. Now, upon my word, I take that as very kind and attentive indeed! I don't
see,' added Mrs Nickleby, looking narrowly about her, 'any of them on my side, but I
suppose they grow best near the gravel. You may depend upon it they do, Kate, and that's
the reason they are all near you, and he has put the gravel there, because it's the sunny side.
Upon my word, that's very clever now! I shouldn't have had half as much thought myself!'
'Mama,' said Kate, bending over her work so that her face was almost hidden, 'before
you were married – '
'Dear me, Kate,' interrupted Mrs Nickleby, 'what in the name of goodness graciousness
makes you fly off to the time before I was married, when I'm talking to you about his
thoughtfulness and attention to me? You don't seem to take the smallest interest in the
garden.'
'Oh! mama,' said Kate, raising her face again, 'you know I do.'
'Well then, my dear, why don't you praise the neatness and prettiness with which it's
kept?' said Mrs Nickleby. 'How very odd you are, Kate!'
'I do praise it, mama,' answered Kate, gently. 'Poor fellow!'
'I scarcely ever hear you, my dear,' retorted Mrs Nickleby; 'that's all I've got to say.' By
this time the good lady had been a long while upon one topic, so she fell at once into her
daughter's little trap, if trap it were, and inquired what she had been going to say.
'About what, mama?' said Kate, who had apparently quite forgotten her diversion.
'Lor, Kate, my dear,' returned her mother, 'why, you're asleep or stupid! About the time
before I was married.'
'Oh yes!' said Kate, 'I remember. I was going to ask, mama, before you were married,
had you many suitors?'
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'Suitors, my dear!' cried Mrs Nickleby, with a smile of wonderful complacency. 'First
and last, Kate, I must have had a dozen at least.'
'Mama!' returned Kate, in a tone of remonstrance.
'I had indeed, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby; 'not including your poor papa, or a young
gentleman who used to go, at that time, to the same dancing school, and who WOULD send
gold watches and bracelets to our house in gilt−edged paper, (which were always returned,)
and who afterwards unfortunately went out to Botany Bay in a cadet ship – a convict ship I
mean – and escaped into a bush and killed sheep, (I don't know how they got there,) and was
going to be hung, only he accidentally choked himself, and the government pardoned him.
Then there was young Lukin,' said Mrs Nickleby, beginning with her left thumb and
checking off the names on her fingers – 'Mogley – Tipslark – Cabbery – Smifser – '
Having now reached her little finger, Mrs Nickleby was carrying the account over to the
other hand, when a loud 'Hem!' which appeared to come from the very foundation of the
garden−wall, gave both herself and her daughter a violent start.
'Mama! what was that?' said Kate, in a low tone of voice.
'Upon my word, my dear,' returned Mrs Nickleby, considerably startled, 'unless it was
the gentleman belonging to the next house, I don't know what it could possibly – '
'A – hem!' cried the same voice; and that, not in the tone of an ordinary clearing of the
throat, but in a kind of bellow, which woke up all the echoes in the neighbourhood, and was
prolonged to an extent which must have made the unseen bellower quite black in the face.
'I understand it now, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, laying her hand on Kate's; 'don't be
alarmed, my love, it's not directed to you, and is not intended to frighten anybody. Let us
give everybody their due, Kate; I am bound to say that.'
So saying, Mrs Nickleby nodded her head, and patted the back of her daughter's hand, a
great many times, and looked as if she could tell something vastly important if she chose,
but had self−denial, thank Heaven; and wouldn't do it.
'What do you mean, mama?' demanded Kate, in evident surprise.
'Don't be flurried, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, looking towards the garden−wall, 'for
you see I'm not, and if it would be excusable in anybody to be flurried, it certainly would –
under all the circumstances – be excusable in me, but I am not, Kate – not at all.'
'It seems designed to attract our attention, mama,' said Kate.
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'It is designed to attract our attention, my dear; at least,' rejoined Mrs Nickleby, drawing
herself up, and patting her daughter's hand more blandly than before, 'to attract the attention
of one of us. Hem! you needn't be at all uneasy, my dear.'
Kate looked very much perplexed, and was apparently about to ask for further
explanation, when a shouting and scuffling noise, as of an elderly gentleman whooping, and
kicking up his legs on loose gravel, with great violence, was heard to proceed from the same
direction as the former sounds; and before they had subsided, a large cucumber was seen to
shoot up in the air with the velocity of a sky−rocket, whence it descended, tumbling over
and over, until it fell at Mrs Nickleby's feet.
This remarkable appearance was succeeded by another of a precisely similar
description; then a fine vegetable marrow, of unusually large dimensions, was seen to whirl
aloft, and come toppling down; then, several cucumbers shot up together; and, finally, the
air was darkened by a shower of onions, turnip−radishes, and other small vegetables, which
fell rolling and scattering, and bumping about, in all directions.
As Kate rose from her seat, in some alarm, and caught her mother's hand to run with her
into the house, she felt herself rather retarded than assisted in her intention; and following
the direction of Mrs Nickleby's eyes, was quite terrified by the apparition of an old black
velvet cap, which, by slow degrees, as if its wearer were ascending a ladder or pair of steps,
rose above the wall dividing their garden from that of the next cottage, (which, like their
own, was a detached building,) and was gradually followed by a very large head, and an old
face, in which were a pair of most extraordinary grey eyes: very wild, very wide open, and
rolling in their sockets, with a dull, languishing, leering look, most ugly to behold.
'Mama!' cried Kate, really terrified for the moment, 'why do you stop, why do you lose
an instant? Mama, pray come in!'
'Kate, my dear,' returned her mother, still holding back, 'how can you be so foolish? I'm
ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are ever to get through life, if you're such a
coward as this? What do you want, sir?' said Mrs Nickleby, addressing the intruder with a
sort of simpering displeasure. 'How dare you look into this garden?'
'Queen of my soul,' replied the stranger, folding his hands together, 'this goblet sip!'
'Nonsense, sir,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Kate, my love, pray be quiet.'
'Won't you sip the goblet?' urged the stranger, with his head imploringly on one side,
and his right hand on his breast. 'Oh, do sip the goblet!'
'I shall not consent to do anything of the kind, sir,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Pray, begone.'
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'Why is it,' said the old gentleman, coming up a step higher, and leaning his elbows on
the wall, with as much complacency as if he were looking out of window, 'why is it that
beauty is always obdurate, even when admiration is as honourable and respectful as mine?'
Here he smiled, kissed his hand, and made several low bows. 'Is it owing to the bees, who,
when the honey season is over, and they are supposed to have been killed with brimstone, in
reality fly to Barbary and lull the captive Moors to sleep with their drowsy songs? Or is it,'
he added, dropping his voice almost to a whisper, 'in consequence of the statue at Charing
Cross having been lately seen, on the Stock Exchange at midnight, walking arm−in−arm
with the Pump from Aldgate, in a riding−habit?'
'Mama,' murmured Kate, 'do you hear him?'
'Hush, my dear!' replied Mrs Nickleby, in the same tone of voice, 'he is very polite, and
I think that was a quotation from the poets. Pray, don't worry me so – you'll pinch my arm
black and blue. Go away, sir!'
'Quite away?' said the gentleman, with a languishing look. 'Oh! quite away?'
'Yes,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'certainly. You have no business here. This is private
property, sir; you ought to know that.'
'I do know,' said the old gentleman, laying his finger on his nose, with an air of
familiarity, most reprehensible, 'that this is a sacred and enchanted spot, where the most
divine charms' – here he kissed his hand and bowed again – 'waft mellifluousness over the
neighbours' gardens, and force the fruit and vegetables into premature existence. That fact I
am acquainted with. But will you permit me, fairest creature, to ask you one question, in the
absence of the planet Venus, who has gone on business to the Horse Guards, and would
otherwise – jealous of your superior charms – interpose between us?'
'Kate,' observed Mrs Nickleby, turning to her daughter, 'it's very awkward, positively. I
really don't know what to say to this gentleman. One ought to be civil, you know.'
'Dear mama,' rejoined Kate, 'don't say a word to him, but let us run away as fast as we
can, and shut ourselves up till Nicholas comes home.'
Mrs Nickleby looked very grand, not to say contemptuous, at this humiliating proposal;
and, turning to the old gentleman, who had watched them during these whispers with
absorbing eagerness, said:
'If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gentleman I should imagine you to be, from
your language and – and – appearance, (quite the counterpart of your grandpapa, Kate, my
dear, in his best days,) and will put your question to me in plain words, I will answer it.'
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If Mrs Nickleby's excellent papa had borne, in his best days, a resemblance to the
neighbour now looking over the wall, he must have been, to say the least, a very
queer−looking old gentleman in his prime. Perhaps Kate thought so, for she ventured to
glance at his living portrait with some attention, as he took off his black velvet cap, and,
exhibiting a perfectly bald head, made a long series of bows, each accompanied with a fresh
kiss of the hand. After exhausting himself, to all appearance, with this fatiguing
performance, he covered his head once more, pulled the cap very carefully over the tips of
his ears, and resuming his former attitude, said,
'The question is – '
Here he broke off to look round in every direction, and satisfy himself beyond all doubt
that there were no listeners near. Assured that there were not, he tapped his nose several
times, accompanying the action with a cunning look, as though congratulating himself on his
caution; and stretching out his neck, said in a loud whisper,
'Are you a princess?'
'You are mocking me, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby, making a feint of retreating towards
the house.
'No, but are you?' said the old gentleman.
'You know I am not, sir,' replied Mrs Nickleby.
'Then are you any relation to the Archbishop of Canterbury?' inquired the old gentleman
with great anxiety, 'or to the Pope of Rome? Or the Speaker of the House of Commons?
Forgive me, if I am wrong, but I was told you were niece to the Commissioners of Paving,
and daughter−in−law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Common Council, which would
account for your relationship to all three.'
'Whoever has spread such reports, sir,' returned Mrs Nickleby, with some warmth, 'has
taken great liberties with my name, and one which I am sure my son Nicholas, if he was
aware of it, would not allow for an instant. The idea!' said Mrs Nickleby, drawing herself up,
'niece to the Commissioners of Paving!'
'Pray, mama, come away!' whispered Kate.
'«Pray mama!» Nonsense, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby, angrily, 'but that's just the way. If
they had said I was niece to a piping bullfinch, what would you care? But I have no
sympathy,' whimpered Mrs Nickleby. 'I don't expect it, that's one thing.'
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'Tears!' cried the old gentleman, with such an energetic jump, that he fell down two or
three steps and grated his chin against the wall. 'Catch the crystal globules – catch 'em –
bottle 'em up – cork 'em tight – put sealing wax on the top – seal 'em with a cupid – label
'em «Best quality» – and stow 'em away in the fourteen binn, with a bar of iron on the top to
keep the thunder off!'
Issuing these commands, as if there were a dozen attendants all actively engaged in their
execution, he turned his velvet cap inside out, put it on with great dignity so as to obscure
his right eye and three−fourths of his nose, and sticking his arms a−kimbo, looked very
fiercely at a sparrow hard by, till the bird flew away, when he put his cap in his pocket with
an air of great satisfaction, and addressed himself with respectful demeanour to Mrs
Nickleby.
'Beautiful madam,' such were his words, 'if I have made any mistake with regard to your
family or connections, I humbly beseech you to pardon me. If I supposed you to be related
to Foreign Powers or Native Boards, it is because you have a manner, a carriage, a dignity,
which you will excuse my saying that none but yourself (with the single exception perhaps
of the tragic muse, when playing extemporaneously on the barrel organ before the East India
Company) can parallel. I am not a youth, ma'am, as you see; and although beings like you
can never grow old, I venture to presume that we are fitted for each other.'
'Really, Kate, my love!' said Mrs Nickleby faintly, and looking another way.
'I have estates, ma'am,' said the old gentleman, flourishing his right hand negligently, as
if he made very light of such matters, and speaking very fast; 'jewels, lighthouses,
fish−ponds, a whalery of my own in the North Sea, and several oyster−beds of great profit in
the Pacific Ocean. If you will have the kindness to step down to the Royal Exchange and to
take the cocked−hat off the stoutest beadle's head, you will find my card in the lining of the
crown, wrapped up in a piece of blue paper. My walking−stick is also to be seen on
application to the chaplain of the House of Commons, who is strictly forbidden to take any
money for showing it. I have enemies about me, ma'am,' he looked towards his house and
spoke very low, 'who attack me on all occasions, and wish to secure my property. If you
bless me with your hand and heart, you can apply to the Lord Chancellor or call out the
military if necessary – sending my toothpick to the commander−in−chief will be sufficient –
and so clear the house of them before the ceremony is performed. After that, love, bliss and
rapture; rapture, love and bliss. Be mine, be mine!'
Repeating these last words with great rapture and enthusiasm, the old gentleman put on
his black velvet cap again, and looking up into the sky in a hasty manner, said something
that was not quite intelligible concerning a balloon he expected, and which was rather after
its time.
'Be mine, be mine!' repeated the old gentleman.
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'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I have hardly the power to speak; but it is necessary
for the happiness of all parties that this matter should be set at rest for ever.'
'Surely there is no necessity for you to say one word, mama?' reasoned Kate.
'You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to judge for myself,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'Be mine, be mine!' cried the old gentleman.
'It can scarcely be expected, sir,' said Mrs Nickleby, fixing her eyes modestly on the
ground, 'that I should tell a stranger whether I feel flattered and obliged by such proposals,
or not. They certainly are made under very singular circumstances; still at the same time, as
far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course' (Mrs Nickleby's customary qualification),
'they must be gratifying and agreeable to one's feelings.'
'Be mine, be mine,' cried the old gentleman. 'Gog and Magog, Gog and Magog. Be
mine, be mine!'
'It will be sufficient for me to say, sir,' resumed Mrs Nickleby, with perfect seriousness
– 'and I'm sure you'll see the propriety of taking an answer and going away – that I have
made up my mind to remain a widow, and to devote myself to my children. You may not
suppose I am the mother of two children – indeed many people have doubted it, and said
that nothing on earth could ever make 'em believe it possible – but it is the case, and they are
both grown up. We shall be very glad to have you for a neighbour – very glad; delighted, I'm
sure – but in any other character it's quite impossible, quite. As to my being young enough to
marry again, that perhaps may be so, or it may not be; but I couldn't think of it for an instant,
not on any account whatever. I said I never would, and I never will. It's a very painful thing
to have to reject proposals, and I would much rather that none were made; at the same time
this is the answer that I determined long ago to make, and this is the answer I shall always
give.'
These observations were partly addressed to the old gentleman, partly to Kate, and
partly delivered in soliloquy. Towards their conclusion, the suitor evinced a very irreverent
degree of inattention, and Mrs Nickleby had scarcely finished speaking, when, to the great
terror both of that lady and her daughter, he suddenly flung off his coat, and springing on the
top of the wall, threw himself into an attitude which displayed his small−clothes and grey
worsteds to the fullest advantage, and concluded by standing on one leg, and repeating his
favourite bellow with increased vehemence.
While he was still dwelling on the last note, and embellishing it with a prolonged
flourish, a dirty hand was observed to glide stealthily and swiftly along the top of the wall,
as if in pursuit of a fly, and then to clasp with the utmost dexterity one of the old gentleman's
ankles. This done, the companion hand appeared, and clasped the other ankle.
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Thus encumbered the old gentleman lifted his legs awkwardly once or twice, as if they
were very clumsy and imperfect pieces of machinery, and then looking down on his own
side of the wall, burst into a loud laugh.
'It's you, is it?' said the old gentleman.
'Yes, it's me,' replied a gruff voice.
'How's the Emperor of Tartary?' said the old gentleman.
'Oh! he's much the same as usual,' was the reply. 'No better and no worse.'
'The young Prince of China,' said the old gentleman, with much interest. 'Is he
reconciled to his father−in−law, the great potato salesman?'
'No,' answered the gruff voice; 'and he says he never will be, that's more.'
'If that's the case,' observed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I'd better come down.'
'Well,' said the man on the other side, 'I think you had, perhaps.'
One of the hands being then cautiously unclasped, the old gentleman dropped into a
sitting posture, and was looking round to smile and bow to Mrs Nickleby, when he
disappeared with some precipitation, as if his legs had been pulled from below.
Very much relieved by his disappearance, Kate was turning to speak to her mama, when
the dirty hands again became visible, and were immediately followed by the figure of a
coarse squat man, who ascended by the steps which had been recently occupied by their
singular neighbour.
'Beg your pardon, ladies,' said this new comer, grinning and touching his hat. 'Has he
been making love to either of you?'
'Yes,' said Kate.
'Ah!' rejoined the man, taking his handkerchief out of his hat and wiping his face, 'he
always will, you know. Nothing will prevent his making love.'
'I need not ask you if he is out of his mind, poor creature,' said Kate.
'Why no,' replied the man, looking into his hat, throwing his handkerchief in at one dab,
and putting it on again. 'That's pretty plain, that is.'
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'Has he been long so?' asked Kate.
'A long while.'
'And is there no hope for him?' said Kate, compassionately
'Not a bit, and don't deserve to be,' replied the keeper. 'He's a deal pleasanter without his
senses than with 'em. He was the cruellest, wickedest, out−and−outerest old flint that ever
drawed breath.'
'Indeed!' said Kate.
'By George!' replied the keeper, shaking his head so emphatically that he was obliged to
frown to keep his hat on. 'I never come across such a vagabond, and my mate says the same.
Broke his poor wife's heart, turned his daughters out of doors, drove his sons into the streets;
it was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness, and
selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he'd have drove many others so. Hope for HIM,
an old rip! There isn't too much hope going' but I'll bet a crown that what there is, is saved
for more deserving chaps than him, anyhow.'
With which confession of his faith, the keeper shook his head again, as much as to say
that nothing short of this would do, if things were to go on at all; and touching his hat sulkily
– not that he was in an ill humour, but that his subject ruffled him – descended the ladder,
and took it away.
During this conversation, Mrs Nickleby had regarded the man with a severe and
steadfast look. She now heaved a profound sigh, and pursing up her lips, shook her head in a
slow and doubtful manner.
'Poor creature!' said Kate.
'Ah! poor indeed!' rejoined Mrs Nickleby. 'It's shameful that such things should be
allowed. Shameful!'
'How can they be helped, mama?' said Kate, mournfully. 'The infirmities of nature – '
'Nature!' said Mrs Nickleby. 'What! Do YOU suppose this poor gentleman is out of his
mind?'
'Can anybody who sees him entertain any other opinion, mama?'
'Why then, I just tell you this, Kate,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'that, he is nothing of the
kind, and I am surprised you can be so imposed upon. It's some plot of these people to
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possess themselves of his property – didn't he say so himself? He may be a little odd and
flighty, perhaps, many of us are that; but downright mad! and express himself as he does,
respectfully, and in quite poetical language, and making offers with so much thought, and
care, and prudence – not as if he ran into the streets, and went down upon his knees to the
first chit of a girl he met, as a madman would! No, no, Kate, there's a great deal too much
method in HIS madness; depend upon that, my dear.'
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CHAPTER 42 − Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the
best of Friends must sometimes part.
T
he pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all day in the heat, and the
twain Saracens' heads guarding the entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign they are
the duplicate presentments, looked – or seemed, in the eyes of jaded and footsore
passers−by, to look – more vicious than usual, after blistering and scorching in the sun,
when, in one of the inn's smallest sitting−rooms, through whose open window there rose, in
a palpable steam, wholesome exhalations from reeking coach−horses, the usual furniture of
a tea−table was displayed in neat and inviting order, flanked by large joints of roast and
boiled, a tongue, a pigeon pie, a cold fowl, a tankard of ale, and other little matters of the
like kind, which, in degenerate towns and cities, are generally understood to belong more
particularly to solid lunches, stage−coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.
Mr John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered restlessly about these
delicacies, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies out of the sugar−basin with his wife's
pocket−handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon in the milk−pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut
off a little knob of crust, and a little corner of meat, and swallow them at two gulps like a
couple of pills. After every one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out his watch,
and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that he couldn't undertake to hold out two
minutes longer.
'Tilly!' said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and half asleep upon a sofa.
'Well, John!'
'Well, John!' retorted her husband, impatiently. 'Dost thou feel hoongry, lass?'
'Not very,' said Mrs Browdie.
'Not vary!' repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'Hear her say not vary, and us
dining at three, and loonching off pasthry thot aggravates a mon 'stead of pacifying him! Not
vary!'
'Here's a gen'l'man for you, sir,' said the waiter, looking in.
'A wa'at for me?' cried John, as though he thought it must be a letter, or a parcel.
'A gen'l'man, sir.'
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'Stars and garthers, chap!' said John, 'wa'at dost thou coom and say thot for? In wi' 'un.'
'Are you at home, sir?'
'At whoam!' cried John, 'I wish I wur; I'd ha tea'd two hour ago. Why, I told t'oother
chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell 'un d'rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi' hoonger.
In wi' 'un. Aha! Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest day o' my life,
sir. Hoo be all wi' ye? Ding! But, I'm glod o' this!'
Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of his salutation, John Browdie shook
Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping his palm with great violence between each
shake, to add warmth to the reception.
'Ah! there she be,' said John, observing the look which Nicholas directed towards his
wife. 'There she be – we shan't quarrel about her noo – eh? Ecod, when I think o' thot – but
thou want'st soom'at to eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa'at we're aboot to receive – '
No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing more was heard, for John had
already begun to play such a knife and fork, that his speech was, for the time, gone.
'I shall take the usual licence, Mr Browdie,' said Nicholas, as he placed a chair for the
bride.
'Tak' whatever thou like'st,' said John, 'and when a's gane, ca' for more.'
Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs Browdie, and handed her
to her seat.
'I say,' said John, rather astounded for the moment, 'mak' theeself quite at whoam, will
'ee?'
'You may depend upon that,' replied Nicholas; 'on one condition.'
'And wa'at may thot be?' asked John.
'That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for one.'
'Eh! d'ye hear thot?' cried John, laying down his knife and fork. 'A godfeyther! Ha! ha!
ha! Tilly – hear till 'un – a godfeyther! Divn't say a word more, ye'll never beat thot.
Occasion for 'un – a godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!'
Never was man so tickled with a respectable old joke, as John Browdie was with this.
He chuckled, roared, half suffocated himself by laughing large pieces of beef into his
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windpipe, roared again, persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face and black in
the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off again laughing inwardly, got worse,
choked, had his back thumped, stamped about, frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a
state of the last exhaustion and with the water streaming from his eyes, but still faintly
ejaculating, 'A godfeyther – a godfeyther, Tilly!' in a tone bespeaking an exquisite relish of
the sally, which no suffering could diminish.
'You remember the night of our first tea−drinking?' said Nicholas.
'Shall I e'er forget it, mun?' replied John Browdie.
'He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs Browdie?' said Nicholas.
'Quite a monster!'
'If you had only heard him as we were going home, Mr Nickleby, you'd have said so
indeed,' returned the bride. 'I never was so frightened in all my life.'
'Coom, coom,' said John, with a broad grin; 'thou know'st betther than thot, Tilly.'
'So I was,' replied Mrs Browdie. 'I almost made up my mind never to speak to you
again.'
'A'most!' said John, with a broader grin than the last. 'A'most made up her mind! And
she wur coaxin', and coaxin', and wheedlin', and wheedlin' a' the blessed wa'. «Wa'at didst
thou let yon chap mak' oop tiv'ee for?» says I. «I deedn't, John,» says she, a squeedgin my
arm. «You deedn't?» says I. «Noa,» says she, a squeedgin of me agean.'
'Lor, John!' interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much. 'How can you talk such
nonsense? As if I should have dreamt of such a thing!'
'I dinnot know whether thou'd ever dreamt of it, though I think that's loike eneaf, mind,'
retorted John; 'but thou didst it. «Ye're a feeckle, changeable weathercock, lass,» says I.
«Not feeckle, John,» says she. «Yes,» says I, «feeckle, dom'd feeckle. Dinnot tell me thou
bean't, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther's,» says I. «Him!» says she, quite screeching. «Ah!
him!» says I. «Why, John,» says she – and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a deal
harder than she'd deane afore – «dost thou think it's nat'ral noo, that having such a proper
mun as thou to keep company wi', I'd ever tak' opp wi' such a leetle scanty whipper−snapper
as yon?» she says. Ha! ha! ha! She said whipper−snapper! «Ecod!» I says, «efther thot,
neame the day, and let's have it ower!» Ha! ha! ha!'
Nicholas laughed very heartily at this story, both on account of its telling against
himself, and his being desirous to spare the blushes of Mrs Browdie, whose protestations
were drowned in peals of laughter from her husband. His good−nature soon put her at her
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ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughed so heartily at it, that Nicholas had
the satisfaction of feeling assured that in all essential respects it was strictly true.
'This is the second time,' said Nicholas, 'that we have ever taken a meal together, and
only third I have ever seen you; and yet it really seems to me as if I were among old friends.'
'Weel!' observed the Yorkshireman, 'so I say.'
'And I am sure I do,' added his young wife.
'I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,' said Nicholas; 'for if it
had not been for your kindness of heart, my good friend, when I had no right or reason to
expect it, I know not what might have become of me or what plight I should have been in by
this time.'
'Talk aboot soom'at else,' replied John, gruffly, 'and dinnot bother.'
'It must be a new song to the same tune then,' said Nicholas, smiling. 'I told you in my
letter that I deeply felt and admired your sympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at
the risk of involving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how greateful
he and I, and others whom you don't know, are to you for taking pity on him.'
'Ecod!' rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; 'and I can never tell YOU hoo
gratful soom folks that we do know would be loikewise, if THEY know'd I had takken pity
on him.'
'Ah!' exclaimed Mrs Browdie, 'what a state I was in that night!'
'Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in the escape?' inquired
Nicholas of John Browdie.
'Not a bit,' replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth from ear to ear. 'There I lay,
snoog in schoolmeasther's bed long efther it was dark, and nobody coom nigh the pleace.
«Weel!» thinks I, «he's got a pretty good start, and if he bean't whoam by noo, he never will
be; so you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind us reddy» – that is, you know,
schoolmeasther might coom.'
'I understand,' said Nicholas.
'Presently,' resumed John, 'he DID coom. I heerd door shut doonstairs, and him a
warking, oop in the daark. «Slow and steddy,' I says to myself, »tak' your time, sir – no
hurry.« He cooms to the door, turns the key – turns the key when there warn't nothing to
hoold the lock – and ca's oot 'Hallo, there!» – «Yes,» thinks I, «you may do thot agean, and
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not wakken anybody, sir.» «Hallo, there,» he says, and then he stops. «Thou'd betther not
aggravate me,» says schoolmeasther, efther a little time. «I'll brak' every boan in your
boddy, Smike,» he says, efther another little time. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a
loight, and when it cooms – ecod, such a hoorly−boorly! «Wa'at's the matter?» says I. «He's
gane,» says he, – stark mad wi' vengeance. «Have you heerd nought?» «Ees,» says I, «I
heerd street−door shut, no time at a' ago. I heerd a person run doon there» (pointing t'other
wa' – eh?) «Help!» he cries. «I'll help you,» says I; and off we set – the wrong wa'! Ho! ho!
ho!'
'Did you go far?' asked Nicholas.
'Far!' replied John; 'I run him clean off his legs in quarther of an hoor. To see old
schoolmeasther wi'out his hat, skimming along oop to his knees in mud and wather,
tumbling over fences, and rowling into ditches, and bawling oot like mad, wi' his one eye
looking sharp out for the lad, and his coat−tails flying out behind, and him spattered wi' mud
all ower, face and all! I tho't I should ha' dropped doon, and killed myself wi' laughing.'
John laughed so heartily at the mere recollection, that he communicated the contagion
to both his hearers, and all three burst into peals of laughter, which were renewed again and
again, until they could laugh no longer.
'He's a bad 'un,' said John, wiping his eyes; 'a very bad 'un, is schoolmeasther.'
'I can't bear the sight of him, John,' said his wife.
'Coom,' retorted John, 'thot's tidy in you, thot is. If it wa'nt along o' you, we shouldn't
know nought aboot 'un. Thou know'd 'un first, Tilly, didn't thou?'
'I couldn't help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,' returned his wife; 'she was an old
playmate of mine, you know.'
'Weel,' replied John, 'dean't I say so, lass? It's best to be neighbourly, and keep up old
acquaintance loike; and what I say is, dean't quarrel if 'ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr
Nickleby?'
'Certainly,' returned Nicholas; 'and you acted upon that principle when I meet you on
horseback on the road, after our memorable evening.'
'Sure−ly,' said John. 'Wa'at I say, I stick by.'
'And that's a fine thing to do, and manly too,' said Nicholas, 'though it's not exactly what
we understand by «coming Yorkshire over us» in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with
you, you said in your note.'
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'Yes,' replied John, 'Tilly's bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaid she be, too. She wean't
be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.'
'For shame, John,' said Mrs Browdie; with an acute perception of the joke though, being
a bride herself.
'The groom will be a blessed mun,' said John, his eyes twinkling at the idea. 'He'll be in
luck, he will.'
'You see, Mr Nickleby,' said his wife, 'that it was in consequence of her being here, that
John wrote to you and fixed tonight, because we thought that it wouldn't be pleasant for you
to meet, after what has passed.'
'Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,' said Nicholas, interrupting.
'Especially,' observed Mrs Browdie, looking very sly, 'after what we know about past
and gone love matters.'
'We know, indeed!' said Nicholas, shaking his head. 'You behaved rather wickedly
there, I suspect.'
'O' course she did,' said John Browdie, passing his huge forefinger through one of his
wife's pretty ringlets, and looking very proud of her. 'She wur always as skittish and full o'
tricks as a – '
'Well, as a what?' said his wife.
'As a woman,' returned John. 'Ding! But I dinnot know ought else that cooms near it.'
'You were speaking about Miss Squeers,' said Nicholas, with the view of stopping some
slight connubialities which had begun to pass between Mr and Mrs Browdie, and which
rendered the position of a third party in some degree embarrassing, as occasioning him to
feel rather in the way than otherwise.
'Oh yes,' rejoined Mrs Browdie. 'John ha' done. John fixed tonight, because she had
settled that she would go and drink tea with her father. And to make quite sure of there being
nothing amiss, and of your being quite alone with us, he settled to go out there and fetch her
home.'
'That was a very good arrangement,' said Nicholas, 'though I am sorry to be the occasion
of so much trouble.'
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'Not the least in the world,' returned Mrs Browdie; 'for we have looked forward to see
you – John and I have – with the greatest possible pleasure. Do you know, Mr Nickleby,'
said Mrs Browdie, with her archest smile, 'that I really think Fanny Squeers was very fond
of you?'
'I am very much obliged to her,' said Nicholas; 'but upon my word, I never aspired to
making any impression upon her virgin heart.'
'How you talk!' tittered Mrs Browdie. 'No, but do you know that really – seriously now
and without any joking – I was given to understand by Fanny herself, that you had made an
offer to her, and that you two were going to be engaged quite solemn and regular.'
'Was you, ma'am – was you?' cried a shrill female voice, 'was you given to understand
that I – I – was going to be engaged to an assassinating thief that shed the gore of my pa? Do
you – do you think, ma'am – that I was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet, as I couldn't
condescend to touch with kitchen tongs, without blacking and crocking myself by the
contract? Do you, ma'am – do you? Oh! base and degrading 'Tilda!'
With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the door wide open, and disclosed to the eyes
of the astonished Browdies and Nicholas, not only her own symmetrical form, arrayed in the
chaste white garments before described (a little dirtier), but the form of her brother and
father, the pair of Wackfords.
'This is the hend, is it?' continued Miss Squeers, who, being excited, aspirated her h's
strongly; 'this is the hend, is it, of all my forbearance and friendship for that double−faced
thing – that viper, that – that – mermaid?' (Miss Squeers hesitated a long time for this last
epithet, and brought it out triumphantly as last, as if it quite clinched the business.) 'This is
the hend, is it, of all my bearing with her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, her laying
herself out to catch the admiration of vulgar minds, in a way which made me blush for my –
for my – '
'Gender,' suggested Mr Squeers, regarding the spectators with a malevolent eye –
literally A malevolent eye.
'Yes,' said Miss Squeers; 'but I thank my stars that my ma is of the same – '
'Hear, hear!' remarked Mr Squeers; 'and I wish she was here to have a scratch at this
company.'
'This is the hend, is it,' said Miss Squeers, tossing her head, and looking contemptuously
at the floor, 'of my taking notice of that rubbishing creature, and demeaning myself to
patronise her?'
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'Oh, come,' rejoined Mrs Browdie, disregarding all the endeavours of her spouse to
restrain her, and forcing herself into a front row, 'don't talk such nonsense as that.'
'Have I not patronised you, ma'am?' demanded Miss Squeers.
'No,' returned Mrs Browdie.
'I will not look for blushes in such a quarter,' said Miss Squeers, haughtily, 'for that
countenance is a stranger to everything but hignominiousness and red−faced boldness.'
'I say,' interposed John Browdie, nettled by these accumulated attacks on his wife, 'dra'
it mild, dra' it mild.'
'You, Mr Browdie,' said Miss Squeers, taking him up very quickly, 'I pity. I have no
feeling for you, sir, but one of unliquidated pity.'
'Oh!' said John.
'No,' said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent, 'although I AM a queer
bridesmaid, and SHAN'T be a bride in a hurry, and although my husband WILL be in luck,
I entertain no sentiments towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.'
Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, who looked sideways at her, as
much as to say, 'There you had him.'
'I know what you've got to go through,' said Miss Squeers, shaking her curls violently. 'I
know what life is before you, and if you was my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish
you nothing worse.'
'Couldn't you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was the case?' inquired Mrs
Browdie, with great suavity of manner.
'Oh, ma'am, how witty you are,' retorted Miss Squeers with a low curtsy, 'almost as
witty, ma'am, as you are clever. How very clever it was in you, ma'am, to choose a time
when I had gone to tea with my pa, and was sure not to come back without being fetched!
What a pity you never thought that other people might be as clever as yourself and spoil
your plans!'
'You won't vex me, child, with such airs as these,' said the late Miss Price, assuming the
matron.
'Don't MISSIS me, ma'am, if you please,' returned Miss Squeers, sharply. 'I'll not bear
it. Is THIS the hend – '
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'Dang it a',' cried John Browdie, impatiently. 'Say thee say out, Fanny, and mak' sure it's
the end, and dinnot ask nobody whether it is or not.'
'Thanking you for your advice which was not required, Mr Browdie,' returned Miss
Squeers, with laborious politeness, 'have the goodness not to presume to meddle with my
Christian name. Even my pity shall never make me forget what's due to myself, Mr
Browdie. 'Tilda,' said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accession of violence that John
started in his boots, 'I throw you off for ever, miss. I abandon you. I renounce you. I
wouldn't,' cried Miss Squeers in a solemn voice, 'have a child named 'Tilda, not to save it
from its grave.'
'As for the matther o' that,' observed John, 'it'll be time eneaf to think aboot neaming of
it when it cooms.'
'John!' interposed his wife, 'don't tease her.'
'Oh! Tease, indeed!' cried Miss Squeers, bridling up. 'Tease, indeed! He, he! Tease, too!
No, don't tease her. Consider her feelings, pray!'
'If it's fated that listeners are never to hear any good of themselves,' said Mrs Browdie, 'I
can't help it, and I am very sorry for it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have
spoken so kindly of you behind your back, that even you could have found no fault with
what I said.'
'Oh, I dare say not, ma'am!' cried Miss Squeers, with another curtsy. 'Best thanks to you
for your goodness, and begging and praying you not to be hard upon me another time!'
'I don't know,' resumed Mrs Browdie, 'that I have said anything very bad of you, even
now. At all events, what I did say was quite true; but if I have, I am very sorry for it, and I
beg your pardon. You have said much worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have never
borne any malice to you, and I hope you'll not bear any to me.'
Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying her former friend from top to
toe, and elevating her nose in the air with ineffable disdain. But some indistinct allusions to
a 'puss,' and a 'minx,' and a 'contemptible creature,' escaped her; and this, together with a
severe biting of the lips, great difficulty in swallowing, and very frequent comings and
goings of breath, seemed to imply that feelings were swelling in Miss Squeers's bosom too
great for utterance.
While the foregoing conversation was proceeding, Master Wackford, finding himself
unnoticed, and feeling his preponderating inclinations strong upon him, had by little and
little sidled up to the table and attacked the food with such slight skirmishing as drawing his
fingers round and round the inside of the plates, and afterwards sucking them with infinite
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relish; picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over the surface of the butter; pocketing
lumps of sugar, pretending all the time to be absorbed in thought; and so forth. Finding that
no interference was attempted with these small liberties, he gradually mounted to greater,
and, after helping himself to a moderately good cold collation, was, by this time, deep in the
pie.
Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr Squeers, who, so long as the attention of the
company was fixed upon other objects, hugged himself to think that his son and heir should
be fattening at the enemy's expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary
calm, in which the proceedings of little Wackford could scarcely fail to be observed, he
feigned to be aware of the circumstance for the first time, and inflicted upon the face of that
young gentleman a slap that made the very tea−cups ring.
'Eating!' cried Mr Squeers, 'of what his father's enemies has left! It's fit to go and poison
you, you unnat'ral boy.'
'It wean't hurt him,' said John, apparently very much relieved by the prospect of having
a man in the quarrel; 'let' un eat. I wish the whole school was here. I'd give'em soom'at to
stay their unfort'nate stomachs wi', if I spent the last penny I had!'
Squeers scowled at him with the worst and most malicious expression of which his face
was capable – it was a face of remarkable capability, too, in that way – and shook his fist
stealthily.
'Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,' said John, 'dinnot make a fool o' thyself; for if I was to
sheake mine – only once – thou'd fa' doon wi' the wind o' it.'
'It was you, was it,' returned Squeers, 'that helped off my runaway boy? It was you, was
it?'
'Me!' returned John, in a loud tone. 'Yes, it wa' me, coom; wa'at o' that? It wa' me. Noo
then!'
'You hear him say he did it, my child!' said Squeers, appealing to his daughter. 'You
hear him say he did it!'
'Did it!' cried John. 'I'll tell 'ee more; hear this, too. If thou'd got another roonaway boy,
I'd do it agean. If thou'd got twonty roonaway boys, I'd do it twonty times ower, and twonty
more to thot; and I tell thee more,' said John, 'noo my blood is oop, that thou'rt an old
ra'ascal; and that it's weel for thou, thou be'est an old 'un, or I'd ha' poonded thee to flour
when thou told an honest mun hoo thou'd licked that poor chap in t' coorch.'
'An honest man!' cried Squeers, with a sneer.
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'Ah! an honest man,' replied John; 'honest in ought but ever putting legs under seame
table wi' such as thou.'
'Scandal!' said Squeers, exultingly. 'Two witnesses to it; Wackford knows the nature of
an oath, he does; we shall have you there, sir. Rascal, eh?' Mr Squeers took out his
pocketbook and made a note of it. 'Very good. I should say that was worth full twenty pound
at the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.'
''Soizes,' cried John, 'thou'd betther not talk to me o' 'Soizes. Yorkshire schools have
been shown up at 'Soizes afore noo, mun, and it's a ticklish soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.'
Mr Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, looking very white with passion;
and taking his daughter's arm, and dragging little Wackford by the hand, retreated towards
the door.
'As for you,' said Squeers, turning round and addressing Nicholas, who, as he had
caused him to smart pretty soundly on a former occasion, purposely abstained from taking
any part in the discussion, 'see if I ain't down upon you before long. You'll go a kidnapping
of boys, will you? Take care their fathers don't turn up – mark that – take care their fathers
don't turn up, and send 'em back to me to do as I like with, in spite of you.'
'I am not afraid of that,' replied Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and
turning away.
'Ain't you!' retorted Squeers, with a diabolical look. 'Now then, come along.'
'I leave such society, with my pa, for Hever,' said Miss Squeers, looking
contemptuously and loftily round. 'I am defiled by breathing the air with such creatures.
Poor Mr Browdie! He! he! he! I do pity him, that I do; he's so deluded. He! he! he! – Artful
and designing 'Tilda!'
With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majestic wrath, Miss Squeers swept
from the room; and having sustained her dignity until the last possible moment, was heard to
sob and scream and struggle in the passage.
John Browdie remained standing behind the table, looking from his wife to Nicholas,
and back again, with his mouth wide open, until his hand accidentally fell upon the tankard
of ale, when he took it up, and having obscured his features therewith for some time, drew a
long breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang the bell.
'Here, waither,' said John, briskly. 'Look alive here. Tak' these things awa', and let's
have soomat broiled for sooper – vary comfortable and plenty o' it – at ten o'clock. Bring
soom brandy and soom wather, and a pair o' slippers – the largest pair in the house – and be
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quick aboot it. Dash ma wig!' said John, rubbing his hands, 'there's no ganging oot to neeght,
noo, to fetch anybody whoam, and ecod, we'll begin to spend the evening in airnest.'
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CHAPTER 43 − Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in
bringing various People together.
T
he storm had long given place to a calm the most profound, and the evening was
pretty far advanced – indeed supper was over, and the process of digestion proceeding as
favourably as, under the influence of complete tranquillity, cheerful conversation, and a
moderate allowance of brandy−and−water, most wise men conversant with the anatomy and
functions of the human frame will consider that it ought to have proceeded, when the three
friends, or as one might say, both in a civil and religious sense, and with proper deference
and regard to the holy state of matrimony, the two friends, (Mr and Mrs Browdie counting
as no more than one,) were startled by the noise of loud and angry threatenings below stairs,
which presently attained so high a pitch, and were conveyed besides in language so
towering, sanguinary, and ferocious, that it could hardly have been surpassed, if there had
actually been a Saracen's head then present in the establishment, supported on the shoulders
and surmounting the trunk of a real, live, furious, and most unappeasable Saracen.
This turmoil, instead of quickly subsiding after the first outburst, (as turmoils not
unfrequently do, whether in taverns, legislative assemblies, or elsewhere,) into a mere
grumbling and growling squabble, increased every moment; and although the whole din
appeared to be raised by but one pair of lungs, yet that one pair was of so powerful a quality,
and repeated such words as 'scoundrel,' 'rascal,' 'insolent puppy,' and a variety of expletives
no less flattering to the party addressed, with such great relish and strength of tone, that a
dozen voices raised in concert under any ordinary circumstances would have made far less
uproar and created much smaller consternation.
'Why, what's the matter?' said Nicholas, moving hastily towards the door.
John Browdie was striding in the same direction when Mrs Browdie turned pale, and,
leaning back in her chair, requested him with a faint voice to take notice, that if he ran into
any danger it was her intention to fall into hysterics immediately, and that the consequences
might be more serious than he thought for. John looked rather disconcerted by this
intelligence, though there was a lurking grin on his face at the same time; but, being quite
unable to keep out of the fray, he compromised the matter by tucking his wife's arm under
his own, and, thus accompanied, following Nicholas downstairs with all speed.
The passage outside the coffee−room door was the scene of disturbance, and here were
congregated the coffee−room customers and waiters, together with two or three coachmen
and helpers from the yard. These had hastily assembled round a young man who from his
appearance might have been a year or two older than Nicholas, and who, besides having
given utterance to the defiances just now described, seemed to have proceeded to even
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greater lengths in his indignation, inasmuch as his feet had no other covering than a pair of
stockings, while a couple of slippers lay at no great distance from the head of a prostrate
figure in an opposite corner, who bore the appearance of having been shot into his present
retreat by means of a kick, and complimented by having the slippers flung about his ears
afterwards.
The coffee−room customers, and the waiters, and the coachmen, and the helpers – not
to mention a barmaid who was looking on from behind an open sash window – seemed at
that moment, if a spectator might judge from their winks, nods, and muttered exclamations,
strongly disposed to take part against the young gentleman in the stockings. Observing this,
and that the young gentleman was nearly of his own age and had in nothing the appearance
of an habitual brawler, Nicholas, impelled by such feelings as will influence young men
sometimes, felt a very strong disposition to side with the weaker party, and so thrust himself
at once into the centre of the group, and in a more emphatic tone, perhaps, than
circumstances might seem to warrant, demanded what all that noise was about.
'Hallo!' said one of the men from the yard, 'this is somebody in disguise, this is.'
'Room for the eldest son of the Emperor of Roosher, gen'l'men!' cried another fellow.
Disregarding these sallies, which were uncommonly well received, as sallies at the
expense of the best−dressed persons in a crowd usually are, Nicholas glanced carelessly
round, and addressing the young gentleman, who had by this time picked up his slippers and
thrust his feet into them, repeated his inquiries with a courteous air.
'A mere nothing!' he replied.
At this a murmur was raised by the lookers−on, and some of the boldest cried, 'Oh,
indeed! – Wasn't it though? – Nothing, eh? – He called that nothing, did he? Lucky for him
if he found it nothing.' These and many other expressions of ironical disapprobation having
been exhausted, two or three of the out−of−door fellows began to hustle Nicholas and the
young gentleman who had made the noise: stumbling against them by accident, and treading
on their toes, and so forth. But this being a round game, and one not necessarily limited to
three or four players, was open to John Browdie too, who, bursting into the little crowd – to
the great terror of his wife – and falling about in all directions, now to the right, now to the
left, now forwards, now backwards, and accidentally driving his elbow through the hat of
the tallest helper, who had been particularly active, speedily caused the odds to wear a very
different appearance; while more than one stout fellow limped away to a respectful distance,
anathematising with tears in his eyes the heavy tread and ponderous feet of the burly
Yorkshireman.
'Let me see him do it again,' said he who had been kicked into the corner, rising as he
spoke, apparently more from the fear of John Browdie's inadvertently treading upon him,
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than from any desire to place himself on equal terms with his late adversary. 'Let me see him
do it again. That's all.'
'Let me hear you make those remarks again,' said the young man, 'and I'll knock that
head of yours in among the wine−glasses behind you there.'
Here a waiter who had been rubbing his hands in excessive enjoyment of the scene, so
long as only the breaking of heads was in question, adjured the spectators with great
earnestness to fetch the police, declaring that otherwise murder would be surely done, and
that he was responsible for all the glass and china on the premises.
'No one need trouble himself to stir,' said the young gentleman, 'I am going to remain in
the house all night, and shall be found here in the morning if there is any assault to answer
for.'
'What did you strike him for?' asked one of the bystanders.
'Ah! what did you strike him for?' demanded the others.
The unpopular gentleman looked coolly round, and addressing himself to Nicholas,
said:
'You inquired just now what was the matter here. The matter is simply this. Yonder
person, who was drinking with a friend in the coffee−room when I took my seat there for
half an hour before going to bed, (for I have just come off a journey, and preferred stopping
here tonight, to going home at this hour, where I was not expected until tomorrow,) chose to
express himself in very disrespectful, and insolently familiar terms, of a young lady, whom I
recognised from his description and other circumstances, and whom I have the honour to
know. As he spoke loud enough to be overheard by the other guests who were present, I
informed him most civilly that he was mistaken in his conjectures, which were of an
offensive nature, and requested him to forbear. He did so for a little time, but as he chose to
renew his conversation when leaving the room, in a more offensive strain than before, I
could not refrain from making after him, and facilitating his departure by a kick, which
reduced him to the posture in which you saw him just now. I am the best judge of my own
affairs, I take it,' said the young man, who had certainly not quite recovered from his recent
heat; 'if anybody here thinks proper to make this quarrel his own, I have not the smallest
earthly objection, I do assure him.'
Of all possible courses of proceeding under the circumstances detailed, there was
certainly not one which, in his then state of mind, could have appeared more laudable to
Nicholas than this. There were not many subjects of dispute which at that moment could
have come home to his own breast more powerfully, for having the unknown uppermost in
his thoughts, it naturally occurred to him that he would have done just the same if any
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audacious gossiper durst have presumed in his hearing to speak lightly of her. Influenced by
these considerations, he espoused the young gentleman's quarrel with great warmth,
protesting that he had done quite right, and that he respected him for it; which John Browdie
(albeit not quite clear as to the merits) immediately protested too, with not inferior
vehemence.
'Let him take care, that's all,' said the defeated party, who was being rubbed down by a
waiter, after his recent fall on the dusty boards. 'He don't knock me about for nothing, I can
tell him that. A pretty state of things, if a man isn't to admire a handsome girl without being
beat to pieces for it!'
This reflection appeared to have great weight with the young lady in the bar, who
(adjusting her cap as she spoke, and glancing at a mirror) declared that it would be a very
pretty state of things indeed; and that if people were to be punished for actions so innocent
and natural as that, there would be more people to be knocked down than there would be
people to knock them down, and that she wondered what the gentleman meant by it, that she
did.
'My dear girl,' said the young gentleman in a low voice, advancing towards the sash
window.
'Nonsense, sir!' replied the young lady sharply, smiling though as she turned aside, and
biting her lip, (whereat Mrs Browdie, who was still standing on the stairs, glanced at her
with disdain, and called to her husband to come away).
'No, but listen to me,' said the young man. 'If admiration of a pretty face were criminal, I
should be the most hopeless person alive, for I cannot resist one. It has the most
extraordinary effect upon me, checks and controls me in the most furious and obstinate
mood. You see what an effect yours has had upon me already.'
'Oh, that's very pretty,' replied the young lady, tossing her head, 'but – '
'Yes, I know it's very pretty,' said the young man, looking with an air of admiration in
the barmaid's face; 'I said so, you know, just this moment. But beauty should be spoken of
respectfully – respectfully, and in proper terms, and with a becoming sense of its worth and
excellence, whereas this fellow has no more notion – '
The young lady interrupted the conversation at this point, by thrusting her head out of
the bar−window, and inquiring of the waiter in a shrill voice whether that young man who
had been knocked down was going to stand in the passage all night, or whether the entrance
was to be left clear for other people. The waiters taking the hint, and communicating it to the
hostlers, were not slow to change their tone too, and the result was, that the unfortunate
victim was bundled out in a twinkling.
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'I am sure I have seen that fellow before,' said Nicholas.
'Indeed!' replied his new acquaintance.
'I am certain of it,' said Nicholas, pausing to reflect. 'Where can I have – stop! – yes, to
be sure – he belongs to a register−office up at the west end of the town. I knew I recollected
the face.'
It was, indeed, Tom, the ugly clerk.
'That's odd enough!' said Nicholas, ruminating upon the strange manner in which the
register−office seemed to start up and stare him in the face every now and then, and when he
least expected it.
'I am much obliged to you for your kind advocacy of my cause when it most needed an
advocate,' said the young man, laughing, and drawing a card from his pocket. 'Perhaps you'll
do me the favour to let me know where I can thank you.'
Nicholas took the card, and glancing at it involuntarily as he returned the compliment,
evinced very great surprise.
'Mr Frank Cheeryble!' said Nicholas. 'Surely not the nephew of Cheeryble Brothers,
who is expected tomorrow!'
'I don't usually call myself the nephew of the firm,' returned Mr Frank,
good−humouredly; 'but of the two excellent individuals who compose it, I am proud to say I
AM the nephew. And you, I see, are Mr Nickleby, of whom I have heard so much! This is a
most unexpected meeting, but not the less welcome, I assure you.'
Nicholas responded to these compliments with others of the same kind, and they shook
hands warmly. Then he introduced John Browdie, who had remained in a state of great
admiration ever since the young lady in the bar had been so skilfully won over to the right
side. Then Mrs John Browdie was introduced, and finally they all went upstairs together and
spent the next half−hour with great satisfaction and mutual entertainment; Mrs John
Browdie beginning the conversation by declaring that of all the made−up things she ever
saw, that young woman below−stairs was the vainest and the plainest.
This Mr Frank Cheeryble, although, to judge from what had recently taken place, a
hot−headed young man (which is not an absolute miracle and phenomenon in nature), was a
sprightly, good−humoured, pleasant fellow, with much both in his countenance and
disposition that reminded Nicholas very strongly of the kind−hearted brothers. His manner
was as unaffected as theirs, and his demeanour full of that heartiness which, to most people
who have anything generous in their composition, is peculiarly prepossessing. Add to this,
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that he was good−looking and intelligent, had a plentiful share of vivacity, was extremely
cheerful, and accommodated himself in five minutes' time to all John Browdie's oddities
with as much ease as if he had known him from a boy; and it will be a source of no great
wonder that, when they parted for the night, he had produced a most favourable impression,
not only upon the worthy Yorkshireman and his wife, but upon Nicholas also, who,
revolving all these things in his mind as he made the best of his way home, arrived at the
conclusion that he had laid the foundation of a most agreeable and desirable acquaintance.
'But it's a most extraordinary thing about that register−office fellow!' thought Nicholas.
'Is it likely that this nephew can know anything about that beautiful girl? When Tim
Linkinwater gave me to understand the other day that he was coming to take a share in the
business here, he said he had been superintending it in Germany for four years, and that
during the last six months he had been engaged in establishing an agency in the north of
England. That's four years and a half – four years and a half. She can't be more than
seventeen – say eighteen at the outside. She was quite a child when he went away, then. I
should say he knew nothing about her and had never seen her, so HE can give me no
information. At all events,' thought Nicholas, coming to the real point in his mind, 'there can
be no danger of any prior occupation of her affections in that quarter; that's quite clear.'
Is selfishness a necessary ingredient in the composition of that passion called love, or
does it deserve all the fine things which poets, in the exercise of their undoubted vocation,
have said of it? There are, no doubt, authenticated instances of gentlemen having given up
ladies and ladies having given up gentlemen to meritorious rivals, under circumstances of
great high−mindedness; but is it quite established that the majority of such ladies and
gentlemen have not made a virtue of necessity, and nobly resigned what was beyond their
reach; as a private soldier might register a vow never to accept the order of the Garter, or a
poor curate of great piety and learning, but of no family – save a very large family of
children – might renounce a bishopric?
Here was Nicholas Nickleby, who would have scorned the thought of counting how the
chances stood of his rising in favour or fortune with the brothers Cheeryble, now that their
nephew had returned, already deep in calculations whether that same nephew was likely to
rival him in the affections of the fair unknown – discussing the matter with himself too, as
gravely as if, with that one exception, it were all settled; and recurring to the subject again
and again, and feeling quite indignant and ill−used at the notion of anybody else making
love to one with whom he had never exchanged a word in all his life. To be sure, he
exaggerated rather than depreciated the merits of his new acquaintance; but still he took it as
a kind of personal offence that he should have any merits at all – in the eyes of this
particular young lady, that is; for elsewhere he was quite welcome to have as many as he
pleased. There was undoubted selfishness in all this, and yet Nicholas was of a most free and
generous nature, with as few mean or sordid thoughts, perhaps, as ever fell to the lot of any
man; and there is no reason to suppose that, being in love, he felt and thought differently
from other people in the like sublime condition.
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He did not stop to set on foot an inquiry into his train of thought or state of feeling,
however; but went thinking on all the way home, and continued to dream on in the same
strain all night. For, having satisfied himself that Frank Cheeryble could have no knowledge
of, or acquaintance with, the mysterious young lady, it began to occur to him that even he
himself might never see her again; upon which hypothesis he built up a very ingenious
succession of tormenting ideas which answered his purpose even better than the vision of
Mr Frank Cheeryble, and tantalised and worried him, waking and sleeping.
Notwithstanding all that has been said and sung to the contrary, there is no
well−established case of morning having either deferred or hastened its approach by the
term of an hour or so for the mere gratification of a splenetic feeling against some
unoffending lover: the sun having, in the discharge of his public duty, as the books of
precedent report, invariably risen according to the almanacs, and without suffering himself
to be swayed by any private considerations. So, morning came as usual, and with it
business−hours, and with them Mr Frank Cheeryble, and with him a long train of smiles and
welcomes from the worthy brothers, and a more grave and clerk−like, but scarcely less
hearty reception from Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
'That Mr Frank and Mr Nickleby should have met last night,' said Tim Linkinwater,
getting slowly off his stool, and looking round the counting−house with his back planted
against the desk, as was his custom when he had anything very particular to say: 'that those
two young men should have met last night in that manner is, I say, a coincidence, a
remarkable coincidence. Why, I don't believe now,' added Tim, taking off his spectacles, and
smiling as with gentle pride, 'that there's such a place in all the world for coincidences as
London is!'
'I don't know about that,' said Mr Frank; 'but – '
'Don't know about it, Mr Francis!' interrupted Tim, with an obstinate air. 'Well, but let
us know. If there is any better place for such things, where is it? Is it in Europe? No, that it
isn't. Is it in Asia? Why, of course it's not. Is it in Africa? Not a bit of it. Is it in America?
YOU know better than that, at all events. Well, then,' said Tim, folding his arms resolutely,
'where is it?'
'I was not about to dispute the point, Tim,' said young Cheeryble, laughing. 'I am not
such a heretic as that. All I was going to say was, that I hold myself under an obligation to
the coincidence, that's all.'
'Oh! if you don't dispute it,' said Tim, quite satisfied, 'that's another thing. I'll tell you
what though. I wish you had. I wish you or anybody would. I would so put that man down,'
said Tim, tapping the forefinger of his left hand emphatically with his spectacles, 'so put that
man down by argument – '
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It was quite impossible to find language to express the degree of mental prostration to
which such an adventurous wight would be reduced in the keen encounter with Tim
Linkinwater, so Tim gave up the rest of his declaration in pure lack of words, and mounted
his stool again.
'We may consider ourselves, brother Ned,' said Charles, after he had patted Tim
Linkinwater approvingly on the back, 'very fortunate in having two such young men about
us as our nephew Frank and Mr Nickleby. It should be a source of great satisfaction and
pleasure to us.'
'Certainly, Charles, certainly,' returned the other.
'Of Tim,' added brother Ned, 'I say nothing whatever, because Tim is a mere child – an
infant – a nobody that we never think of or take into account at all. Tim, you villain, what do
you say to that, sir?'
'I am jealous of both of 'em,' said Tim, 'and mean to look out for another situation; so
provide yourselves, gentlemen, if you please.'
Tim thought this such an exquisite, unparalleled, and most extraordinary joke, that he
laid his pen upon the inkstand, and rather tumbling off his stool than getting down with his
usual deliberation, laughed till he was quite faint, shaking his head all the time so that little
particles of powder flew palpably about the office. Nor were the brothers at all behind−hand,
for they laughed almost as heartily at the ludicrous idea of any voluntary separation between
themselves and old Tim. Nicholas and Mr Frank laughed quite boisterously, perhaps to
conceal some other emotion awakened by this little incident, (and so, indeed, did the three
old fellows after the first burst,) so perhaps there was as much keen enjoyment and relish in
that laugh, altogether, as the politest assembly ever derived from the most poignant
witticism uttered at any one person's expense.
'Mr Nickleby,' said brother Charles, calling him aside, and taking him kindly by the
hand, 'I – I – am anxious, my dear sir, to see that you are properly and comfortably settled in
the cottage. We cannot allow those who serve us well to labour under any privation or
discomfort that it is in our power to remove. I wish, too, to see your mother and sister: to
know them, Mr Nickleby, and have an opportunity of relieving their minds by assuring them
that any trifling service we have been able to do them is a great deal more than repaid by the
zeal and ardour you display. – Not a word, my dear sir, I beg. Tomorrow is Sunday. I shall
make bold to come out at teatime, and take the chance of finding you at home; if you are
not, you know, or the ladies should feel a delicacy in being intruded on, and would rather
not be known to me just now, why I can come again another time, any other time would do
for me. Let it remain upon that understanding. Brother Ned, my dear fellow, let me have a
word with you this way.'
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The twins went out of the office arm−in−arm, and Nicholas, who saw in this act of
kindness, and many others of which he had been the subject that morning, only so many
delicate renewals on the arrival of their nephew of the kind assurance which the brothers had
given him in his absence, could scarcely feel sufficient admiration and gratitude for such
extraordinary consideration.
The intelligence that they were to have visitor – and such a visitor – next day, awakened
in the breast of Mrs Nickleby mingled feelings of exultation and regret; for whereas on the
one hand she hailed it as an omen of her speedy restoration to good society and the almost−
forgotten pleasures of morning calls and evening tea−drinkings, she could not, on the other,
but reflect with bitterness of spirit on the absence of a silver teapot with an ivory knob on
the lid, and a milk−jug to match, which had been the pride of her heart in days of yore, and
had been kept from year's end to year's end wrapped up in wash−leather on a certain top
shelf which now presented itself in lively colours to her sorrowing imagination.
'I wonder who's got that spice−box,' said Mrs Nickleby, shaking her head. 'It used to
stand in the left−hand corner, next but two to the pickled onions. You remember that
spice−box, Kate?'
'Perfectly well, mama.'
'I shouldn't think you did, Kate,' returned Mrs Nickleby, in a severe manner, 'talking
about it in that cold and unfeeling way! If there is any one thing that vexes me in these
losses more than the losses themselves, I do protest and declare,' said Mrs Nickleby, rubbing
her nose with an impassioned air, 'that it is to have people about me who take things with
such provoking calmness.'
'My dear mama,' said Kate, stealing her arm round her mother's neck, 'why do you say
what I know you cannot seriously mean or think, or why be angry with me for being happy
and content? You and Nicholas are left to me, we are together once again, and what regard
can I have for a few trifling things of which we never feel the want? When I have seen all
the misery and desolation that death can bring, and known the lonesome feeling of being
solitary and alone in crowds, and all the agony of separation in grief and poverty when we
most needed comfort and support from each other, can you wonder that I look upon this as a
place of such delicious quiet and rest, that with you beside me I have nothing to wish for or
regret? There was a time, and not long since, when all the comforts of our old home did
come back upon me, I own, very often – oftener than you would think perhaps – but I
affected to care nothing for them, in the hope that you would so be brought to regret them
the less. I was not insensible, indeed. I might have felt happier if I had been. Dear mama,'
said Kate, in great agitation, 'I know no difference between this home and that in which we
were all so happy for so many years, except that the kindest and gentlest heart that ever
ached on earth has passed in peace to heaven.'
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'Kate my dear, Kate,' cried Mrs Nickleby, folding her in her arms.
'I have so often thought,' sobbed Kate, 'of all his kind words – of the last time he looked
into my little room, as he passed upstairs to bed, and said «God bless you, darling.» There
was a paleness in his face, mama – the broken heart – I know it was – I little thought so –
then – '
A gush of tears came to her relief, and Kate laid her head upon her mother's breast, and
wept like a little child.
It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that when the heart is touched and
softened by some tranquil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes
over it most powerfully and irresistibly. It would almost seem as though our better thoughts
and sympathies were charms, in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold some vague and
mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas! how
often and how long may those patient angels hover above us, watching for the spell which is
so seldom uttered, and so soon forgotten!
Poor Mrs Nickleby, accustomed to give ready utterance to whatever came uppermost in
her mind, had never conceived the possibility of her daughter's dwelling upon these thoughts
in secret, the more especially as no hard trial or querulous reproach had ever drawn them
from her. But now, when the happiness of all that Nicholas had just told them, and of their
new and peaceful life, brought these recollections so strongly upon Kate that she could not
suppress them, Mrs Nickleby began to have a glimmering that she had been rather
thoughtless now and then, and was conscious of something like self−reproach as she
embraced her daughter, and yielded to the emotions which such a conversation naturally
awakened.
There was a mighty bustle that night, and a vast quantity of preparation for the expected
visitor, and a very large nosegay was brought from a gardener's hard by, and cut up into a
number of very small ones, with which Mrs Nickleby would have garnished the little
sitting−room, in a style that certainly could not have failed to attract anybody's attention, if
Kate had not offered to spare her the trouble, and arranged them in the prettiest and neatest
manner possible. If the cottage ever looked pretty, it must have been on such a bright and
sunshiny day as the next day was. But Smike's pride in the garden, or Mrs Nickleby's in the
condition of the furniture, or Kate's in everything, was nothing to the pride with which
Nicholas looked at Kate herself; and surely the costliest mansion in all England might have
found in her beautiful face and graceful form its most exquisite and peerless ornament.
About six o'clock in the afternoon Mrs Nickleby was thrown into a great flutter of
spirits by the long−expected knock at the door, nor was this flutter at all composed by the
audible tread of two pair of boots in the passage, which Mrs Nickleby augured, in a
breathless state, must be 'the two Mr Cheerybles;' as it certainly was, though not the two Mrs
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CHAPTER 43 − Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People together. 531
Nickleby expected, because it was Mr Charles Cheeryble, and his nephew, Mr Frank, who
made a thousand apologies for his intrusion, which Mrs Nickleby (having tea−spoons
enough and to spare for all) most graciously received. Nor did the appearance of this
unexpected visitor occasion the least embarrassment, (save in Kate, and that only to the
extent of a blush or two at first,) for the old gentleman was so kind and cordial, and the
young gentleman imitated him in this respect so well, that the usual stiffness and formality
of a first meeting showed no signs of appearing, and Kate really more than once detected
herself in the very act of wondering when it was going to begin.
At the tea−table there was plenty of conversation on a great variety of subjects, nor
were there wanting jocose matters of discussion, such as they were; for young Mr
Cheeryble's recent stay in Germany happening to be alluded to, old Mr Cheeryble informed
the company that the aforesaid young Mr Cheeryble was suspected to have fallen deeply in
love with the daughter of a certain German burgomaster. This accusation young Mr
Cheeryble most indignantly repelled, upon which Mrs Nickleby slyly remarked, that she
suspected, from the very warmth of the denial, there must be something in it. Young Mr
Cheeryble then earnestly entreated old Mr Cheeryble to confess that it was all a jest, which
old Mr Cheeryble at last did, young Mr Cheeryble being so much in earnest about it, that –
as Mrs Nickleby said many thousand times afterwards in recalling the scene – he 'quite
coloured,' which she rightly considered a memorable circumstance, and one worthy of
remark, young men not being as a class remarkable for modesty or self−denial, especially
when there is a lady in the case, when, if they colour at all, it is rather their practice to colour
the story, and not themselves.
After tea there was a walk in the garden, and the evening being very fine they strolled
out at the garden−gate into some lanes and bye− roads, and sauntered up and down until it
grew quite dark. The time seemed to pass very quickly with all the party. Kate went first,
leaning upon her brother's arm, and talking with him and Mr Frank Cheeryble; and Mrs
Nickleby and the elder gentleman followed at a short distance, the kindness of the good
merchant, his interest in the welfare of Nicholas, and his admiration of Kate, so operating
upon the good lady's feelings, that the usual current of her speech was confined within very
narrow and circumscribed limits. Smike (who, if he had ever been an object of interest in his
life, had been one that day) accompanied them, joining sometimes one group and sometimes
the other, as brother Charles, laying his hand upon his shoulder, bade him walk with him, or
Nicholas, looking smilingly round, beckoned him to come and talk with the old friend who
understood him best, and who could win a smile into his careworn face when none else
could.
Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; but it cannot be the pride of a mother in her
children, for that is a compound of two cardinal virtues – faith and hope. This was the pride
which swelled Mrs Nickleby's heart that night, and this it was which left upon her face,
glistening in the light when they returned home, traces of the most grateful tears she had
ever shed.
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There was a quiet mirth about the little supper, which harmonised exactly with this tone
of feeling, and at length the two gentlemen took their leave. There was one circumstance in
the leave−taking which occasioned a vast deal of smiling and pleasantry, and that was, that
Mr Frank Cheeryble offered his hand to Kate twice over, quite forgetting that he had bade
her adieu already. This was held by the elder Mr Cheeryble to be a convincing proof that he
was thinking of his German flame, and the jest occasioned immense laughter. So easy is it to
move light hearts.
In short, it was a day of serene and tranquil happiness; and as we all have some bright
day – many of us, let us hope, among a crowd of others – to which we revert with particular
delight, so this one was often looked back to afterwards, as holding a conspicuous place in
the calendar of those who shared it.
Was there one exception, and that one he who needed to have been most happy?
Who was that who, in the silence of his own chamber, sunk upon his knees to pray as
his first friend had taught him, and folding his hands and stretching them wildly in the air,
fell upon his face in a passion of bitter grief?
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance.
I
t would also appear from the Contents hereof, that a Joke, even between Husband and
Wife, may be sometimes carried too far.
There are some men who, living with the one object of enriching themselves, no matter
by what means, and being perfectly conscious of the baseness and rascality of the means
which they will use every day towards this end, affect nevertheless – even to themselves – a
high tone of moral rectitude, and shake their heads and sigh over the depravity of the world.
Some of the craftiest scoundrels that ever walked this earth, or rather – for walking implies,
at least, an erect position and the bearing of a man – that ever crawled and crept through life
by its dirtiest and narrowest ways, will gravely jot down in diaries the events of every day,
and keep a regular debtor and creditor account with Heaven, which shall always show a
floating balance in their own favour. Whether this is a gratuitous (the only gratuitous) part of
the falsehood and trickery of such men's lives, or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven
itself, and lay up treasure in the next world by the same process which has enabled them to
lay up treasure in this – not to question how it is, so it is. And, doubtless, such book−keeping
(like certain autobiographies which have enlightened the world) cannot fail to prove
serviceable, in the one respect of sparing the recording Angel some time and labour.
Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding, dogged, and
impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it, save the gratification of two
passions, avarice, the first and predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second.
Affecting to consider himself but a type of all humanity, he was at little pains to conceal his
true character from the world in general, and in his own heart he exulted over and cherished
every bad design as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby heeded,
in the letter, was 'know thyself.' He knew himself well, and choosing to imagine that all
mankind were cast in the same mould, hated them; for, though no man hates himself, the
coldest among us having too much self−love for that, yet most men unconsciously judge the
world from themselves, and it will be very generally found that those who sneer habitually
at human nature, and affect to despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant samples.
But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself, who stood regarding
Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that worthy took off his fingerless gloves, and
spreading them carefully on the palm of his left hand, and flattening them with his right to
take the creases out, proceeded to roll them up with an absent air as if he were utterly
regardless of all things else, in the deep interest of the ceremonial.
'Gone out of town!' said Ralph, slowly. 'A mistake of yours. Go back again.'
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'No mistake,' returned Newman. 'Not even going; gone.'
'Has he turned girl or baby?' muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.
'I don't know,' said Newman, 'but he's gone.'
The repetition of the word 'gone' seemed to afford Newman Noggs inexpressible
delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He uttered the word with a full round
emphasis, dwelling upon it as long as he decently could, and when he could hold out no
longer without attracting observation, stood gasping it to himself as if even that were a
satisfaction.
'And WHERE has he gone?' said Ralph.
'France,' replied Newman. 'Danger of another attack of erysipelas – a worse attack – in
the head. So the doctors ordered him off. And he's gone.'
'And Lord Frederick – ?' began Ralph.
'He's gone too,' replied Newman.
'And he carries his drubbing with him, does he?' said Ralph, turning away; 'pockets his
bruises, and sneaks off without the retaliation of a word, or seeking the smallest reparation!'
'He's too ill,' said Newman.
'Too ill!' repeated Ralph. 'Why I would have it if I were dying; in that case I should only
be the more determined to have it, and that without delay – I mean if I were he. But he's too
ill! Poor Sir Mulberry! Too ill!'
Uttering these words with supreme contempt and great irritation of manner, Ralph
signed hastily to Newman to leave the room; and throwing himself into his chair, beat his
foot impatiently upon the ground.
'There is some spell about that boy,' said Ralph, grinding his teeth. 'Circumstances
conspire to help him. Talk of fortune's favours! What is even money to such Devil's luck as
this?'
He thrust his hands impatiently into his pockets, but notwithstanding his previous
reflection there was some consolation there, for his face relaxed a little; and although there
was still a deep frown upon the contracted brow, it was one of calculation, and not of
disappointment.
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'This Hawk will come back, however,' muttered Ralph; 'and if I know the man (and I
should by this time) his wrath will have lost nothing of its violence in the meanwhile.
Obliged to live in retirement – the monotony of a sick−room to a man of his habits – no life
– no drink – no play – nothing that he likes and lives by. He is not likely to forget his
obligations to the cause of all this. Few men would; but he of all others? No, no!'
He smiled and shook his head, and resting his chin upon his hand, fell a musing, and
smiled again. After a time he rose and rang the bell.
'That Mr Squeers; has he been here?' said Ralph.
'He was here last night. I left him here when I went home,' returned Newman.
'I know that, fool, do I not?' said Ralph, irascibly. 'Has he been here since? Was he here
this morning?'
'No,' bawled Newman, in a very loud key.
'If he comes while I am out – he is pretty sure to be here by nine tonight – let him wait.
And if there's another man with him, as there will be – perhaps,' said Ralph, checking
himself, 'let him wait too.'
'Let 'em both wait?' said Newman.
'Ay,' replied Ralph, turning upon him with an angry look. 'Help me on with this spencer,
and don't repeat after me, like a croaking parrot.'
'I wish I was a parrot,' Newman, sulkily.
'I wish you were,' rejoined Ralph, drawing his spencer on; 'I'd have wrung your neck
long ago.'
Newman returned no answer to this compliment, but looked over Ralph's shoulder for
an instant, (he was adjusting the collar of the spencer behind, just then,) as if he were
strongly disposed to tweak him by the nose. Meeting Ralph's eye, however, he suddenly
recalled his wandering fingers, and rubbed his own red nose with a vehemence quite
astonishing.
Bestowing no further notice upon his eccentric follower than a threatening look, and an
admonition to be careful and make no mistake, Ralph took his hat and gloves, and walked
out.
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 536
He appeared to have a very extraordinary and miscellaneous connection, and very odd
calls he made, some at great rich houses, and some at small poor ones, but all upon one
subject: money. His face was a talisman to the porters and servants of his more dashing
clients, and procured him ready admission, though he trudged on foot, and others, who were
denied, rattled to the door in carriages. Here he was all softness and cringing civility; his
step so light, that it scarcely produced a sound upon the thick carpets; his voice so soft that it
was not audible beyond the person to whom it was addressed. But in the poorer habitations
Ralph was another man; his boots creaked upon the passage floor as he walked boldly in; his
voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money that was overdue; his threats were
coarse and angry. With another class of customers, Ralph was again another man. These
were attorneys of more than doubtful reputation, who helped him to new business, or raised
fresh profits upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and jocose, humorous upon the topics
of the day, and especially pleasant upon bankruptcies and pecuniary difficulties that made
good for trade. In short, it would have been difficult to have recognised the same man under
these various aspects, but for the bulky leather case full of bills and notes which he drew
from his pocket at every house, and the constant repetition of the same complaint, (varied
only in tone and style of delivery,) that the world thought him rich, and that perhaps he
might be if he had his own; but there was no getting money in when it was once out, either
principal or interest, and it was a hard matter to live; even to live from day to day.
It was evening before a long round of such visits (interrupted only by a scanty dinner at
an eating−house) terminated at Pimlico, and Ralph walked along St James's Park, on his way
home.
There were some deep schemes in his head, as the puckered brow and firmly−set mouth
would have abundantly testified, even if they had been unaccompanied by a complete
indifference to, or unconsciousness of, the objects about him. So complete was his
abstraction, however, that Ralph, usually as quick−sighted as any man, did not observe that
he was followed by a shambling figure, which at one time stole behind him with noiseless
footsteps, at another crept a few paces before him, and at another glided along by his side; at
all times regarding him with an eye so keen, and a look so eager and attentive, that it was
more like the expression of an intrusive face in some powerful picture or strongly marked
dream, than the scrutiny even of a most interested and anxious observer.
The sky had been lowering and dark for some time, and the commencement of a violent
storm of rain drove Ralph for shelter to a tree. He was leaning against it with folded arms,
still buried in thought, when, happening to raise his eyes, he suddenly met those of a man
who, creeping round the trunk, peered into his face with a searching look. There was
something in the usurer's expression at the moment, which the man appeared to remember
well, for it decided him; and stepping close up to Ralph, he pronounced his name.
Astonished for the moment, Ralph fell back a couple of paces and surveyed him from
head to foot. A spare, dark, withered man, of about his own age, with a stooping body, and a
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 537
very sinister face rendered more ill−favoured by hollow and hungry cheeks, deeply
sunburnt, and thick black eyebrows, blacker in contrast with the perfect whiteness of his
hair; roughly clothed in shabby garments, of a strange and uncouth make; and having about
him an indefinable manner of depression and degradation – this, for a moment, was all he
saw. But he looked again, and the face and person seemed gradually to grow less strange; to
change as he looked, to subside and soften into lineaments that were familiar, until at last
they resolved themselves, as if by some strange optical illusion, into those of one whom he
had known for many years, and forgotten and lost sight of for nearly as many more.
The man saw that the recognition was mutual, and beckoning to Ralph to take his
former place under the tree, and not to stand in the falling rain, of which, in his first surprise,
he had been quite regardless, addressed him in a hoarse, faint tone.
'You would hardly have known me from my voice, I suppose, Mr Nickleby?' he said.
'No,' returned Ralph, bending a severe look upon him. 'Though there is something in
that, that I remember now.'
'There is little in me that you can call to mind as having been there eight years ago, I
dare say?' observed the other.
'Quite enough,' said Ralph, carelessly, and averting his face. 'More than enough.'
'If I had remained in doubt about YOU, Mr Nickleby,' said the other, 'this reception, and
YOUR manner, would have decided me very soon.'
'Did you expect any other?' asked Ralph, sharply.
'No!' said the man.
'You were right,' retorted Ralph; 'and as you feel no surprise, need express none.'
'Mr Nickleby,' said the man, bluntly, after a brief pause, during which he had seemed to
struggle with an inclination to answer him by some reproach, 'will you hear a few words that
I have to say?'
'I am obliged to wait here till the rain holds a little,' said Ralph, looking abroad. 'If you
talk, sir, I shall not put my fingers in my ears, though your talking may have as much effect
as if I did.'
'I was once in your confidence – ' thus his companion began. Ralph looked round, and
smiled involuntarily.
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 538
'Well,' said the other, 'as much in your confidence as you ever chose to let anybody be.'
'Ah!' rejoined Ralph, folding his arms; 'that's another thing, quite another thing.'
'Don't let us play upon words, Mr Nickleby, in the name of humanity.'
'Of what?' said Ralph.
'Of humanity,' replied the other, sternly. 'I am hungry and in want. If the change that
you must see in me after so long an absence – must see, for I, upon whom it has come by
slow and hard degrees, see it and know it well – will not move you to pity, let the knowledge
that bread; not the daily bread of the Lord's Prayer, which, as it is offered up in cities like
this, is understood to include half the luxuries of the world for the rich, and just as much
coarse food as will support life for the poor – not that, but bread, a crust of dry hard bread, is
beyond my reach today – let that have some weight with you, if nothing else has.'
'If this is the usual form in which you beg, sir,' said Ralph, 'you have studied your part
well; but if you will take advice from one who knows something of the world and its ways, I
should recommend a lower tone; a little lower tone, or you stand a fair chance of being
starved in good earnest.'
As he said this, Ralph clenched his left wrist tightly with his right hand, and inclining
his head a little on one side and dropping his chin upon his breast, looked at him whom he
addressed with a frowning, sullen face. The very picture of a man whom nothing could
move or soften.
'Yesterday was my first day in London,' said the old man, glancing at his travel−stained
dress and worn shoes.
'It would have been better for you, I think, if it had been your last also,' replied Ralph.
'I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought you were most likely to be
found,' resumed the other more humbly, 'and I met you here at last, when I had almost given
up the hope of encountering you, Mr Nickleby.'
He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph giving him none, he continued:
'I am a most miserable and wretched outcast, nearly sixty years old, and as destitute and
helpless as a child of six.'
'I am sixty years old, too,' replied Ralph, 'and am neither destitute nor helpless. Work.
Don't make fine play−acting speeches about bread, but earn it.'
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 539
'How?' cried the other. 'Where? Show me the means. Will you give them to me – will
you?'
'I did once,' replied Ralph, composedly; 'you scarcely need ask me whether I will again.'
'It's twenty years ago, or more,' said the man, in a suppressed voice, 'since you and I fell
out. You remember that? I claimed a share in the profits of some business I brought to you,
and, as I persisted, you arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, odd shillings,
including interest at fifty per cent, or so.'
'I remember something of it,' replied Ralph, carelessly. 'What then?'
'That didn't part us,' said the man. 'I made submission, being on the wrong side of the
bolts and bars; and as you were not the made man then that you are now, you were glad
enough to take back a clerk who wasn't over nice, and who knew something of the trade you
drove.'
'You begged and prayed, and I consented,' returned Ralph. 'That was kind of me.
Perhaps I did want you. I forget. I should think I did, or you would have begged in vain. You
were useful; not too honest, not too delicate, not too nice of hand or heart; but useful.'
'Useful, indeed!' said the man. 'Come. You had pinched and ground me down for some
years before that, but I had served you faithfully up to that time, in spite of all your dog's
usage. Had I?'
Ralph made no reply.
'Had I?' said the man again.
'You had had your wages,' rejoined Ralph, 'and had done your work. We stood on equal
ground so far, and could both cry quits.'
'Then, but not afterwards,' said the other.
'Not afterwards, certainly, nor even then, for (as you have just said) you owed me
money, and do still,' replied Ralph.
'That's not all,' said the man, eagerly. 'That's not all. Mark that. I didn't forget that old
sore, trust me. Partly in remembrance of that, and partly in the hope of making money
someday by the scheme, I took advantage of my position about you, and possessed myself of
a hold upon you, which you would give half of all you have to know, and never can know
but through me. I left you – long after that time, remember – and, for some poor trickery that
came within the law, but was nothing to what you money−makers daily practise just outside
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 540
its bounds, was sent away a convict for seven years. I have returned what you see me. Now,
Mr Nickleby,' said the man, with a strange mixture of humility and sense of power, 'what
help and assistance will you give me; what bribe, to speak out plainly? My expectations are
not monstrous, but I must live, and to live I must eat and drink. Money is on your side, and
hunger and thirst on mine. You may drive an easy bargain.'
'Is that all?' said Ralph, still eyeing his companion with the same steady look, and
moving nothing but his lips.
'It depends on you, Mr Nickleby, whether that's all or not,' was the rejoinder.
'Why then, harkye, Mr – , I don't know by what name I am to call you,' said Ralph.
'By my old one, if you like.'
'Why then, harkye, Mr Brooker,' said Ralph, in his harshest accents, 'and don't expect to
draw another speech from me. Harkye, sir. I know you of old for a ready scoundrel, but you
never had a stout heart; and hard work, with (maybe) chains upon those legs of yours, and
shorter food than when I «pinched» and «ground» you, has blunted your wits, or you would
not come with such a tale as this to me. You a hold upon me! Keep it, or publish it to the
world, if you like.'
'I can't do that,' interposed Brooker. 'That wouldn't serve me.'
'Wouldn't it?' said Ralph. 'It will serve you as much as bringing it to me, I promise you.
To be plain with you, I am a careful man, and know my affairs thoroughly. I know the
world, and the world knows me. Whatever you gleaned, or heard, or saw, when you served
me, the world knows and magnifies already. You could tell it nothing that would surprise it,
unless, indeed, it redounded to my credit or honour, and then it would scout you for a liar.
And yet I don't find business slack, or clients scrupulous. Quite the contrary. I am reviled or
threatened every day by one man or another,' said Ralph; 'but things roll on just the same,
and I don't grow poorer either.'
'I neither revile nor threaten,' rejoined the man. 'I can tell you of what you have lost by
my act, what I only can restore, and what, if I die without restoring, dies with me, and never
can be regained.'
'I tell my money pretty accurately, and generally keep it in my own custody,' said Ralph.
'I look sharply after most men that I deal with, and most of all I looked sharply after you.
You are welcome to all you have kept from me.'
'Are those of your own name dear to you?' said the man emphatically. 'If they are – '
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'They are not,' returned Ralph, exasperated at this perseverance, and the thought of
Nicholas, which the last question awakened. 'They are not. If you had come as a common
beggar, I might have thrown a sixpence to you in remembrance of the clever knave you used
to be; but since you try to palm these stale tricks upon one you might have known better, I'll
not part with a halfpenny – nor would I to save you from rotting. And remember this,
'scape−gallows,' said Ralph, menacing him with his hand, 'that if we meet again, and you so
much as notice me by one begging gesture, you shall see the inside of a jail once more, and
tighten this hold upon me in intervals of the hard labour that vagabonds are put to. There's
my answer to your trash. Take it.'
With a disdainful scowl at the object of his anger, who met his eye but uttered not a
word, Ralph walked away at his usual pace, without manifesting the slightest curiosity to see
what became of his late companion, or indeed once looking behind him. The man remained
on the same spot with his eyes fixed upon his retreating figure until it was lost to view, and
then drawing his arm about his chest, as if the damp and lack of food struck coldly to him,
lingered with slouching steps by the wayside, and begged of those who passed along.
Ralph, in no−wise moved by what had lately passed, further than as he had already
expressed himself, walked deliberately on, and turning out of the Park and leaving Golden
Square on his right, took his way through some streets at the west end of the town until he
arrived in that particular one in which stood the residence of Madame Mantalini. The name
of that lady no longer appeared on the flaming door−plate, that of Miss Knag being
substituted in its stead; but the bonnets and dresses were still dimly visible in the first−floor
windows by the decaying light of a summer's evening, and excepting this ostensible
alteration in the proprietorship, the establishment wore its old appearance.
'Humph!' muttered Ralph, drawing his hand across his mouth with a connoisseur−like
air, and surveying the house from top to bottom; 'these people look pretty well. They can't
last long; but if I know of their going in good time, I am safe, and a fair profit too. I must
keep them closely in view; that's all.'
So, nodding his head very complacently, Ralph was leaving the spot, when his quick ear
caught the sound of a confused noise and hubbub of voices, mingled with a great running up
and down stairs, in the very house which had been the subject of his scrutiny; and while he
was hesitating whether to knock at the door or listen at the keyhole a little longer, a female
servant of Madame Mantalini's (whom he had often seen) opened it abruptly and bounced
out, with her blue cap− ribbons streaming in the air.
'Hallo here. Stop!' cried Ralph. 'What's the matter? Here am I. Didn't you hear me
knock?'
'Oh! Mr Nickleby, sir,' said the girl. 'Go up, for the love of Gracious. Master's been and
done it again.'
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 542
'Done what?' said Ralph, tartly; 'what d'ye mean?'
'I knew he would if he was drove to it,' cried the girl. 'I said so all along.'
'Come here, you silly wench,' said Ralph, catching her by the wrist; 'and don't carry
family matters to the neighbours, destroying the credit of the establishment. Come here; do
you hear me, girl?'
Without any further expostulation, he led or rather pulled the frightened handmaid into
the house, and shut the door; then bidding her walk upstairs before him, followed without
more ceremony.
Guided by the noise of a great many voices all talking together, and passing the girl in
his impatience, before they had ascended many steps, Ralph quickly reached the private
sitting−room, when he was rather amazed by the confused and inexplicable scene in which
he suddenly found himself.
There were all the young−lady workers, some with bonnets and some without, in
various attitudes expressive of alarm and consternation; some gathered round Madame
Mantalini, who was in tears upon one chair; and others round Miss Knag, who was in
opposition tears upon another; and others round Mr Mantalini, who was perhaps the most
striking figure in the whole group, for Mr Mantalini's legs were extended at full length upon
the floor, and his head and shoulders were supported by a very tall footman, who didn't seem
to know what to do with them, and Mr Mantalini's eyes were closed, and his face was pale
and his hair was comparatively straight, and his whiskers and moustache were limp, and his
teeth were clenched, and he had a little bottle in his right hand, and a little tea−spoon in his
left; and his hands, arms, legs, and shoulders, were all stiff and powerless. And yet Madame
Mantalini was not weeping upon the body, but was scolding violently upon her chair; and all
this amidst a clamour of tongues perfectly deafening, and which really appeared to have
driven the unfortunate footman to the utmost verge of distraction.
'What is the matter here?' said Ralph, pressing forward.
At this inquiry, the clamour was increased twenty−fold, and an astounding string of
such shrill contradictions as 'He's poisoned himself' – 'He hasn't' – 'Send for a doctor' –
'Don't' – 'He's dying' – 'He isn't, he's only pretending' – with various other cries, poured forth
with bewildering volubility, until Madame Mantalini was seen to address herself to Ralph,
when female curiosity to know what she would say, prevailed, and, as if by general consent,
a dead silence, unbroken by a single whisper, instantaneously succeeded.
'Mr Nickleby,' said Madame Mantalini; 'by what chance you came here, I don't know.'
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 543
Here a gurgling voice was heard to ejaculate, as part of the wanderings of a sick man,
the words 'Demnition sweetness!' but nobody heeded them except the footman, who, being
startled to hear such awful tones proceeding, as it were, from between his very fingers,
dropped his master's head upon the floor with a pretty loud crash, and then, without an effort
to lift it up, gazed upon the bystanders, as if he had done something rather clever than
otherwise.
'I will, however,' continued Madame Mantalini, drying her eyes, and speaking with
great indignation, 'say before you, and before everybody here, for the first time, and once for
all, that I never will supply that man's extravagances and viciousness again. I have been a
dupe and a fool to him long enough. In future, he shall support himself if he can, and then he
may spend what money he pleases, upon whom and how he pleases; but it shall not be mine,
and therefore you had better pause before you trust him further.'
Thereupon Madame Mantalini, quite unmoved by some most pathetic lamentations on
the part of her husband, that the apothecary had not mixed the prussic acid strong enough,
and that he must take another bottle or two to finish the work he had in hand, entered into a
catalogue of that amiable gentleman's gallantries, deceptions, extravagances, and infidelities
(especially the last), winding up with a protest against being supposed to entertain the
smallest remnant of regard for him; and adducing, in proof of the altered state of her
affections, the circumstance of his having poisoned himself in private no less than six times
within the last fortnight, and her not having once interfered by word or deed to save his life.
'And I insist on being separated and left to myself,' said Madame Mantalini, sobbing. 'If
he dares to refuse me a separation, I'll have one in law – I can – and I hope this will be a
warning to all girls who have seen this disgraceful exhibition.'
Miss Knag, who was unquestionably the oldest girl in company, said with great
solemnity, that it would be a warning to HER, and so did the young ladies generally, with
the exception of one or two who appeared to entertain some doubts whether such whispers
could do wrong.
'Why do you say all this before so many listeners?' said Ralph, in a low voice. 'You
know you are not in earnest.'
'I AM in earnest,' replied Madame Mantalini, aloud, and retreating towards Miss Knag.
'Well, but consider,' reasoned Ralph, who had a great interest in the matter. 'It would be
well to reflect. A married woman has no property.'
'Not a solitary single individual dem, my soul,' and Mr Mantalini, raising himself upon
his elbow.
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 544
'I am quite aware of that,' retorted Madame Mantalini, tossing her head; 'and I have
none. The business, the stock, this house, and everything in it, all belong to Miss Knag.'
'That's quite true, Madame Mantalini,' said Miss Knag, with whom her late employer
had secretly come to an amicable understanding on this point. 'Very true, indeed, Madame
Mantalini – hem – very true. And I never was more glad in all my life, that I had strength of
mind to resist matrimonial offers, no matter how advantageous, than I am when I think of
my present position as compared with your most unfortunate and most undeserved one,
Madame Mantalini.'
'Demmit!' cried Mr Mantalini, turning his head towards his wife. 'Will it not slap and
pinch the envious dowager, that dares to reflect upon its own delicious?'
But the day of Mr Mantalini's blandishments had departed. 'Miss Knag, sir,' said his
wife, 'is my particular friend;' and although Mr Mantalini leered till his eyes seemed in
danger of never coming back to their right places again, Madame Mantalini showed no signs
of softening.
To do the excellent Miss Knag justice, she had been mainly instrumental in bringing
about this altered state of things, for, finding by daily experience, that there was no chance
of the business thriving, or even continuing to exist, while Mr Mantalini had any hand in the
expenditure, and having now a considerable interest in its well−doing, she had sedulously
applied herself to the investigation of some little matters connected with that gentleman's
private character, which she had so well elucidated, and artfully imparted to Madame
Mantalini, as to open her eyes more effectually than the closest and most philosophical
reasoning could have done in a series of years. To which end, the accidental discovery by
Miss Knag of some tender correspondence, in which Madame Mantalini was described as
'old' and 'ordinary,' had most providentially contributed.
However, notwithstanding her firmness, Madame Mantalini wept very piteously; and as
she leant upon Miss Knag, and signed towards the door, that young lady and all the other
young ladies with sympathising faces, proceeded to bear her out.
'Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini in tears, 'you have been made a witness to this demnition
cruelty, on the part of the demdest enslaver and captivator that never was, oh dem! I forgive
that woman.'
'Forgive!' repeated Madame Mantalini, angrily.
'I do forgive her, Nickleby,' said Mr Mantalini. 'You will blame me, the world will
blame me, the women will blame me; everybody will laugh, and scoff, and smile, and grin
most demnebly. They will say, «She had a blessing. She did not know it. He was too weak;
he was too good; he was a dem'd fine fellow, but he loved too strong; he could not bear her
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 545
to be cross, and call him wicked names. It was a dem'd case, there never was a demder.» But
I forgive her.'
With this affecting speech Mr Mantalini fell down again very flat, and lay to all
appearance without sense or motion, until all the females had left the room, when he came
cautiously into a sitting posture, and confronted Ralph with a very blank face, and the little
bottle still in one hand and the tea−spoon in the other.
'You may put away those fooleries now, and live by your wits again,' said Ralph, coolly
putting on his hat.
'Demmit, Nickleby, you're not serious?'
'I seldom joke,' said Ralph. 'Good−night.'
'No, but Nickleby – ' said Mantalini.
'I am wrong, perhaps,' rejoined Ralph. 'I hope so. You should know best. Good−night.'
Affecting not to hear his entreaties that he would stay and advise with him, Ralph left
the crest−fallen Mr Mantalini to his meditations, and left the house quietly.
'Oho!' he said, 'sets the wind that way so soon? Half knave and half fool, and detected in
both characters? I think your day is over, sir.'
As he said this, he made some memorandum in his pocket−book in which Mr
Mantalini's name figured conspicuously, and finding by his watch that it was between nine
and ten o'clock, made all speed home.
'Are they here?' was the first question he asked of Newman.
Newman nodded. 'Been here half an hour.'
'Two of them? One a fat sleek man?'
'Ay,' said Newman. 'In your room now.'
'Good,' rejoined Ralph. 'Get me a coach.'
'A coach! What, you – going to – eh?' stammered Newman.
Ralph angrily repeated his orders, and Noggs, who might well have been excused for
wondering at such an unusual and extraordinary circumstance (for he had never seen Ralph
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 546
in a coach in his life) departed on his errand, and presently returned with the conveyance.
Into it went Mr Squeers, and Ralph, and the third man, whom Newman Noggs had
never seen. Newman stood upon the door−step to see them off, not troubling himself to
wonder where or upon what business they were going, until he chanced by mere accident to
hear Ralph name the address whither the coachman was to drive.
Quick as lightning and in a state of the most extreme wonder, Newman darted into his
little office for his hat, and limped after the coach as if with the intention of getting up
behind; but in this design he was balked, for it had too much the start of him and was soon
hopelessly ahead, leaving him gaping in the empty street.
'I don't know though,' said Noggs, stopping for breath, 'any good that I could have done
by going too. He would have seen me if I had. Drive THERE! What can come of this? If I
had only known it yesterday I could have told – drive there! There's mischief in it. There
must be.'
His reflections were interrupted by a grey−haired man of a very remarkable, though far
from prepossessing appearance, who, coming stealthily towards him, solicited relief.
Newman, still cogitating deeply, turned away; but the man followed him, and pressed
him with such a tale of misery that Newman (who might have been considered a hopeless
person to beg from, and who had little enough to give) looked into his hat for some
halfpence which he usually kept screwed up, when he had any, in a corner of his
pocket−handkerchief.
While he was busily untwisting the knot with his teeth, the man said something which
attracted his attention; whatever that something was, it led to something else, and in the end
he and Newman walked away side by side – the strange man talking earnestly, and Newman
listening.
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CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance. 547
CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind
'A
s we gang awa' fra' Lunnun tomorrow neeght, and as I dinnot know that I was e'er so
happy in a' my days, Misther Nickleby, Ding! but I WILL tak' anoother glass to our next
merry meeting!'
So said John Browdie, rubbing his hands with great joyousness, and looking round him
with a ruddy shining face, quite in keeping with the declaration.
The time at which John found himself in this enviable condition was the same evening
to which the last chapter bore reference; the place was the cottage; and the assembled
company were Nicholas, Mrs Nickleby, Mrs Browdie, Kate Nickleby, and Smike.
A very merry party they had been. Mrs Nickleby, knowing of her son's obligations to
the honest Yorkshireman, had, after some demur, yielded her consent to Mr and Mrs
Browdie being invited out to tea; in the way of which arrangement, there were at first sundry
difficulties and obstacles, arising out of her not having had an opportunity of 'calling' upon
Mrs Browdie first; for although Mrs Nickleby very often observed with much complacency
(as most punctilious people do), that she had not an atom of pride or formality about her,
still she was a great stickler for dignity and ceremonies; and as it was manifest that, until a
call had been made, she could not be (politely speaking, and according to the laws of
society) even cognisant of the fact of Mrs Browdie's existence, she felt her situation to be
one of peculiar delicacy and difficulty.
'The call MUST originate with me, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'that's indispensable.
The fact is, my dear, that it's necessary there should be a sort of condescension on my part,
and that I should show this young person that I am willing to take notice of her. There's a
very respectable−looking young man,' added Mrs Nickleby, after a short consideration, 'who
is conductor to one of the omnibuses that go by here, and who wears a glazed hat – your
sister and I have noticed him very often – he has a wart upon his nose, Kate, you know,
exactly like a gentleman's servant.'
'Have all gentlemen's servants warts upon their noses, mother?' asked Nicholas.
'Nicholas, my dear, how very absurd you are,' returned his mother; 'of course I mean
that his glazed hat looks like a gentleman's servant, and not the wart upon his nose; though
even that is not so ridiculous as it may seem to you, for we had a footboy once, who had not
only a wart, but a wen also, and a very large wen too, and he demanded to have his wages
raised in consequence, because he found it came very expensive. Let me see, what was I –
oh yes, I know. The best way that I can think of would be to send a card, and my
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 548
compliments, (I've no doubt he'd take 'em for a pot of porter,) by this young man, to the
Saracen with Two Necks. If the waiter took him for a gentleman's servant, so much the
better. Then all Mrs Browdie would have to do would be to send her card back by the carrier
(he could easily come with a double knock), and there's an end of it.'
'My dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'I don't suppose such unsophisticated people as these
ever had a card of their own, or ever will have.'
'Oh that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'that's another thing. If you
put it upon that ground, why, of course, I have no more to say, than that I have no doubt they
are very good sort of persons, and that I have no kind of objection to their coming here to tea
if they like, and shall make a point of being very civil to them if they do.'
The point being thus effectually set at rest, and Mrs Nickleby duly placed in the
patronising and mildly−condescending position which became her rank and matrimonial
years, Mr and Mrs Browdie were invited and came; and as they were very deferential to Mrs
Nickleby, and seemed to have a becoming appreciation of her greatness, and were very
much pleased with everything, the good lady had more than once given Kate to understand,
in a whisper, that she thought they were the very best−meaning people she had ever seen,
and perfectly well behaved.
And thus it came to pass, that John Browdie declared, in the parlour after supper, to wit,
and twenty minutes before eleven o'clock p.m., that he had never been so happy in all his
days.
Nor was Mrs Browdie much behind her husband in this respect, for that young matron,
whose rustic beauty contrasted very prettily with the more delicate loveliness of Kate, and
without suffering by the contrast either, for each served as it were to set off and decorate the
other, could not sufficiently admire the gentle and winning manners of the young lady, or
the engaging affability of the elder one. Then Kate had the art of turning the conversation to
subjects upon which the country girl, bashful at first in strange company, could feel herself
at home; and if Mrs Nickleby was not quite so felicitous at times in the selection of topics of
discourse, or if she did seem, as Mrs Browdie expressed it, 'rather high in her notions,' still
nothing could be kinder, and that she took considerable interest in the young couple was
manifest from the very long lectures on housewifery with which she was so obliging as to
entertain Mrs Browdie's private ear, which were illustrated by various references to the
domestic economy of the cottage, in which (those duties falling exclusively upon Kate) the
good lady had about as much share, either in theory or practice, as any one of the statues of
the Twelve Apostles which embellish the exterior of St Paul's Cathedral.
'Mr Browdie,' said Kate, addressing his young wife, 'is the best− humoured, the kindest
and heartiest creature I ever saw. If I were oppressed with I don't know how many cares, it
would make me happy only to look at him.'
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 549
'He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most excellent creature, Kate,' said Mrs
Nickleby; 'most excellent. And I am sure that at all times it will give me pleasure – really
pleasure now – to have you, Mrs Browdie, to see me in this plain and homely manner. We
make no display,' said Mrs Nickleby, with an air which seemed to insinuate that they could
make a vast deal if they were so disposed; 'no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn't allow it. I
said, «Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs Browdie feel uncomfortable, and how very
foolish and inconsiderate that would be!» '
'I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma'am,' returned Mrs Browdie, gratefully.
'It's nearly eleven o'clock, John. I am afraid we are keeping you up very late, ma'am.'
'Late!' cried Mrs Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and one little cough at the end, like a
note of admiration expressed. 'This is quite early for us. We used to keep such hours!
Twelve, one, two, three o'clock was nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card−parties! Never were
such rakes as the people about where we used to live. I often think now, I am sure, that how
we ever could go through with it is quite astonishing, and that is just the evil of having a
large connection and being a great deal sought after, which I would recommend all young
married people steadily to resist; though of course, and it's perfectly clear, and a very happy
thing too, I think, that very few young married people can be exposed to such temptations.
There was one family in particular, that used to live about a mile from us – not straight down
the road, but turning sharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over
the donkey – that were quite extraordinary people for giving the most extravagant parties,
with artificial flowers and champagne, and variegated lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of
eating and drinking that the most singular epicure could possibly require. I don't think that
there ever were such people as those Peltiroguses. You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate?'
Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time to stay this flood
of recollection, so answered that she entertained of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct
remembrance; and then said that Mr Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that
he would sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should redeem his
promise, because she was sure it would afford her mama more amusement and pleasure than
it was possible to express.
Mrs Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace – for there was
patronage in that too, and a kind of implication that she had a discerning taste in such
matters, and was something of a critic – John Browdie proceeded to consider the words of
some north− country ditty, and to take his wife's recollection respecting the same. This done,
he made divers ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular fly on the
ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed his eyes upon him, and began to roar a meek
sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair)
in a voice of thunder.
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 550
At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had waited until then to
make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent knocking at the street−door; so loud and
so violent, indeed, that the ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.
'It must be some mistake,' said Nicholas, carelessly. 'We know nobody who would come
here at this hour.'
Mrs Nickleby surmised, however, that perhaps the counting−house was burnt down, or
perhaps 'the Mr Cheerybles' had sent to take Nicholas into partnership (which certainly
appeared highly probable at that time of night), or perhaps Mr Linkinwater had run away
with the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps –
But a hasty exclamation from Kate stopped her abruptly in her conjectures, and Ralph
Nickleby walked into the room.
'Stay,' said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards him, threw
herself upon his arm. 'Before that boy says a word, hear me.'
Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner, but appeared for the
moment unable to articulate a syllable. Kate clung closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind
them, and John Browdie, who had heard of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty
in recognising him, stepped between the old man and his young friend, as if with the
intention of preventing either of them from advancing a step further.
'Hear me, I say,' said Ralph, 'and not him.'
'Say what thou'st gotten to say then, sir,' retorted John; 'and tak' care thou dinnot put up
angry bluid which thou'dst betther try to quiet.'
'I should know YOU,' said Ralph, 'by your tongue; and HIM' (pointing to Smike) 'by
his looks.'
'Don't speak to him,' said Nicholas, recovering his voice. 'I will not have it. I will not
hear him. I do not know that man. I cannot breathe the air that he corrupts. His presence is
an insult to my sister. It is shame to see him. I will not bear it.'
'Stand!' cried John, laying his heavy hand upon his chest.
'Then let him instantly retire,' said Nicholas, struggling. 'I am not going to lay hands
upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have him here. John, John Browdie, is this my
house, am I a child? If he stands there,' cried Nicholas, burning with fury, 'looking so calmly
upon those who know his black and dastardly heart, he'll drive me mad.'
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 551
To all these exclamations John Browdie answered not a word, but he retained his hold
upon Nicholas; and when he was silent again, spoke.
'There's more to say and hear than thou think'st for,' said John. 'I tell'ee I ha' gotten scent
o' thot already. Wa'at be that shadow ootside door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself,
mun; dinnot be sheame−feaced. Noo, auld gen'l'man, let's have schoolmeasther, coom.'
Hearing this adjuration, Mr Squeers, who had been lingering in the passage until such
time as it should be expedient for him to enter and he could appear with effect, was fain to
present himself in a somewhat undignified and sneaking way; at which John Browdie
laughed with such keen and heartfelt delight, that even Kate, in all the pain, anxiety, and
surprise of the scene, and though the tears were in her eyes, felt a disposition to join him.
'Have you done enjoying yourself, sir?' said Ralph, at length.
'Pratty nigh for the prasant time, sir,' replied John.
'I can wait,' said Ralph. 'Take your own time, pray.'
Ralph waited until there was a perfect silence, and then turning to Mrs Nickleby, but
directing an eager glance at Kate, as if more anxious to watch his effect upon her, said:
'Now, ma'am, listen to me. I don't imagine that you were a party to a very fine tirade of
words sent me by that boy of yours, because I don't believe that under his control, you have
the slightest will of your own, or that your advice, your opinion, your wants, your wishes,
anything which in nature and reason (or of what use is your great experience?) ought to
weigh with him, has the slightest influence or weight whatever, or is taken for a moment
into account.'
Mrs Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as if there were a good deal in that, certainly.
'For this reason,' resumed Ralph, 'I address myself to you, ma'am. For this reason,
partly, and partly because I do not wish to be disgraced by the acts of a vicious stripling
whom I was obliged to disown, and who, afterwards, in his boyish majesty, feigns to – ha!
ha! – to disown ME, I present myself here tonight. I have another motive in coming: a
motive of humanity. I come here,' said Ralph, looking round with a biting and triumphant
smile, and gloating and dwelling upon the words as if he were loath to lose the pleasure of
saying them, 'to restore a parent his child. Ay, sir,' he continued, bending eagerly forward,
and addressing Nicholas, as he marked the change of his countenance, 'to restore a parent his
child; his son, sir; trepanned, waylaid, and guarded at every turn by you, with the base
design of robbing him some day of any little wretched pittance of which he might become
possessed.'
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 552
'In that, you know you lie,' said Nicholas, proudly.
'In this, I know I speak the truth. I have his father here,' retorted Ralph.
'Here!' sneered Squeers, stepping forward. 'Do you hear that? Here! Didn't I tell you to
be careful that his father didn't turn up and send him back to me? Why, his father's my
friend; he's to come back to me directly, he is. Now, what do you say – eh! – now – come –
what do you say to that – an't you sorry you took so much trouble for nothing? an't you? an't
you?'
'You bear upon your body certain marks I gave you,' said Nicholas, looking quietly
away, 'and may talk in acknowledgment of them as much as you please. You'll talk a long
time before you rub them out, Mr Squeers.'
The estimable gentleman last named cast a hasty look at the table, as if he were
prompted by this retort to throw a jug or bottle at the head of Nicholas, but he was
interrupted in this design (if such design he had) by Ralph, who, touching him on the elbow,
bade him tell the father that he might now appear and claim his son.
This being purely a labour of love, Mr Squeers readily complied, and leaving the room
for the purpose, almost immediately returned, supporting a sleek personage with an oily
face, who, bursting from him, and giving to view the form and face of Mr Snawley, made
straight up to Smike, and tucking that poor fellow's head under his arm in a most uncouth
and awkward embrace, elevated his broad− brimmed hat at arm's length in the air as a token
of devout thanksgiving, exclaiming, meanwhile, 'How little did I think of this here joyful
meeting, when I saw him last! Oh, how little did I think it!'
'Be composed, sir,' said Ralph, with a gruff expression of sympathy, 'you have got him
now.'
'Got him! Oh, haven't I got him! Have I got him, though?' cried Mr Snawley, scarcely
able to believe it. 'Yes, here he is, flesh and blood, flesh and blood.'
'Vary little flesh,' said John Browdie.
Mr Snawley was too much occupied by his parental feelings to notice this remark; and,
to assure himself more completely of the restoration of his child, tucked his head under his
arm again, and kept it there.
'What was it,' said Snawley, 'that made me take such a strong interest in him, when that
worthy instructor of youth brought him to my house? What was it that made me burn all
over with a wish to chastise him severely for cutting away from his best friends, his pastors
and masters?'
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 553
'It was parental instinct, sir,' observed Squeers.
'That's what it was, sir,' rejoined Snawley; 'the elevated feeling, the feeling of the
ancient Romans and Grecians, and of the beasts of the field and birds of the air, with the
exception of rabbits and tom−cats, which sometimes devour their offspring. My heart
yearned towards him. I could have – I don't know what I couldn't have done to him in the
anger of a father.'
'It only shows what Natur is, sir,' said Mr Squeers. 'She's rum 'un, is Natur.'
'She is a holy thing, sir,' remarked Snawley.
'I believe you,' added Mr Squeers, with a moral sigh. 'I should like to know how we
should ever get on without her. Natur,' said Mr Squeers, solemnly, 'is more easier conceived
than described. Oh what a blessed thing, sir, to be in a state of natur!'
Pending this philosophical discourse, the bystanders had been quite stupefied with
amazement, while Nicholas had looked keenly from Snawley to Squeers, and from Squeers
to Ralph, divided between his feelings of disgust, doubt, and surprise. At this juncture,
Smike escaping from his father fled to Nicholas, and implored him, in most moving terms,
never to give him up, but to let him live and die beside him.
'If you are this boy's father,' said Nicholas, 'look at the wreck he is, and tell me that you
purpose to send him back to that loathsome den from which I brought him.'
'Scandal again!' cried Squeers. 'Recollect, you an't worth powder and shot, but I'll be
even with you one way or another.'
'Stop,' interposed Ralph, as Snawley was about to speak. 'Let us cut this matter short,
and not bandy words here with hare−brained profligates. This is your son, as you can prove.
And you, Mr Squeers, you know this boy to be the same that was with you for so many
years under the name of Smike. Do you?'
'Do I!' returned Squeers. 'Don't I?'
'Good,' said Ralph; 'a very few words will be sufficient here. You had a son by your first
wife, Mr Snawley?'
'I had,' replied that person, 'and there he stands.'
'We'll show that presently,' said Ralph. 'You and your wife were separated, and she had
the boy to live with her, when he was a year old. You received a communication from her,
when you had lived apart a year or two, that the boy was dead; and you believed it?'
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'Of course I did!' returned Snawley. 'Oh the joy of – '
'Be rational, sir, pray,' said Ralph. 'This is business, and transports interfere with it. This
wife died a year and a half ago, or thereabouts – not more – in some obscure place, where
she was housekeeper in a family. Is that the case?'
'That's the case,' replied Snawley.
'Having written on her death−bed a letter or confession to you, about this very boy,
which, as it was not directed otherwise than in your name, only reached you, and that by a
circuitous course, a few days since?'
'Just so,' said Snawley. 'Correct in every particular, sir.'
'And this confession,' resumed Ralph, 'is to the effect that his death was an invention of
hers to wound you – was a part of a system of annoyance, in short, which you seem to have
adopted towards each other – that the boy lived, but was of weak and imperfect intellect –
that she sent him by a trusty hand to a cheap school in Yorkshire – that she had paid for his
education for some years, and then, being poor, and going a long way off, gradually deserted
him, for which she prayed forgiveness?'
Snawley nodded his head, and wiped his eyes; the first slightly, the last violently.
'The school was Mr Squeers's,' continued Ralph; 'the boy was left there in the name of
Smike; every description was fully given, dates tally exactly with Mr Squeers's books, Mr
Squeers is lodging with you at this time; you have two other boys at his school: you
communicated the whole discovery to him, he brought you to me as the person who had
recommended to him the kidnapper of his child; and I brought you here. Is that so?'
'You talk like a good book, sir, that's got nothing in its inside but what's the truth,'
replied Snawley.
'This is your pocket−book,' said Ralph, producing one from his coat; 'the certificates of
your first marriage and of the boy's birth, and your wife's two letters, and every other paper
that can support these statements directly or by implication, are here, are they?'
'Every one of 'em, sir.'
'And you don't object to their being looked at here, so that these people may be
convinced of your power to substantiate your claim at once in law and reason, and you may
resume your control over your own son without more delay. Do I understand you?'
'I couldn't have understood myself better, sir.'
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'There, then,' said Ralph, tossing the pocket−book upon the table. 'Let them see them if
they like; and as those are the original papers, I should recommend you to stand near while
they are being examined, or you may chance to lose some.'
With these words Ralph sat down unbidden, and compressing his lips, which were for
the moment slightly parted by a smile, folded his arms, and looked for the first time at his
nephew.
Nicholas, stung by the concluding taunt, darted an indignant glance at him; but
commanding himself as well as he could, entered upon a close examination of the
documents, at which John Browdie assisted. There was nothing about them which could be
called in question. The certificates were regularly signed as extracts from the parish books,
the first letter had a genuine appearance of having been written and preserved for some
years, the handwriting of the second tallied with it exactly, (making proper allowance for its
having been written by a person in extremity,) and there were several other corroboratory
scraps of entries and memoranda which it was equally difficult to question.
'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, who had been looking anxiously over his shoulder,
'can this be really the case? Is this statement true?'
'I fear it is,' answered Nicholas. 'What say you, John?'
'John scratched his head and shook it, but said nothing at all.
'You will observe, ma'am,' said Ralph, addressing himself to Mrs Nickleby, 'that this
boy being a minor and not of strong mind, we might have come here tonight, armed with the
powers of the law, and backed by a troop of its myrmidons. I should have done so, ma'am,
unquestionably, but for my regard for the feelings of yourself, and your daughter.'
'You have shown your regard for HER feelings well,' said Nicholas, drawing his sister
towards him.
'Thank you,' replied Ralph. 'Your praise, sir, is commendation, indeed.'
'Well,' said Squeers, 'what's to be done? Them hackney−coach horses will catch cold if
we don't think of moving; there's one of 'em a sneezing now, so that he blows the street door
right open. What's the order of the day? Is Master Snawley to come along with us?'
'No, no, no,' replied Smike, drawing back, and clinging to Nicholas.
'No. Pray, no. I will not go from you with him. No, no.'
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'This is a cruel thing,' said Snawley, looking to his friends for support. 'Do parents bring
children into the world for this?'
'Do parents bring children into the world for THOT?' said John Browdie bluntly,
pointing, as he spoke, to Squeers.
'Never you mind,' retorted that gentleman, tapping his nose derisively.
'Never I mind!' said John, 'no, nor never nobody mind, say'st thou, schoolmeasther. It's
nobody's minding that keeps sike men as thou afloat. Noo then, where be'est thou coomin'
to? Dang it, dinnot coom treadin' ower me, mun.'
Suiting the action to the word, John Browdie just jerked his elbow into the chest of Mr
Squeers who was advancing upon Smike; with so much dexterity that the schoolmaster
reeled and staggered back upon Ralph Nickleby, and being unable to recover his balance,
knocked that gentleman off his chair, and stumbled heavily upon him.
This accidental circumstance was the signal for some very decisive proceedings. In the
midst of a great noise, occasioned by the prayers and entreaties of Smike, the cries and
exclamations of the women, and the vehemence of the men, demonstrations were made of
carrying off the lost son by violence. Squeers had actually begun to haul him out, when
Nicholas (who, until then, had been evidently undecided how to act) took him by the collar,
and shaking him so that such teeth as he had, chattered in his head, politely escorted him to
the room−door, and thrusting him into the passage, shut it upon him.
'Now,' said Nicholas to the other two, 'have the goodness to follow your friend.'
'I want my son,' said Snawley.
'Your son,' replied Nicholas, 'chooses for himself. He chooses to remain here, and he
shall.'
'You won't give him up?' said Snawley.
'I would not give him up against his will, to be the victim of such brutality as that to
which you would consign him,' replied Nicholas, 'if he were a dog or a rat.'
'Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,' cried Mr Squeers, through the keyhole,
'and bring out my hat, somebody, will you, unless he wants to steal it.'
'I am very sorry, indeed,' said Mrs Nickleby, who, with Mrs Browdie, had stood crying
and biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate (very pale, but perfectly quiet) had kept as near
her brother as she could. 'I am very sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don't know what would
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 557
be best to do, and that's the truth. Nicholas ought to be the best judge, and I hope he is. Of
course, it's a hard thing to have to keep other people's children, though young Mr Snawley is
certainly as useful and willing as it's possible for anybody to be; but, if it could be settled in
any friendly manner – if old Mr Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay something certain
for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement was come to, so that we undertook to
have fish twice a week, and a pudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort – I do
think that it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.'
This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs, not exactly
meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it; and poor Mrs Nickleby accordingly
proceeded to enlighten Mrs Browdie upon the advantages of such a scheme, and the
unhappy results flowing, on all occasions, from her not being attended to when she proffered
her advice.
'You, sir,' said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, 'are an unnatural, ungrateful,
unlovable boy. You won't let me love you when I want to. Won't you come home, won't
you?'
'No, no, no,' cried Smike, shrinking back.
'He never loved nobody,' bawled Squeers, through the keyhole. 'He never loved me; he
never loved Wackford, who is next door but one to a cherubim. How can you expect that
he'll love his father? He'll never love his father, he won't. He don't know what it is to have a
father. He don't understand it. It an't in him.'
Mr Snawley looked steadfastly at his son for a full minute, and then covering his eyes
with his hand, and once more raising his hat in the air, appeared deeply occupied in
deploring his black ingratitude. Then drawing his arm across his eyes, he picked up Mr
Squeers's hat, and taking it under one arm, and his own under the other, walked slowly and
sadly out.
'Your romance, sir,' said Ralph, lingering for a moment, 'is destroyed, I take it. No
unknown; no persecuted descendant of a man of high degree; but the weak, imbecile son of
a poor, petty tradesman. We shall see how your sympathy melts before plain matter of fact.'
'You shall,' said Nicholas, motioning towards the door.
'And trust me, sir,' added Ralph, 'that I never supposed you would give him up tonight.
Pride, obstinacy, reputation for fine feeling, were all against it. These must be brought down,
sir, lowered, crushed, as they shall be soon. The protracted and wearing anxiety and expense
of the law in its most oppressive form, its torture from hour to hour, its weary days and
sleepless nights, with these I'll prove you, and break your haughty spirit, strong as you deem
it now. And when you make this house a hell, and visit these trials upon yonder wretched
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CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind 558
object (as you will; I know you), and those who think you now a young−fledged hero, we'll
go into old accounts between us two, and see who stands the debtor, and comes out best at
last, even before the world.'
Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr Squeers, who had heard a portion of this closing
address, and was by this time wound up to a pitch of impotent malignity almost
unprecedented, could not refrain from returning to the parlour door, and actually cutting
some dozen capers with various wry faces and hideous grimaces, expressive of his
triumphant confidence in the downfall and defeat of Nicholas.
Having concluded this war−dance, in which his short trousers and large boots had borne
a very conspicuous figure, Mr Squeers followed his friends, and the family were left to
meditate upon recent occurrences.
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but
whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.
A
fter an anxious consideration of the painful and embarrassing position in which he
was placed, Nicholas decided that he ought to lose no time in frankly stating it to the kind
brothers. Availing himself of the first opportunity of being alone with Mr Charles Cheeryble
at the close of next day, he accordingly related Smike's little history, and modestly but
firmly expressed his hope that the good old gentleman would, under such circumstances as
he described, hold him justified in adopting the extreme course of interfering between parent
and child, and upholding the latter in his disobedience; even though his horror and dread of
his father might seem, and would doubtless be represented as, a thing so repulsive and
unnatural, as to render those who countenanced him in it, fit objects of general detestation
and abhorrence.
'So deeply rooted does this horror of the man appear to be,' said Nicholas, 'that I can
hardly believe he really is his son. Nature does not seem to have implanted in his breast one
lingering feeling of affection for him, and surely she can never err.'
'My dear sir,' replied brother Charles, 'you fall into the very common mistake of
charging upon Nature, matters with which she has not the smallest connection, and for
which she is in no way responsible. Men talk of Nature as an abstract thing, and lose sight of
what is natural while they do so. Here is a poor lad who has never felt a parent's care, who
has scarcely known anything all his life but suffering and sorrow, presented to a man who he
is told is his father, and whose first act is to signify his intention of putting an end to his
short term of happiness, of consigning him to his old fate, and taking him from the only
friend he has ever had – which is yourself. If Nature, in such a case, put into that lad's breast
but one secret prompting which urged him towards his father and away from you, she would
be a liar and an idiot.'
Nicholas was delighted to find that the old gentleman spoke so warmly, and in the hope
that he might say something more to the same purpose, made no reply.
'The same mistake presents itself to me, in one shape or other, at every turn,' said
brother Charles. 'Parents who never showed their love, complain of want of natural affection
in their children; children who never showed their duty, complain of want of natural feeling
in their parents; law−makers who find both so miserable that their affections have never had
enough of life's sun to develop them, are loud in their moralisings over parents and children
too, and cry that the very ties of nature are disregarded. Natural affections and instincts, my
dear sir, are the most beautiful of the Almighty's works, but like other beautiful works of
His, they must be reared and fostered, or it is as natural that they should be wholly obscured,
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.560
and that new feelings should usurp their place, as it is that the sweetest productions of the
earth, left untended, should be choked with weeds and briers. I wish we could be brought to
consider this, and remembering natural obligations a little more at the right time, talk about
them a little less at the wrong one.'
After this, brother Charles, who had talked himself into a great heat, stopped to cool a
little, and then continued:
'I dare say you are surprised, my dear sir, that I have listened to your recital with so little
astonishment. That is easily explained. Your uncle has been here this morning.'
Nicholas coloured, and drew back a step or two.
'Yes,' said the old gentleman, tapping his desk emphatically, 'here, in this room. He
would listen neither to reason, feeling, nor justice. But brother Ned was hard upon him;
brother Ned, sir, might have melted a paving−stone.'
'He came to – ' said Nicholas.
'To complain of you,' returned brother Charles, 'to poison our ears with calumnies and
falsehoods; but he came on a fruitless errand, and went away with some wholesome truths in
his ear besides. Brother Ned, my dear My Nickleby – brother Ned, sir, is a perfect lion. So is
Tim Linkinwater; Tim is quite a lion. We had Tim in to face him at first, and Tim was at
him, sir, before you could say «Jack Robinson.»'
'How can I ever thank you for all the deep obligations you impose upon me every day?'
said Nicholas.
'By keeping silence upon the subject, my dear sir,' returned brother Charles. 'You shall
be righted. At least you shall not be wronged. Nobody belonging to you shall be wronged.
They shall not hurt a hair of your head, or the boy's head, or your mother's head, or your
sister's head. I have said it, brother Ned has said it, Tim Linkinwater has said it. We have all
said it, and we'll all do it. I have seen the father – if he is the father – and I suppose he must
be. He is a barbarian and a hypocrite, Mr Nickleby. I told him, «You are a barbarian, sir.» I
did. I said, «You're a barbarian, sir.» And I'm glad of it, I am VERY glad I told him he was
a barbarian, very glad indeed!'
By this time brother Charles was in such a very warm state of indignation, that Nicholas
thought he might venture to put in a word, but the moment he essayed to do so, Mr
Cheeryble laid his hand softly upon his arm, and pointed to a chair.
'The subject is at an end for the present,' said the old gentleman, wiping his face. 'Don't
revive it by a single word. I am going to speak upon another subject, a confidential subject,
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.561
Mr Nickleby. We must be cool again, we must be cool.'
After two or three turns across the room he resumed his seat, and drawing his chair
nearer to that on which Nicholas was seated, said:
'I am about to employ you, my dear sir, on a confidential and delicate mission.'
'You might employ many a more able messenger, sir,' said Nicholas, 'but a more
trustworthy or zealous one, I may be bold to say, you could not find.'
'Of that I am well assured,' returned brother Charles, 'well assured. You will give me
credit for thinking so, when I tell you that the object of this mission is a young lady.'
'A young lady, sir!' cried Nicholas, quite trembling for the moment with his eagerness to
hear more.
'A very beautiful young lady,' said Mr Cheeryble, gravely.
'Pray go on, sir,' returned Nicholas.
'I am thinking how to do so,' said brother Charles; sadly, as it seemed to his young
friend, and with an expression allied to pain. 'You accidentally saw a young lady in this
room one morning, my dear sir, in a fainting fit. Do you remember? Perhaps you have
forgotten.'
'Oh no,' replied Nicholas, hurriedly. 'I – I – remember it very well indeed.'
'SHE is the lady I speak of,' said brother Charles. Like the famous parrot, Nicholas
thought a great deal, but was unable to utter a word.
'She is the daughter,' said Mr Cheeryble, 'of a lady who, when she was a beautiful girl
herself, and I was very many years younger, I – it seems a strange word for me to utter now
– I loved very dearly. You will smile, perhaps, to hear a grey−headed man talk about such
things. You will not offend me, for when I was as young as you, I dare say I should have
done the same.'
'I have no such inclination, indeed,' said Nicholas.
'My dear brother Ned,' continued Mr Cheeryble, 'was to have married her sister, but she
died. She is dead too now, and has been for many years. She married her choice; and I wish
I could add that her after−life was as happy as God knows I ever prayed it might be!'
A short silence intervened, which Nicholas made no effort to break.
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'If trial and calamity had fallen as lightly on his head, as in the deepest truth of my own
heart I ever hoped (for her sake) it would, his life would have been one of peace and
happiness,' said the old gentleman calmly. 'It will be enough to say that this was not the
case; that she was not happy; that they fell into complicated distresses and difficulties; that
she came, twelve months before her death, to appeal to my old friendship; sadly changed,
sadly altered, broken−spirited from suffering and ill−usage, and almost broken− hearted. He
readily availed himself of the money which, to give her but one hour's peace of mind, I
would have poured out as freely as water – nay, he often sent her back for more – and yet
even while he squandered it, he made the very success of these, her applications to me, the
groundwork of cruel taunts and jeers, protesting that he knew she thought with bitter
remorse of the choice she had made, that she had married him from motives of interest and
vanity (he was a gay young man with great friends about him when she chose him for her
husband), and venting in short upon her, by every unjust and unkind means, the bitterness of
that ruin and disappointment which had been brought about by his profligacy alone. In those
times this young lady was a mere child. I never saw her again until that morning when you
saw her also, but my nephew, Frank – '
Nicholas started, and indistinctly apologising for the interruption, begged his patron to
proceed.
' – My nephew, Frank, I say,' resumed Mr Cheeryble, 'encountered her by accident, and
lost sight of her almost in a minute afterwards, within two days after he returned to England.
Her father lay in some secret place to avoid his creditors, reduced, between sickness and
poverty, to the verge of death, and she, a child, – we might almost think, if we did not know
the wisdom of all Heaven's decrees – who should have blessed a better man, was steadily
braving privation, degradation, and everything most terrible to such a young and delicate
creature's heart, for the purpose of supporting him. She was attended, sir,' said brother
Charles, 'in these reverses, by one faithful creature, who had been, in old times, a poor
kitchen wench in the family, who was then their solitary servant, but who might have been,
for the truth and fidelity of her heart – who might have been – ah! the wife of Tim
Linkinwater himself, sir!'
Pursuing this encomium upon the poor follower with such energy and relish as no
words can describe, brother Charles leant back in his chair, and delivered the remainder of
his relation with greater composure.
It was in substance this: That proudly resisting all offers of permanent aid and support
from her late mother's friends, because they were made conditional upon her quitting the
wretched man, her father, who had no friends left, and shrinking with instinctive delicacy
from appealing in their behalf to that true and noble heart which he hated, and had, through
its greatest and purest goodness, deeply wronged by misconstruction and ill report, this
young girl had struggled alone and unassisted to maintain him by the labour of her hands.
That through the utmost depths of poverty and affliction she had toiled, never turning aside
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.563
for an instant from her task, never wearied by the petulant gloom of a sick man sustained by
no consoling recollections of the past or hopes of the future; never repining for the comforts
she had rejected, or bewailing the hard lot she had voluntarily incurred. That every little
accomplishment she had acquired in happier days had been put into requisition for this
purpose, and directed to this one end. That for two long years, toiling by day and often too
by night, working at the needle, the pencil, and the pen, and submitting, as a daily
governess, to such caprices and indignities as women (with daughters too) too often love to
inflict upon their own sex when they serve in such capacities, as though in jealousy of the
superior intelligence which they are necessitated to employ, – indignities, in ninety−nine
cases out of every hundred, heaped upon persons immeasurably and incalculably their
betters, but outweighing in comparison any that the most heartless blackleg would put upon
his groom – that for two long years, by dint of labouring in all these capacities and wearying
in none, she had not succeeded in the sole aim and object of her life, but that, overwhelmed
by accumulated difficulties and disappointments, she had been compelled to seek out her
mother's old friend, and, with a bursting heart, to confide in him at last.
'If I had been poor,' said brother Charles, with sparkling eyes; 'if I had been poor, Mr
Nickleby, my dear sir, which thank God I am not, I would have denied myself (of course
anybody would under such circumstances) the commonest necessaries of life, to help her. As
it is, the task is a difficult one. If her father were dead, nothing could be easier, for then she
should share and cheer the happiest home that brother Ned and I could have, as if she were
our child or sister. But he is still alive. Nobody can help him; that has been tried a thousand
times; he was not abandoned by all without good cause, I know.'
'Cannot she be persuaded to – ' Nicholas hesitated when he had got thus far.
'To leave him?' said brother Charles. 'Who could entreat a child to desert her parent?
Such entreaties, limited to her seeing him occasionally, have been urged upon her – not by
me – but always with the same result.'
'Is he kind to her?' said Nicholas. 'Does he requite her affection?'
'True kindness, considerate self−denying kindness, is not in his nature,' returned Mr
Cheeryble. 'Such kindness as he knows, he regards her with, I believe. The mother was a
gentle, loving, confiding creature, and although he wounded her from their marriage till her
death as cruelly and wantonly as ever man did, she never ceased to love him. She
commended him on her death−bed to her child's care. Her child has never forgotten it, and
never will.'
'Have you no influence over him?' asked Nicholas.
'I, my dear sir! The last man in the world. Such are his jealousy and hatred of me, that if
he knew his daughter had opened her heart to me, he would render her life miserable with
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.564
his reproaches; although – this is the inconsistency and selfishness of his character –
although if he knew that every penny she had came from me, he would not relinquish one
personal desire that the most reckless expenditure of her scanty stock could gratify.'
'An unnatural scoundrel!' said Nicholas, indignantly.
'We will use no harsh terms,' said brother Charles, in a gentle voice; 'but accommodate
ourselves to the circumstances in which this young lady is placed. Such assistance as I have
prevailed upon her to accept, I have been obliged, at her own earnest request, to dole out in
the smallest portions, lest he, finding how easily money was procured, should squander it
even more lightly than he is accustomed to do. She has come to and fro, to and fro, secretly
and by night, to take even this; and I cannot bear that things should go on in this way, Mr
Nickleby, I really cannot bear it.'
Then it came out by little and little, how that the twins had been revolving in their good
old heads manifold plans and schemes for helping this young lady in the most delicate and
considerate way, and so that her father should not suspect the source whence the aid was
derived; and how they had at last come to the conclusion, that the best course would be to
make a feint of purchasing her little drawings and ornamental work at a high price, and
keeping up a constant demand for the same. For the furtherance of which end and object it
was necessary that somebody should represent the dealer in such commodities, and after
great deliberation they had pitched upon Nicholas to support this character.
'He knows me,' said brother Charles, 'and he knows my brother Ned. Neither of us
would do. Frank is a very good fellow – a very fine fellow – but we are afraid that he might
be a little flighty and thoughtless in such a delicate matter, and that he might, perhaps – that
he might, in short, be too susceptible (for she is a beautiful creature, sir; just what her poor
mother was), and falling in love with her before he knew well his own mind, carry pain and
sorrow into that innocent breast, which we would be the humble instruments of gradually
making happy. He took an extraordinary interest in her fortunes when he first happened to
encounter her; and we gather from the inquiries we have made of him, that it was she in
whose behalf he made that turmoil which led to your first acquaintance.'
Nicholas stammered out that he had before suspected the possibility of such a thing; and
in explanation of its having occurred to him, described when and where he had seen the
young lady himself.
'Well; then you see,' continued brother Charles, 'that HE wouldn't do. Tim Linkinwater
is out of the question; for Tim, sir, is such a tremendous fellow, that he could never contain
himself, but would go to loggerheads with the father before he had been in the place five
minutes. You don't know what Tim is, sir, when he is aroused by anything that appeals to his
feelings very strongly; then he is terrific, sir, is Tim Linkinwater, absolutely terrific. Now, in
you we can repose the strictest confidence; in you we have seen – or at least I have seen, and
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.565
that's the same thing, for there's no difference between me and my brother Ned, except that
he is the finest creature that ever lived, and that there is not, and never will be, anybody like
him in all the world – in you we have seen domestic virtues and affections, and delicacy of
feeling, which exactly qualify you for such an office. And you are the man, sir.'
'The young lady, sir,' said Nicholas, who felt so embarrassed that he had no small
difficulty in saying anything at all – 'Does – is – is she a party to this innocent deceit?'
'Yes, yes,' returned Mr Cheeryble; 'at least she knows you come from us; she does NOT
know, however, but that we shall dispose of these little productions that you'll purchase from
time to time; and, perhaps, if you did it very well (that is, VERY well indeed), perhaps she
might be brought to believe that we – that we made a profit of them. Eh? Eh?'
In this guileless and most kind simplicity, brother Charles was so happy, and in this
possibility of the young lady being led to think that she was under no obligation to him, he
evidently felt so sanguine and had so much delight, that Nicholas would not breathe a doubt
upon the subject.
All this time, however, there hovered upon the tip of his tongue a confession that the
very same objections which Mr Cheeryble had stated to the employment of his nephew in
this commission applied with at least equal force and validity to himself, and a hundred
times had he been upon the point of avowing the real state of his feelings, and entreating to
be released from it. But as often, treading upon the heels of this impulse, came another
which urged him to refrain, and to keep his secret to his own breast. 'Why should I,' thought
Nicholas, 'why should I throw difficulties in the way of this benevolent and high−minded
design? What if I do love and reverence this good and lovely creature. Should I not appear a
most arrogant and shallow coxcomb if I gravely represented that there was any danger of her
falling in love with me? Besides, have I no confidence in myself? Am I not now bound in
honour to repress these thoughts? Has not this excellent man a right to my best and heartiest
services, and should any considerations of self deter me from rendering them?'
Asking himself such questions as these, Nicholas mentally answered with great
emphasis 'No!' and persuading himself that he was a most conscientious and glorious martyr,
nobly resolved to do what, if he had examined his own heart a little more carefully, he
would have found he could not resist. Such is the sleight of hand by which we juggle with
ourselves, and change our very weaknesses into stanch and most magnanimous virtues!
Mr Cheeryble, being of course wholly unsuspicious that such reflections were
presenting themselves to his young friend, proceeded to give him the needful credentials and
directions for his first visit, which was to be made next morning; and all preliminaries being
arranged, and the strictest secrecy enjoined, Nicholas walked home for the night very
thoughtfully indeed.
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.566
The place to which Mr Cheeryble had directed him was a row of mean and not
over−cleanly houses, situated within 'the Rules' of the King's Bench Prison, and not many
hundred paces distant from the obelisk in St George's Fields. The Rules are a certain liberty
adjoining the prison, and comprising some dozen streets in which debtors who can raise
money to pay large fees, from which their creditors do NOT derive any benefit, are
permitted to reside by the wise provisions of the same enlightened laws which leave the
debtor who can raise no money to starve in jail, without the food, clothing, lodging, or
warmth, which are provided for felons convicted of the most atrocious crimes that can
disgrace humanity. There are many pleasant fictions of the law in constant operation, but
there is not one so pleasant or practically humorous as that which supposes every man to be
of equal value in its impartial eye, and the benefits of all laws to be equally attainable by all
men, without the smallest reference to the furniture of their pockets.
To the row of houses indicated to him by Mr Charles Cheeryble, Nicholas directed his
steps, without much troubling his head with such matters as these; and at this row of houses
– after traversing a very dirty and dusty suburb, of which minor theatricals, shell−fish,
ginger−beer, spring vans, greengrocery, and brokers' shops, appeared to compose the main
and most prominent features – he at length arrived with a palpitating heart. There were small
gardens in front which, being wholly neglected in all other respects, served as little pens for
the dust to collect in, until the wind came round the corner and blew it down the road.
Opening the rickety gate which, dangling on its broken hinges before one of these, half
admitted and half repulsed the visitor, Nicholas knocked at the street door with a faltering
hand.
It was in truth a shabby house outside, with very dim parlour windows and very small
show of blinds, and very dirty muslin curtains dangling across the lower panes on very loose
and limp strings. Neither, when the door was opened, did the inside appear to belie the
outward promise, as there was faded carpeting on the stairs and faded oil−cloth in the
passage; in addition to which discomforts a gentleman Ruler was smoking hard in the front
parlour (though it was not yet noon), while the lady of the house was busily engaged in
turpentining the disjointed fragments of a tent−bedstead at the door of the back parlour, as if
in preparation for the reception of some new lodger who had been fortunate enough to
engage it.
Nicholas had ample time to make these observations while the little boy, who went on
errands for the lodgers, clattered down the kitchen stairs and was heard to scream, as in
some remote cellar, for Miss Bray's servant, who, presently appearing and requesting him to
follow her, caused him to evince greater symptoms of nervousness and disorder than so
natural a consequence of his having inquired for that young lady would seem calculated to
occasion.
Upstairs he went, however, and into a front room he was shown, and there, seated at a
little table by the window, on which were drawing materials with which she was occupied,
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.567
sat the beautiful girl who had so engrossed his thoughts, and who, surrounded by all the new
and strong interest which Nicholas attached to her story, seemed now, in his eyes, a
thousand times more beautiful than he had ever yet supposed her.
But how the graces and elegancies which she had dispersed about the poorly−furnished
room went to the heart of Nicholas! Flowers, plants, birds, the harp, the old piano whose
notes had sounded so much sweeter in bygone times; how many struggles had it cost her to
keep these two last links of that broken chain which bound her yet to home! With every
slender ornament, the occupation of her leisure hours, replete with that graceful charm
which lingers in every little tasteful work of woman's hands, how much patient endurance
and how many gentle affections were entwined! He felt as though the smile of Heaven were
on the little chamber; as though the beautiful devotion of so young and weak a creature had
shed a ray of its own on the inanimate things around, and made them beautiful as itself; as
though the halo with which old painters surround the bright angels of a sinless world played
about a being akin in spirit to them, and its light were visibly before him.
And yet Nicholas was in the Rules of the King's Bench Prison! If he had been in Italy
indeed, and the time had been sunset, and the scene a stately terrace! But, there is one broad
sky over all the world, and whether it be blue or cloudy, the same heaven beyond it; so,
perhaps, he had no need of compunction for thinking as he did.
It is not to be supposed that he took in everything at one glance, for he had as yet been
unconscious of the presence of a sick man propped up with pillows in an easy−chair, who,
moving restlessly and impatiently in his seat, attracted his attention.
He was scarce fifty, perhaps, but so emaciated as to appear much older. His features
presented the remains of a handsome countenance, but one in which the embers of strong
and impetuous passions were easier to be traced than any expression which would have
rendered a far plainer face much more prepossessing. His looks were very haggard, and his
limbs and body literally worn to the bone, but there was something of the old fire in the
large sunken eye notwithstanding, and it seemed to kindle afresh as he struck a thick stick,
with which he seemed to have supported himself in his seat, impatiently on the floor twice
or thrice, and called his daughter by her name.
'Madeline, who is this? What does anybody want here? Who told a stranger we could be
seen? What is it?'
'I believe – ' the young lady began, as she inclined her head with an air of some
confusion, in reply to the salutation of Nicholas.
'You always believe,' returned her father, petulantly. 'What is it?'
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.568
By this time Nicholas had recovered sufficient presence of mind to speak for himself, so
he said (as it had been agreed he should say) that he had called about a pair of hand−screens,
and some painted velvet for an ottoman, both of which were required to be of the most
elegant design possible, neither time nor expense being of the smallest consideration. He had
also to pay for the two drawings, with many thanks, and, advancing to the little table, he laid
upon it a bank note, folded in an envelope and sealed.
'See that the money is right, Madeline,' said the father. 'Open the paper, my dear.'
'It's quite right, papa, I'm sure.'
'Here!' said Mr Bray, putting out his hand, and opening and shutting his bony fingers
with irritable impatience. 'Let me see. What are you talking about, Madeline? You're sure?
How can you be sure of any such thing? Five pounds – well, is THAT right?'
'Quite,' said Madeline, bending over him. She was so busily employed in arranging the
pillows that Nicholas could not see her face, but as she stooped he thought he saw a tear fall.
'Ring the bell, ring the bell,' said the sick man, with the same nervous eagerness, and
motioning towards it with such a quivering hand that the bank note rustled in the air. 'Tell
her to get it changed, to get me a newspaper, to buy me some grapes, another bottle of the
wine that I had last week – and – and – I forget half I want just now, but she can go out
again. Let her get those first, those first. Now, Madeline, my love, quick, quick! Good God,
how slow you are!'
'He remembers nothing that SHE wants!' thought Nicholas. Perhaps something of what
he thought was expressed in his countenance, for the sick man, turning towards him with
great asperity, demanded to know if he waited for a receipt.
'It is no matter at all,' said Nicholas.
'No matter! what do you mean, sir?' was the tart rejoinder. 'No matter! Do you think you
bring your paltry money here as a favour or a gift; or as a matter of business, and in return
for value received? D – n you, sir, because you can't appreciate the time and taste which are
bestowed upon the goods you deal in, do you think you give your money away? Do you
know that you are talking to a gentleman, sir, who at one time could have bought up fifty
such men as you and all you have? What do you mean?'
'I merely mean that as I shall have many dealings with this lady, if she will kindly allow
me, I will not trouble her with such forms,' said Nicholas.
'Then I mean, if you please, that we'll have as many forms as we can, returned the
father. 'My daughter, sir, requires no kindness from you or anybody else. Have the goodness
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.569
to confine your dealings strictly to trade and business, and not to travel beyond it. Every
petty tradesman is to begin to pity her now, is he? Upon my soul! Very pretty. Madeline, my
dear, give him a receipt; and mind you always do so.'
While she was feigning to write it, and Nicholas was ruminating upon the extraordinary
but by no means uncommon character thus presented to his observation, the invalid, who
appeared at times to suffer great bodily pain, sank back in his chair and moaned out a feeble
complaint that the girl had been gone an hour, and that everybody conspired to goad him.
'When,' said Nicholas, as he took the piece of paper, 'when shall I call again?'
This was addressed to the daughter, but the father answered immediately.
'When you're requested to call, sir, and not before. Don't worry and persecute.
Madeline, my dear, when is this person to call again?'
'Oh, not for a long time, not for three or four weeks; it is not necessary, indeed; I can do
without,' said the young lady, with great eagerness.
'Why, how are we to do without?' urged her father, not speaking above his breath.
'Three or four weeks, Madeline! Three or four weeks!'
'Then sooner, sooner, if you please,' said the young lady, turning to Nicholas.
'Three or four weeks!' muttered the father. 'Madeline, what on earth – do nothing for
three or four weeks!'
'It is a long time, ma'am,' said Nicholas.
'YOU think so, do you?' retorted the father, angrily. 'If I chose to beg, sir, and stoop to
ask assistance from people I despise, three or four months would not be a long time; three or
four years would not be a long time. Understand, sir, that is if I chose to be dependent; but
as I don't, you may call in a week.'
Nicholas bowed low to the young lady and retired, pondering upon Mr Bray's ideas of
independence, and devoutly hoping that there might be few such independent spirits as he
mingling with the baser clay of humanity.
He heard a light footstep above him as he descended the stairs, and looking round saw
that the young lady was standing there, and glancing timidly towards him, seemed to
hesitate whether she should call him back or no. The best way of settling the question was to
turn back at once, which Nicholas did.
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.570
'I don't know whether I do right in asking you, sir,' said Madeline, hurriedly, 'but pray,
pray, do not mention to my poor mother's dear friends what has passed here today. He has
suffered much, and is worse this morning. I beg you, sir, as a boon, a favour to myself.'
'You have but to hint a wish,' returned Nicholas fervently, 'and I would hazard my life
to gratify it.'
'You speak hastily, sir.'
'Truly and sincerely,' rejoined Nicholas, his lips trembling as he formed the words, 'if
ever man spoke truly yet. I am not skilled in disguising my feelings, and if I were, I could
not hide my heart from you. Dear madam, as I know your history, and feel as men and
angels must who hear and see such things, I do entreat you to believe that I would die to
serve you.'
The young lady turned away her head, and was plainly weeping.
'Forgive me,' said Nicholas, with respectful earnestness, 'if I seem to say too much, or to
presume upon the confidence which has been intrusted to me. But I could not leave you as if
my interest and sympathy expired with the commission of the day. I am your faithful
servant, humbly devoted to you from this hour, devoted in strict truth and honour to him
who sent me here, and in pure integrity of heart, and distant respect for you. If I meant more
or less than this, I should be unworthy his regard, and false to the very nature that prompts
the honest words I utter.'
She waved her hand, entreating him to be gone, but answered not a word. Nicholas
could say no more, and silently withdrew. And thus ended his first interview with Madeline
Bray.
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CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or Evil the Reader must determine.571
CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential
Intercourse with another old Friend.
T
hey concert between them a Project, which promises well for both.
'There go the three−quarters past!' muttered Newman Noggs, listening to the chimes of
some neighbouring church 'and my dinner time's two. He does it on purpose. He makes a
point of it. It's just like him.'
It was in his own little den of an office and on the top of his official stool that Newman
thus soliloquised; and the soliloquy referred, as Newman's grumbling soliloquies usually
did, to Ralph Nickleby.
'I don't believe he ever had an appetite,' said Newman, 'except for pounds, shillings, and
pence, and with them he's as greedy as a wolf. I should like to have him compelled to
swallow one of every English coin. The penny would be an awkward morsel – but the crown
– ha! ha!'
His good−humour being in some degree restored by the vision of Ralph Nickleby
swallowing, perforce, a five−shilling piece, Newman slowly brought forth from his desk one
of those portable bottles, currently known as pocket−pistols, and shaking the same close to
his ear so as to produce a rippling sound very cool and pleasant to listen to, suffered his
features to relax, and took a gurgling drink, which relaxed them still more. Replacing the
cork, he smacked his lips twice or thrice with an air of great relish, and, the taste of the
liquor having by this time evaporated, recurred to his grievance again.
'Five minutes to three,' growled Newman; 'it can't want more by this time; and I had my
breakfast at eight o'clock, and SUCH a breakfast! and my right dinner−time two! And I
might have a nice little bit of hot roast meat spoiling at home all this time – how does HE
know I haven't? «Don't go till I come back,» «Don't go till I come back,» day after day.
What do you always go out at my dinner−time for then – eh? Don't you know it's nothing
but aggravation – eh?'
These words, though uttered in a very loud key, were addressed to nothing but empty
air. The recital of his wrongs, however, seemed to have the effect of making Newman
Noggs desperate; for he flattened his old hat upon his head, and drawing on the everlasting
gloves, declared with great vehemence, that come what might, he would go to dinner that
very minute.
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 572
Carrying this resolution into instant effect, he had advanced as far as the passage, when
the sound of the latch−key in the street door caused him to make a precipitate retreat into his
own office again.
'Here he is,' growled Newman, 'and somebody with him. Now it'll be «Stop till this
gentleman's gone.» But I won't. That's flat.'
So saying, Newman slipped into a tall empty closet which opened with two half doors,
and shut himself up; intending to slip out directly Ralph was safe inside his own room.
'Noggs!' cried Ralph, 'where is that fellow, Noggs?'
But not a word said Newman.
'The dog has gone to his dinner, though I told him not,' muttered Ralph, looking into the
office, and pulling out his watch. 'Humph!' You had better come in here, Gride. My man's
out, and the sun is hot upon my room. This is cool and in the shade, if you don't mind
roughing it.'
'Not at all, Mr Nickleby, oh not at all! All places are alike to me, sir. Ah! very nice
indeed. Oh! very nice!'
The parson who made this reply was a little old man, of about seventy or seventy−five
years of age, of a very lean figure, much bent and slightly twisted. He wore a grey coat with
a very narrow collar, an old−fashioned waistcoat of ribbed black silk, and such scanty
trousers as displayed his shrunken spindle−shanks in their full ugliness. The only articles of
display or ornament in his dress were a steel watch−chain to which were attached some large
gold seals; and a black ribbon into which, in compliance with an old fashion scarcely ever
observed in these days, his grey hair was gathered behind. His nose and chin were sharp and
prominent, his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth, his face was shrivelled and
yellow, save where the cheeks were streaked with the colour of a dry winter apple; and
where his beard had been, there lingered yet a few grey tufts which seemed, like the ragged
eyebrows, to denote the badness of the soil from which they sprung. The whole air and
attitude of the form was one of stealthy cat−like obsequiousness; the whole expression of the
face was concentrated in a wrinkled leer, compounded of cunning, lecherousness, slyness,
and avarice.
Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face there was not a wrinkle, in whose dress there
was not one spare fold or plait, but expressed the most covetous and griping penury, and
sufficiently indicated his belonging to that class of which Ralph Nickleby was a member.
Such was old Arthur Gride, as he sat in a low chair looking up into the face of Ralph
Nickleby, who, lounging upon the tall office stool, with his arms upon his knees, looked
down into his; a match for him on whatever errand he had come.
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 573
'And how have you been?' said Gride, feigning great interest in Ralph's state of health. 'I
haven't seen you for – oh! not for – '
'Not for a long time,' said Ralph, with a peculiar smile, importing that he very well
knew it was not on a mere visit of compliment that his friend had come. 'It was a narrow
chance that you saw me now, for I had only just come up to the door as you turned the
corner.'
'I am very lucky,' observed Gride.
'So men say,' replied Ralph, drily.
The older money−lender wagged his chin and smiled, but he originated no new remark,
and they sat for some little time without speaking. Each was looking out to take the other at
a disadvantage.
'Come, Gride,' said Ralph, at length; 'what's in the wind today?'
'Aha! you're a bold man, Mr Nickleby,' cried the other, apparently very much relieved
by Ralph's leading the way to business. 'Oh dear, dear, what a bold man you are!'
'Why, you have a sleek and slinking way with you that makes me seem so by contrast,'
returned Ralph. 'I don't know but that yours may answer better, but I want the patience for
it.'
'You were born a genius, Mr Nickleby,' said old Arthur. 'Deep, deep, deep. Ah!'
'Deep enough,' retorted Ralph, 'to know that I shall need all the depth I have, when men
like you begin to compliment. You know I have stood by when you fawned and flattered
other people, and I remember pretty well what THAT always led to.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. 'So you do, so you do, no doubt. Not a
man knows it better. Well, it's a pleasant thing now to think that you remember old times.
Oh dear!'
'Now then,' said Ralph, composedly; 'what's in the wind, I ask again? What is it?'
'See that now!' cried the other. 'He can't even keep from business while we're chatting
over bygones. Oh dear, dear, what a man it is!'
'WHICH of the bygones do you want to revive?' said Ralph. 'One of them, I know, or
you wouldn't talk about them.'
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 574
'He suspects even me!' cried old Arthur, holding up his hands. 'Even me! Oh dear, even
me. What a man it is! Ha, ha, ha! What a man it is! Mr Nickleby against all the world.
There's nobody like him. A giant among pigmies, a giant, a giant!'
Ralph looked at the old dog with a quiet smile as he chuckled on in this strain, and
Newman Noggs in the closet felt his heart sink within him as the prospect of dinner grew
fainter and fainter.
'I must humour him though,' cried old Arthur; 'he must have his way – a wilful man, as
the Scotch say – well, well, they're a wise people, the Scotch. He will talk about business,
and won't give away his time for nothing. He's very right. Time is money, time is money.'
'He was one of us who made that saying, I should think,' said Ralph. 'Time is money,
and very good money too, to those who reckon interest by it. Time IS money! Yes, and time
costs money; it's rather an expensive article to some people we could name, or I forget my
trade.'
In rejoinder to this sally, old Arthur again raised his hands, again chuckled, and again
ejaculated 'What a man it is!' which done, he dragged the low chair a little nearer to Ralph's
high stool, and looking upwards into his immovable face, said,
'What would you say to me, if I was to tell you that I was – that I was – going to be
married?'
'I should tell you,' replied Ralph, looking coldly down upon him, 'that for some purpose
of your own you told a lie, and that it wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last; that I
wasn't surprised and wasn't to be taken in.'
'Then I tell you seriously that I am,' said old Arthur.
'And I tell you seriously,' rejoined Ralph, 'what I told you this minute. Stay. Let me look
at you. There's a liquorish devilry in your face. What is this?'
'I wouldn't deceive YOU, you know,' whined Arthur Gride; 'I couldn't do it, I should be
mad to try. I, I, to deceive Mr Nickleby! The pigmy to impose upon the giant. I ask again –
he, he, he! – what should you say to me if I was to tell you that I was going to be married?'
'To some old hag?' said Ralph.
'No, No,' cried Arthur, interrupting him, and rubbing his hands in an ecstasy. 'Wrong,
wrong again. Mr Nickleby for once at fault; out, quite out! To a young and beautiful girl;
fresh, lovely, bewitching, and not nineteen. Dark eyes, long eyelashes, ripe and ruddy lips
that to look at is to long to kiss, beautiful clustering hair that one's fingers itch to play with,
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 575
such a waist as might make a man clasp the air involuntarily, thinking of twining his arm
about it, little feet that tread so lightly they hardly seem to walk upon the ground – to marry
all this, sir, this – hey, hey!'
'This is something more than common drivelling,' said Ralph, after listening with a
curled lip to the old sinner's raptures. 'The girl's name?'
'Oh deep, deep! See now how deep that is!' exclaimed old Arthur. 'He knows I want his
help, he knows he can give it me, he knows it must all turn to his advantage, he sees the
thing already. Her name – is there nobody within hearing?'
'Why, who the devil should there be?' retorted Ralph, testily.
'I didn't know but that perhaps somebody might be passing up or down the stairs,' said
Arthur Gride, after looking out at the door and carefully reclosing it; 'or but that your man
might have come back and might have been listening outside. Clerks and servants have a
trick of listening, and I should have been very uncomfortable if Mr Noggs – '
'Curse Mr Noggs,' said Ralph, sharply, 'and go on with what you have to say.'
'Curse Mr Noggs, by all means,' rejoined old Arthur; 'I am sure I have not the least
objection to that. Her name is – '
'Well,' said Ralph, rendered very irritable by old Arthur's pausing again 'what is it?'
'Madeline Bray.'
Whatever reasons there might have been – and Arthur Gride appeared to have
anticipated some – for the mention of this name producing an effect upon Ralph, or
whatever effect it really did produce upon him, he permitted none to manifest itself, but
calmly repeated the name several times, as if reflecting when and where he had heard it
before.
'Bray,' said Ralph. 'Bray – there was young Bray of – ,no, he never had a daughter.'
'You remember Bray?' rejoined Arthur Gride.
'No,' said Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
'Not Walter Bray! The dashing man, who used his handsome wife so ill?'
'If you seek to recall any particular dashing man to my recollection by such a trait as
that,' said Ralph, shrugging his shoulders, 'I shall confound him with nine−tenths of the
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 576
dashing men I have ever known.'
'Tut, tut. That Bray who is now in the Rules of the Bench,' said old Arthur. 'You can't
have forgotten Bray. Both of us did business with him. Why, he owes you money!'
'Oh HIM!' rejoined Ralph. 'Ay, ay. Now you speak. Oh! It's HIS daughter, is it?'
Naturally as this was said, it was not said so naturally but that a kindred spirit like old
Arthur Gride might have discerned a design upon the part of Ralph to lead him on to much
more explicit statements and explanations than he would have volunteered, or that Ralph
could in all likelihood have obtained by any other means. Old Arthur, however, was so
intent upon his own designs, that he suffered himself to be overreached, and had no
suspicion but that his good friend was in earnest.
'I knew you couldn't forget him, when you came to think for a moment,' he said.
'You were right,' answered Ralph. 'But old Arthur Gride and matrimony is a most
anomalous conjunction of words; old Arthur Gride and dark eyes and eyelashes, and lips
that to look at is to long to kiss, and clustering hair that he wants to play with, and waists
that he wants to span, and little feet that don't tread upon anything – old Arthur Gride and
such things as these is more monstrous still; but old Arthur Gride marrying the daughter of a
ruined «dashing man» in the Rules of the Bench, is the most monstrous and incredible of all.
Plainly, friend Arthur Gride, if you want any help from me in this business (which of course
you do, or you would not be here), speak out, and to the purpose. And, above all, don't talk
to me of its turning to my advantage, for I know it must turn to yours also, and to a good
round tune too, or you would have no finger in such a pie as this.'
There was enough acerbity and sarcasm not only in the matter of Ralph's speech, but in
the tone of voice in which he uttered it, and the looks with which he eked it out, to have
fired even the ancient usurer's cold blood and flushed even his withered cheek. But he gave
vent to no demonstration of anger, contenting himself with exclaiming as before, 'What a
man it is!' and rolling his head from side to side, as if in unrestrained enjoyment of his
freedom and drollery. Clearly observing, however, from the expression in Ralph's features,
that he had best come to the point as speedily as might be, he composed himself for more
serious business, and entered upon the pith and marrow of his negotiation.
First, he dwelt upon the fact that Madeline Bray was devoted to the support and
maintenance, and was a slave to every wish, of her only parent, who had no other friend on
earth; to which Ralph rejoined that he had heard something of the kind before, and that if
she had known a little more of the world, she wouldn't have been such a fool.
Secondly, he enlarged upon the character of her father, arguing, that even taking it for
granted that he loved her in return with the utmost affection of which he was capable, yet he
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 577
loved himself a great deal better; which Ralph said it was quite unnecessary to say anything
more about, as that was very natural, and probable enough.
And, thirdly, old Arthur premised that the girl was a delicate and beautiful creature, and
that he had really a hankering to have her for his wife. To this Ralph deigned no other
rejoinder than a harsh smile, and a glance at the shrivelled old creature before him, which
were, however, sufficiently expressive.
'Now,' said Gride, 'for the little plan I have in my mind to bring this about; because, I
haven't offered myself even to the father yet, I should have told you. But that you have
gathered already? Ah! oh dear, oh dear, what an edged tool you are!'
'Don't play with me then,' said Ralph impatiently. 'You know the proverb.'
'A reply always on the tip of his tongue!' cried old Arthur, raising his hands and eyes in
admiration. 'He is always prepared! Oh dear, what a blessing to have such a ready wit, and
so much ready money to back it!' Then, suddenly changing his tone, he went on: 'I have
been backwards and forwards to Bray's lodgings several times within the last six months. It
is just half a year since I first saw this delicate morsel, and, oh dear, what a delicate morsel it
is! But that is neither here nor there. I am his detaining creditor for seventeen hundred
pounds!'
'You talk as if you were the only detaining creditor,' said Ralph, pulling out his
pocket−book. 'I am another for nine hundred and seventy−five pounds four and threepence.'
'The only other, Mr Nickleby,' said old Arthur, eagerly. 'The only other. Nobody else
went to the expense of lodging a detainer, trusting to our holding him fast enough, I warrant
you. We both fell into the same snare; oh dear, what a pitfall it was; it almost ruined me!
And lent him our money upon bills, with only one name besides his own, which to be sure
everybody supposed to be a good one, and was as negotiable as money, but which turned out
you know how. Just as we should have come upon him, he died insolvent. Ah! it went very
nigh to ruin me, that loss did!'
'Go on with your scheme,' said Ralph. 'It's of no use raising the cry of our trade just
now; there's nobody to hear us!'
'It's always as well to talk that way,' returned old Arthur, with a chuckle, 'whether there's
anybody to hear us or not. Practice makes perfect, you know. Now, if I offer myself to Bray
as his son−in− law, upon one simple condition that the moment I am fast married he shall be
quietly released, and have an allowance to live just t'other side the water like a gentleman
(he can't live long, for I have asked his doctor, and he declares that his complaint is one of
the Heart and it is impossible), and if all the advantages of this condition are properly stated
and dwelt upon to him, do you think he could resist me? And if he could not resist ME, do
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 578
you think his daughter could resist HIM? Shouldn't I have her Mrs Arthur Gride – pretty
Mrs Arthur Gride – a tit−bit – a dainty chick – shouldn't I have her Mrs Arthur Gride in a
week, a month, a day – any time I chose to name?'
'Go on,' said Ralph, nodding his head deliberately, and speaking in a tone whose studied
coldness presented a strange contrast to the rapturous squeak to which his friend had
gradually mounted. 'Go on. You didn't come here to ask me that.'
'Oh dear, how you talk!' cried old Arthur, edging himself closer still to Ralph. 'Of
course I didn't, I don't pretend I did! I came to ask what you would take from me, if I
prospered with the father, for this debt of yours. Five shillings in the pound, six and−
eightpence, ten shillings? I WOULD go as far as ten for such a friend as you, we have
always been on such good terms, but you won't be so hard upon me as that, I know. Now,
will you?'
'There's something more to be told,' said Ralph, as stony and immovable as ever.
'Yes, yes, there is, but you won't give me time,' returned Arthur Gride. 'I want a backer
in this matter; one who can talk, and urge, and press a point, which you can do as no man
can. I can't do that, for I am a poor, timid, nervous creature. Now, if you get a good
composition for this debt, which you long ago gave up for lost, you'll stand my friend, and
help me. Won't you?'
'There's something more,' said Ralph.
'No, no, indeed,' cried Arthur Gride.
'Yes, yes, indeed. I tell you yes,' said Ralph.
'Oh!' returned old Arthur feigning to be suddenly enlightened. 'You mean something
more, as concerns myself and my intention. Ay, surely, surely. Shall I mention that?'
'I think you had better,' rejoined Ralph, drily.
'I didn't like to trouble you with that, because I supposed your interest would cease with
your own concern in the affair,' said Arthur Gride. 'That's kind of you to ask. Oh dear, how
very kind of you! Why, supposing I had a knowledge of some property – some little
property – very little – to which this pretty chick was entitled; which nobody does or can
know of at this time, but which her husband could sweep into his pouch, if he knew as much
as I do, would that account for – '
'For the whole proceeding,' rejoined Ralph, abruptly. 'Now, let me turn this matter over,
and consider what I ought to have if I should help you to success.'
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 579
'But don't be hard,' cried old Arthur, raising his hands with an imploring gesture, and
speaking, in a tremulous voice. 'Don't be too hard upon me. It's a very small property, it is
indeed. Say the ten shillings, and we'll close the bargain. It's more than I ought to give, but
you're so kind – shall we say the ten? Do now, do.'
Ralph took no notice of these supplications, but sat for three or four minutes in a brown
study, looking thoughtfully at the person from whom they proceeded. After sufficient
cogitation he broke silence, and it certainly could not be objected that he used any needless
circumlocution, or failed to speak directly to the purpose.
'If you married this girl without me,' said Ralph, 'you must pay my debt in full, because
you couldn't set her father free otherwise. It's plain, then, that I must have the whole amount,
clear of all deduction or incumbrance, or I should lose from being honoured with your
confidence, instead of gaining by it. That's the first article of the treaty. For the second, I
shall stipulate that for my trouble in negotiation and persuasion, and helping you to this
fortune, I have five hundred pounds. That's very little, because you have the ripe lips, and
the clustering hair, and what not, all to yourself. For the third and last article, I require that
you execute a bond to me, this day, binding yourself in the payment of these two sums,
before noon of the day of your marriage with Madeline Bray. You have told me I can urge
and press a point. I press this one, and will take nothing less than these terms. Accept them if
you like. If not, marry her without me if you can. I shall still get my debt.'
To all entreaties, protestations, and offers of compromise between his own proposals
and those which Arthur Gride had first suggested, Ralph was deaf as an adder. He would
enter into no further discussion of the subject, and while old Arthur dilated upon the
enormity of his demands and proposed modifications of them, approaching by degrees
nearer and nearer to the terms he resisted, sat perfectly mute, looking with an air of quiet
abstraction over the entries and papers in his pocket−book. Finding that it was impossible to
make any impression upon his staunch friend, Arthur Gride, who had prepared himself for
some such result before he came, consented with a heavy heart to the proposed treaty, and
upon the spot filled up the bond required (Ralph kept such instruments handy), after
exacting the condition that Mr Nickleby should accompany him to Bray's lodgings that very
hour, and open the negotiation at once, should circumstances appear auspicious and
favourable to their designs.
In pursuance of this last understanding the worthy gentlemen went out together shortly
afterwards, and Newman Noggs emerged, bottle in hand, from the cupboard, out of the
upper door of which, at the imminent risk of detection, he had more than once thrust his red
nose when such parts of the subject were under discussion as interested him most.
'I have no appetite now,' said Newman, putting the flask in his pocket. 'I've had MY
dinner.'
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 580
Having delivered this observation in a very grievous and doleful tone, Newman reached
the door in one long limp, and came back again in another.
'I don't know who she may be, or what she may be,' he said: 'but I pity her with all my
heart and soul; and I can't help her, nor can I any of the people against whom a hundred
tricks, but none so vile as this, are plotted every day! Well, that adds to my pain, but not to
theirs. The thing is no worse because I know it, and it tortures me as well as them. Gride and
Nickleby! Good pair for a curricle. Oh roguery! roguery! roguery!'
With these reflections, and a very hard knock on the crown of his unfortunate hat at
each repetition of the last word, Newman Noggs, whose brain was a little muddled by so
much of the contents of the pocket−pistol as had found their way there during his recent
concealment, went forth to seek such consolation as might be derivable from the beef and
greens of some cheap eating−house.
Meanwhile the two plotters had betaken themselves to the same house whither Nicholas
had repaired for the first time but a few mornings before, and having obtained access to Mr
Bray, and found his daughter from home, had by a train of the most masterly approaches
that Ralph's utmost skill could frame, at length laid open the real object of their visit.
'There he sits, Mr Bray,' said Ralph, as the invalid, not yet recovered from his surprise,
reclined in his chair, looking alternately at him and Arthur Gride. 'What if he has had the ill−
fortune to be one cause of your detention in this place? I have been another; men must live;
you are too much a man of the world not to see that in its true light. We offer the best
reparation in our power. Reparation! Here is an offer of marriage, that many a titled father
would leap at, for his child. Mr Arthur Gride, with the fortune of a prince. Think what a haul
it is!'
'My daughter, sir,' returned Bray, haughtily, 'as I have brought her up, would be a rich
recompense for the largest fortune that a man could bestow in exchange for her hand.'
'Precisely what I told you,' said the artful Ralph, turning to his friend, old Arthur.
'Precisely what made me consider the thing so fair and easy. There is no obligation on either
side. You have money, and Miss Madeline has beauty and worth. She has youth, you have
money. She has not money, you have not youth. Tit for tat, quits, a match of Heaven's own
making!'
'Matches are made in Heaven, they say,' added Arthur Gride, leering hideously at the
father−in−law he wanted. 'If we are married, it will be destiny, according to that.'
'Then think, Mr Bray,' said Ralph, hastily substituting for this argument considerations
more nearly allied to earth, 'think what a stake is involved in the acceptance or rejection of
these proposals of my friend.'
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 581
'How can I accept or reject,' interrupted Mr Bray, with an irritable consciousness that it
really rested with him to decide. 'It is for my daughter to accept or reject; it is for my
daughter. You know that.'
'True,' said Ralph, emphatically; 'but you have still the power to advise; to state the
reasons for and against; to hint a wish.'
'To hint a wish, sir!' returned the debtor, proud and mean by turns, and selfish at all
times. 'I am her father, am I not? Why should I hint, and beat about the bush? Do you
suppose, like her mother's friends and my enemies – a curse upon them all! – that there is
anything in what she has done for me but duty, sir, but duty? Or do you think that my having
been unfortunate is a sufficient reason why our relative positions should be changed, and
that she should command and I should obey? Hint a wish, too! Perhaps you think, because
you see me in this place and scarcely able to leave this chair without assistance, that I am
some broken−spirited dependent creature, without the courage or power to do what I may
think best for my own child. Still the power to hint a wish! I hope so!'
'Pardon me,' returned Ralph, who thoroughly knew his man, and had taken his ground
accordingly; 'you do not hear me out. I was about to say that your hinting a wish, even
hinting a wish, would surely be equivalent to commanding.'
'Why, of course it would,' retorted Mr Bray, in an exasperated tone. 'If you don't happen
to have heard of the time, sir, I tell you that there was a time, when I carried every point in
triumph against her mother's whole family, although they had power and wealth on their
side, by my will alone.'
'Still,' rejoined Ralph, as mildly as his nature would allow him, 'you have not heard me
out. You are a man yet qualified to shine in society, with many years of life before you; that
is, if you lived in freer air, and under brighter skies, and chose your own companions. Gaiety
is your element, you have shone in it before. Fashion and freedom for you. France, and an
annuity that would support you there in luxury, would give you a new lease of life, would
transfer you to a new existence. The town rang with your expensive pleasures once, and you
could blaze up on a new scene again, profiting by experience, and living a little at others'
cost, instead of letting others live at yours. What is there on the reverse side of the picture?
What is there? I don't know which is the nearest churchyard, but a gravestone there,
wherever it is, and a date, perhaps two years hence, perhaps twenty. That's all.'
Mr Bray rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, and shaded his face with his hand.
'I speak plainly,' said Ralph, sitting down beside him, 'because I feel strongly. It's my
interest that you should marry your daughter to my friend Gride, because then he sees me
paid – in part, that is. I don't disguise it. I acknowledge it openly. But what interest have you
in recommending her to such a step? Keep that in view. She might object, remonstrate, shed
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 582
tears, talk of his being too old, and plead that her life would be rendered miserable. But what
is it now?'
Several slight gestures on the part of the invalid showed that these arguments were no
more lost upon him, than the smallest iota of his demeanour was upon Ralph.
'What is it now, I say,' pursued the wily usurer, 'or what has it a chance of being? If you
died, indeed, the people you hate would make her happy. But can you bear the thought of
that?'
'No!' returned Bray, urged by a vindictive impulse he could not repress.
'I should imagine not, indeed!' said Ralph, quietly. 'If she profits by anybody's death,'
this was said in a lower tone, 'let it be by her husband's. Don't let her have to look back to
yours, as the event from which to date a happier life. Where is the objection? Let me hear it
stated. What is it? That her suitor is an old man? Why, how often do men of family and
fortune, who haven't your excuse, but have all the means and superfluities of life within their
reach, how often do they marry their daughters to old men, or (worse still) to young men
without heads or hearts, to tickle some idle vanity, strengthen some family interest, or secure
some seat in Parliament! Judge for her, sir, judge for her. You must know best, and she will
live to thank you.'
'Hush! hush!' cried Mr Bray, suddenly starting up, and covering Ralph's mouth with his
trembling hand. 'I hear her at the door!'
There was a gleam of conscience in the shame and terror of this hasty action, which, in
one short moment, tore the thin covering of sophistry from the cruel design, and laid it bare
in all its meanness and heartless deformity. The father fell into his chair pale and trembling;
Arthur Gride plucked and fumbled at his hat, and durst not raise his eyes from the floor;
even Ralph crouched for the moment like a beaten hound, cowed by the presence of one
young innocent girl!
The effect was almost as brief as sudden. Ralph was the first to recover himself, and
observing Madeline's looks of alarm, entreated the poor girl to be composed, assuring her
that there was no cause for fear.
'A sudden spasm,' said Ralph, glancing at Mr Bray. 'He is quite well now.'
It might have moved a very hard and worldly heart to see the young and beautiful
creature, whose certain misery they had been contriving but a minute before, throw her arms
about her father's neck, and pour forth words of tender sympathy and love, the sweetest a
father's ear can know, or child's lips form. But Ralph looked coldly on; and Arthur Gride,
whose bleared eyes gloated only over the outward beauties, and were blind to the spirit
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 583
which reigned within, evinced – a fantastic kind of warmth certainly, but not exactly that
kind of warmth of feeling which the contemplation of virtue usually inspires.
'Madeline,' said her father, gently disengaging himself, 'it was nothing.'
'But you had that spasm yesterday, and it is terrible to see you in such pain. Can I do
nothing for you?'
'Nothing just now. Here are two gentlemen, Madeline, one of whom you have seen
before. She used to say,' added Mr Bray, addressing Arthur Gride, 'that the sight of you
always made me worse. That was natural, knowing what she did, and only what she did, of
our connection and its results. Well, well. Perhaps she may change her mind on that point;
girls have leave to change their minds, you know. You are very tired, my dear.'
'I am not, indeed.'
'Indeed you are. You do too much.'
'I wish I could do more.'
'I know you do, but you overtask your strength. This wretched life, my love, of daily
labour and fatigue, is more than you can bear, I am sure it is. Poor Madeline!'
With these and many more kind words, Mr Bray drew his daughter to him and kissed
her cheek affectionately. Ralph, watching him sharply and closely in the meantime, made
his way towards the door, and signed to Gride to follow him.
'You will communicate with us again?' said Ralph.
'Yes, yes,' returned Mr Bray, hastily thrusting his daughter aside. 'In a week. Give me a
week.'
'One week,' said Ralph, turning to his companion, 'from today. Good−morning. Miss
Madeline, I kiss your hand.'
'We will shake hands, Gride,' said Mr Bray, extending his, as old Arthur bowed. 'You
mean well, no doubt. I an bound to say so now. If I owed you money, that was not your
fault. Madeline, my love, your hand here.'
'Oh dear! If the young lady would condescent! Only the tips of her fingers,' said Arthur,
hesitating and half retreating.
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 584
Madeline shrunk involuntarily from the goblin figure, but she placed the tips of her
fingers in his hand and instantly withdrew them. After an ineffectual clutch, intended to
detain and carry them to his lips, old Arthur gave his own fingers a mumbling kiss, and with
many amorous distortions of visage went in pursuit of his friend, who was by this time in the
street.
'What does he say, what does he say? What does the giant say to the pigmy?' inquired
Arthur Gride, hobbling up to Ralph.
'What does the pigmy say to the giant?' rejoined Ralph, elevating his eyebrows and
looking down upon his questioner.
'He doesn't know what to say,' replied Arthur Gride. 'He hopes and fears. But is she not
a dainty morsel?'
'I have no great taste for beauty,' growled Ralph.
'But I have,' rejoined Arthur, rubbing his hands. 'Oh dear! How handsome her eyes
looked when she was stooping over him! Such long lashes, such delicate fringe! She – she –
looked at me so soft.'
'Not over−lovingly, I think,' said Ralph. 'Did she?'
'No, you think not?' replied old Arthur. 'But don't you think it can be brought about?
Don't you think it can?'
Ralph looked at him with a contemptuous frown, and replied with a sneer, and between
his teeth:
'Did you mark his telling her she was tired and did too much, and overtasked her
strength?'
'Ay, ay. What of it?'
'When do you think he ever told her that before? The life is more than she can bear.
Yes, yes. He'll change it for her.'
'D'ye think it's done?' inquired old Arthur, peering into his companion's face with
half−closed eyes.
'I am sure it's done,' said Ralph. 'He is trying to deceive himself, even before our eyes,
already. He is making believe that he thinks of her good and not his own. He is acting a
virtuous part, and so considerate and affectionate, sir, that the daughter scarcely knew him. I
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 585
saw a tear of surprise in her eye. There'll be a few more tears of surprise there before long,
though of a different kind. Oh! we may wait with confidence for this day week.'
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CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another old Friend. 586
CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles,
and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.
I
t was with a very sad and heavy heart, oppressed by many painful ideas, that Nicholas
retraced his steps eastward and betook himself to the counting−house of Cheeryble Brothers.
Whatever the idle hopes he had suffered himself to entertain, whatever the pleasant visions
which had sprung up in his mind and grouped themselves round the fair image of Madeline
Bray, they were now dispelled, and not a vestige of their gaiety and brightness remained.
It would be a poor compliment to Nicholas's better nature, and one which he was very
far from deserving, to insinuate that the solution, and such a solution, of the mystery which
had seemed to surround Madeline Bray, when he was ignorant even of her name, had
damped his ardour or cooled the fervour of his admiration. If he had regarded her before,
with such a passion as young men attracted by mere beauty and elegance may entertain, he
was now conscious of much deeper and stronger feelings. But, reverence for the truth and
purity of her heart, respect for the helplessness and loneliness of her situation, sympathy
with the trials of one so young and fair and admiration of her great and noble spirit, all
seemed to raise her far above his reach, and, while they imparted new depth and dignity to
his love, to whisper that it was hopeless.
'I will keep my word, as I have pledged it to her,' said Nicholas, manfully. 'This is no
common trust that I have to discharge, and I will perform the double duty that is imposed
upon me most scrupulously and strictly. My secret feelings deserve no consideration in such
a case as this, and they shall have none.'
Still, there were the secret feelings in existence just the same, and in secret Nicholas
rather encouraged them than otherwise; reasoning (if he reasoned at all) that there they could
do no harm to anybody but himself, and that if he kept them to himself from a sense of duty,
he had an additional right to entertain himself with them as a reward for his heroism.
All these thoughts, coupled with what he had seen that morning and the anticipation of
his next visit, rendered him a very dull and abstracted companion; so much so, indeed, that
Tim Linkinwater suspected he must have made the mistake of a figure somewhere, which
was preying upon his mind, and seriously conjured him, if such were the case, to make a
clean breast and scratch it out, rather than have his whole life embittered by the tortures of
remorse.
But in reply to these considerate representations, and many others both from Tim and
Mr Frank, Nicholas could only be brought to state that he was never merrier in his life; and
so went on all day, and so went towards home at night, still turning over and over again the
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.587
same subjects, thinking over and over again the same things, and arriving over and over
again at the same conclusions.
In this pensive, wayward, and uncertain state, people are apt to lounge and loiter
without knowing why, to read placards on the walls with great attention and without the
smallest idea of one word of their contents, and to stare most earnestly through
shop−windows at things which they don't see. It was thus that Nicholas found himself
poring with the utmost interest over a large play−bill hanging outside a Minor Theatre which
he had to pass on his way home, and reading a list of the actors and actresses who had
promised to do honour to some approaching benefit, with as much gravity as if it had been a
catalogue of the names of those ladies and gentlemen who stood highest upon the Book of
Fate, and he had been looking anxiously for his own. He glanced at the top of the bill, with a
smile at his own dulness, as he prepared to resume his walk, and there saw announced, in
large letters with a large space between each of them, 'Positively the last appearance of Mr
Vincent Crummles of Provincial Celebrity!!!'
'Nonsense!' said Nicholas, turning back again. 'It can't be.'
But there it was. In one line by itself was an announcement of the first night of a new
melodrama; in another line by itself was an announcement of the last six nights of an old
one; a third line was devoted to the re−engagement of the unrivalled African Knife−
swallower, who had kindly suffered himself to be prevailed upon to forego his country
engagements for one week longer; a fourth line announced that Mr Snittle Timberry, having
recovered from his late severe indisposition, would have the honour of appearing that
evening; a fifth line said that there were 'Cheers, Tears, and Laughter!' every night; a sixth,
that that was positively the last appearance of Mr Vincent Crummles of Provincial Celebrity.
'Surely it must be the same man,' thought Nicholas. 'There can't be two Vincent
Crummleses.'
The better to settle this question he referred to the bill again, and finding that there was
a Baron in the first piece, and that Roberto (his son) was enacted by one Master Crummles,
and Spaletro (his nephew) by one Master Percy Crummles – THEIR last appearances – and
that, incidental to the piece, was a characteristic dance by the characters, and a castanet pas
seul by the Infant Phenomenon – HER last appearance – he no longer entertained any doubt;
and presenting himself at the stage−door, and sending in a scrap of paper with 'Mr Johnson'
written thereon in pencil, was presently conducted by a Robber, with a very large belt and
buckle round his waist, and very large leather gauntlets on his hands, into the presence of his
former manager.
Mr Crummles was unfeignedly glad to see him, and starting up from before a small
dressing−glass, with one very bushy eyebrow stuck on crooked over his left eye, and the
fellow eyebrow and the calf of one of his legs in his hand, embraced him cordially; at the
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CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.588
same time observing, that it would do Mrs Crummles's heart good to bid him goodbye
before they went.
'You were always a favourite of hers, Johnson,' said Crummles, 'always were from the
first. I was quite easy in my mind about you from that first day you dined with us. One that
Mrs Crummles took a fancy to, was sure to turn out right. Ah! Johnson, what a woman that
is!'
'I am sincerely obliged to her for her kindness in this and all other respects,' said
Nicholas. 'But where are you going,' that you talk about bidding goodbye?'
'Haven't you seen it in the papers?' said Crummles, with some dignity.
'No,' replied Nicholas.
'I wonder at that,' said the manager. 'It was among the varieties. I had the paragraph here
somewhere – but I don't know – oh, yes, here it is.'
So saying, Mr Crummles, after pretending that he thought he must have lost it,
produced a square inch of newspaper from the pocket of the pantaloons he wore in private
life (which, together with the plain clothes of several other gentlemen, lay scattered about on
a kind of dresser in the room), and gave it to Nicholas to read:
'The talented Vincent Crummles, long favourably known to fame as a country manager
and actor of no ordinary pretensions, is about to cross the Atlantic on a histrionic expedition.
Crummles is to be accompanied, we hear, by his lady and gifted family. We know no man
superior to Crummles in his particular line of character, or one who, whether as a public or
private individual, could carry with him the best wishes of a larger circle of friends.
Crummles is certain to succeed.'
'Here's another bit,' said Mr Crummles, handing over a still smaller scrap. 'This is from
the notices to correspondents, this one.'
Nicholas read it aloud. '«Philo−Dramaticus. Crummles, the country manager and actor,
cannot be more than forty−three, or forty−four years of age. Crummles is NOT a Prussian,
having been born at Chelsea.» Humph!' said Nicholas, 'that's an odd paragraph.'
'Very,' returned Crummles, scratching the side of his nose, and looking at Nicholas with
an assumption of great unconcern. 'I can't think who puts these things in. I didn't.'
Still keeping his eye on Nicholas, Mr Crummles shook his head twice or thrice with
profound gravity, and remarking, that he could not for the life of him imagine how the
newspapers found out the things they did, folded up the extracts and put them in his pocket
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.589
again.
'I am astonished to hear this news,' said Nicholas. 'Going to America! You had no such
thing in contemplation when I was with you.'
'No,' replied Crummles, 'I hadn't then. The fact is that Mrs Crummles – most
extraordinary woman, Johnson.' Here he broke off and whispered something in his ear.
'Oh!' said Nicholas, smiling. 'The prospect of an addition to your family?'
'The seventh addition, Johnson,' returned Mr Crummles, solemnly. 'I thought such a
child as the Phenomenon must have been a closer; but it seems we are to have another. She
is a very remarkable woman.'
'I congratulate you,' said Nicholas, 'and I hope this may prove a phenomenon too.'
'Why, it's pretty sure to be something uncommon, I suppose,' rejoined Mr Crummles.
'The talent of the other three is principally in combat and serious pantomime. I should like
this one to have a turn for juvenile tragedy; I understand they want something of that sort in
America very much. However, we must take it as it comes. Perhaps it may have a genius for
the tight−rope. It may have any sort of genius, in short, if it takes after its mother, Johnson,
for she is an universal genius; but, whatever its genius is, that genius shall be developed.'
Expressing himself after these terms, Mr Crummles put on his other eyebrow, and the
calves of his legs, and then put on his legs, which were of a yellowish flesh−colour, and
rather soiled about the knees, from frequent going down upon those joints, in curses,
prayers, last struggles, and other strong passages.
While the ex−manager completed his toilet, he informed Nicholas that as he should
have a fair start in America from the proceeds of a tolerably good engagement which he had
been fortunate enough to obtain, and as he and Mrs Crummles could scarcely hope to act for
ever (not being immortal, except in the breath of Fame and in a figurative sense) he had
made up his mind to settle there permanently, in the hope of acquiring some land of his own
which would support them in their old age, and which they could afterwards bequeath to
their children. Nicholas, having highly commended the resolution, Mr Crummles went on to
impart such further intelligence relative to their mutual friends as he thought might prove
interesting; informing Nicholas, among other things, that Miss Snevellicci was happily
married to an affluent young wax−chandler who had supplied the theatre with candles, and
that Mr Lillyvick didn't dare to say his soul was his own, such was the tyrannical sway of
Mrs Lillyvick, who reigned paramount and supreme.
Nicholas responded to this confidence on the part of Mr Crummles, by confiding to him
his own name, situation, and prospects, and informing him, in as few general words as he
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CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.590
could, of the circumstances which had led to their first acquaintance. After congratulating
him with great heartiness on the improved state of his fortunes, Mr Crummles gave him to
understand that next morning he and his were to start for Liverpool, where the vessel lay
which was to carry them from the shores of England, and that if Nicholas wished to take a
last adieu of Mrs Crummles, he must repair with him that night to a farewell supper, given in
honour of the family at a neighbouring tavern; at which Mr Snittle Timberry would preside,
while the honours of the vice−chair would be sustained by the African Swallower.
The room being by this time very warm and somewhat crowded, in consequence of the
influx of four gentlemen, who had just killed each other in the piece under representation,
Nicholas accepted the invitation, and promised to return at the conclusion of the
performances; preferring the cool air and twilight out of doors to the mingled perfume of
gas, orange−peel, and gunpowder, which pervaded the hot and glaring theatre.
He availed himself of this interval to buy a silver snuff−box – the best his funds would
afford – as a token of remembrance for Mr Crummles, and having purchased besides a pair
of ear−rings for Mrs Crummles, a necklace for the Phenomenon, and a flaming shirt−pin for
each of the young gentlemen, he refreshed himself with a walk, and returning a little after
the appointed time, found the lights out, the theatre empty, the curtain raised for the night,
and Mr Crummles walking up and down the stage expecting his arrival.
'Timberry won't be long,' said Mr Crummles. 'He played the audience out tonight. He
does a faithful black in the last piece, and it takes him a little longer to wash himself.'
'A very unpleasant line of character, I should think?' said Nicholas.
'No, I don't know,' replied Mr Crummles; 'it comes off easily enough, and there's only
the face and neck. We had a first−tragedy man in our company once, who, when he played
Othello, used to black himself all over. But that's feeling a part and going into it as if you
meant it; it isn't usual; more's the pity.'
Mr Snittle Timberry now appeared, arm−in−arm with the African Swallower, and,
being introduced to Nicholas, raised his hat half a foot, and said he was proud to know him.
The Swallower said the same, and looked and spoke remarkably like an Irishman.
'I see by the bills that you have been ill, sir,' said Nicholas to Mr Timberry. 'I hope you
are none the worse for your exertions tonight?'
Mr Timberry, in reply, shook his head with a gloomy air, tapped his chest several times
with great significancy, and drawing his cloak more closely about him, said, 'But no matter,
no matter. Come!'
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It is observable that when people upon the stage are in any strait involving the very last
extremity of weakness and exhaustion, they invariably perform feats of strength requiring
great ingenuity and muscular power. Thus, a wounded prince or bandit chief, who is
bleeding to death and too faint to move, except to the softest music (and then only upon his
hands and knees), shall be seen to approach a cottage door for aid in such a series of
writhings and twistings, and with such curlings up of the legs, and such rollings over and
over, and such gettings up and tumblings down again, as could never be achieved save by a
very strong man skilled in posture−making. And so natural did this sort of performance
come to Mr Snittle Timberry, that on their way out of the theatre and towards the tavern
where the supper was to be holden, he testified the severity of his recent indisposition and its
wasting effects upon the nervous system, by a series of gymnastic performances which were
the admiration of all witnesses.
'Why this is indeed a joy I had not looked for!' said Mrs Crummles, when Nicholas was
presented.
'Nor I,' replied Nicholas. 'It is by a mere chance that I have this opportunity of seeing
you, although I would have made a great exertion to have availed myself of it.'
'Here is one whom you know,' said Mrs Crummles, thrusting forward the Phenomenon
in a blue gauze frock, extensively flounced, and trousers of the same; 'and here another –
and another,' presenting the Master Crummleses. 'And how is your friend, the faithful
Digby?'
'Digby!' said Nicholas, forgetting at the instant that this had been Smike's theatrical
name. 'Oh yes. He's quite – what am I saying? – he is very far from well.'
'How!' exclaimed Mrs Crummles, with a tragic recoil.
'I fear,' said Nicholas, shaking his head, and making an attempt to smile, 'that your
better−half would be more struck with him now than ever.'
'What mean you?' rejoined Mrs Crummles, in her most popular manner. 'Whence comes
this altered tone?'
'I mean that a dastardly enemy of mine has struck at me through him, and that while he
thinks to torture me, he inflicts on him such agonies of terror and suspense as – You will
excuse me, I am sure,' said Nicholas, checking himself. 'I should never speak of this, and
never do, except to those who know the facts, but for a moment I forgot myself.'
With this hasty apology Nicholas stooped down to salute the Phenomenon, and changed
the subject; inwardly cursing his precipitation, and very much wondering what Mrs
Crummles must think of so sudden an explosion.
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CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.592
That lady seemed to think very little about it, for the supper being by this time on table,
she gave her hand to Nicholas and repaired with a stately step to the left hand of Mr Snittle
Timberry. Nicholas had the honour to support her, and Mr Crummles was placed upon the
chairman's right; the Phenomenon and the Master Crummleses sustained the vice.
The company amounted in number to some twenty−five or thirty, being composed of
such members of the theatrical profession, then engaged or disengaged in London, as were
numbered among the most intimate friends of Mr and Mrs Crummles. The ladies and
gentlemen were pretty equally balanced; the expenses of the entertainment being defrayed
by the latter, each of whom had the privilege of inviting one of the former as his guest.
It was upon the whole a very distinguished party, for independently of the lesser
theatrical lights who clustered on this occasion round Mr Snittle Timberry, there was a
literary gentleman present who had dramatised in his time two hundred and forty−seven
novels as fast as they had come out – some of them faster than they had come out – and who
WAS a literary gentleman in consequence.
This gentleman sat on the left hand of Nicholas, to whom he was introduced by his
friend the African Swallower, from the bottom of the table, with a high eulogium upon his
fame and reputation.
'I am happy to know a gentleman of such great distinction,' said Nicholas, politely.
'Sir,' replied the wit, 'you're very welcome, I'm sure. The honour is reciprocal, sir, as I
usually say when I dramatise a book. Did you ever hear a definition of fame, sir?'
'I have heard several,' replied Nicholas, with a smile. 'What is yours?'
'When I dramatise a book, sir,' said the literary gentleman, 'THAT'S fame. For its
author.'
'Oh, indeed!' rejoined Nicholas.
'That's fame, sir,' said the literary gentleman.
'So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw have handed down to fame the
names of those on whom they committed their most impudent robberies?' said Nicholas.
'I don't know anything about that, sir,' answered the literary gentleman.
'Shakespeare dramatised stories which had previously appeared in print, it is true,'
observed Nicholas.
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CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last Appearance on this Stage.593
'Meaning Bill, sir?' said the literary gentleman. 'So he did. Bill was an adapter, certainly,
so he was – and very well he adapted too – considering.'
'I was about to say,' rejoined Nicholas, 'that Shakespeare derived some of his plots from
old tales and legends in general circulation; but it seems to me, that some of the gentlemen
of your craft, at the present day, have shot very far beyond him – '
'You're quite right, sir,' interrupted the literary gentleman, leaning back in his chair and
exercising his toothpick. 'Human intellect, sir, has progressed since his time, is progressing,
will progress.'
'Shot beyond him, I mean,' resumed Nicholas, 'in quite another respect, for, whereas he
brought within the magic circle of his genius, traditions peculiarly adapted for his purpose,
and turned familiar things into constellations which should enlighten the world for ages, you
drag within the magic circle of your dulness, subjects not at all adapted to the purposes of
the stage, and debase as he exalted. For instance, you take the uncompleted books of living
authors, fresh from their hands, wet from the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the powers
and capacities of your actors, and the capability of your theatres, finish unfinished works,
hastily and crudely vamp up ideas not yet worked out by their original projector, but which
have doubtless cost him many thoughtful days and sleepless nights; by a comparison of
incidents and dialogue, down to the very last word he may have written a fortnight before,
do your utmost to anticipate his plot – all this without his permission, and against his will;
and then, to crown the whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, an unmeaning
farrago of garbled extracts from his work, to which your name as author, with the
honourable distinction annexed, of having perpetrated a hundred other outrages of the same
description. Now, show me the distinction between such pilfering as this, and picking a
man's pocket in the street: unless, indeed, it be, that the legislature has a regard for
pocket−handkerchiefs, and leaves men's brains, except when they are knocked out by
violence, to take care of themselves.'
'Men must live, sir,' said the literary gentleman, shrugging his shoulders.
'That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,' replied Nicholas; 'but if you put it
upon that ground, I have nothing more to say, than, that if I were a writer of books, and you
a thirsty dramatist, I would rather pay your tavern score for six months, large as it might be,
than have a niche in the Temple of Fame with you for the humblest corner of my pedestal,
through six hundred generations.'
The conversation threatened to take a somewhat angry tone when it had arrived thus far,
but Mrs Crummles opportunely interposed to prevent its leading to any violent outbreak, by
making some inquiries of the literary gentleman relative to the plots of the six new pieces
which he had written by contract to introduce the African Knife−swallower in his various
unrivalled performances. This speedily engaged him in an animated conversation with that
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lady, in the interest of which, all recollection of his recent discussion with Nicholas very
quickly evaporated.
The board being now clear of the more substantial articles of food, and punch, wine,
and spirits being placed upon it and handed about, the guests, who had been previously
conversing in little groups of three or four, gradually fell off into a dead silence, while the
majority of those present glanced from time to time at Mr Snittle Timberry, and the bolder
spirits did not even hesitate to strike the table with their knuckles, and plainly intimate their
expectations, by uttering such encouragements as 'Now, Tim,' 'Wake up, Mr Chairman,' 'All
charged, sir, and waiting for a toast,' and so forth.
To these remonstrances Mr Timberry deigned no other rejoinder than striking his chest
and gasping for breath, and giving many other indications of being still the victim of
indisposition – for a man must not make himself too cheap either on the stage or off – while
Mr Crummles, who knew full well that he would be the subject of the forthcoming toast, sat
gracefully in his chair with his arm thrown carelessly over the back, and now and then lifted
his glass to his mouth and drank a little punch, with the same air with which he was
accustomed to take long draughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard goblets in banquet
scenes.
At length Mr Snittle Timberry rose in the most approved attitude, with one hand in the
breast of his waistcoat and the other on the nearest snuff−box, and having been received
with great enthusiasm, proposed, with abundance of quotations, his friend Mr Vincent
Crummles: ending a pretty long speech by extending his right hand on one side and his left
on the other, and severally calling upon Mr and Mrs Crummles to grasp the same. This done,
Mr Vincent Crummles returned thanks, and that done, the African Swallower proposed Mrs
Vincent Crummles, in affecting terms. Then were heard loud moans and sobs from Mrs
Crummles and the ladies, despite of which that heroic woman insisted upon returning thanks
herself, which she did, in a manner and in a speech which has never been surpassed and
seldom equalled. It then became the duty of Mr Snittle Timberry to give the young
Crummleses, which he did; after which Mr Vincent Crummles, as their father, addressed the
company in a supplementary speech, enlarging on their virtues, amiabilities, and
excellences, and wishing that they were the sons and daughter of every lady and gentleman
present. These solemnities having been succeeded by a decent interval, enlivened by musical
and other entertainments, Mr Crummles proposed that ornament of the profession, the
African Swallower, his very dear friend, if he would allow him to call him so; which liberty
(there being no particular reason why he should not allow it) the African Swallower
graciously permitted. The literary gentleman was then about to be drunk, but it being
discovered that he had been drunk for some time in another acceptation of the term, and was
then asleep on the stairs, the intention was abandoned, and the honour transferred to the
ladies. Finally, after a very long sitting, Mr Snittle Timberry vacated the chair, and the
company with many adieux and embraces dispersed.
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Nicholas waited to the last to give his little presents. When he had said goodbye all
round and came to Mr Crummles, he could not but mark the difference between their present
separation and their parting at Portsmouth. Not a jot of his theatrical manner remained; he
put out his hand with an air which, if he could have summoned it at will, would have made
him the best actor of his day in homely parts, and when Nicholas shook it with the warmth
he honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.
'We were a very happy little company, Johnson,' said poor Crummles. 'You and I never
had a word. I shall be very glad tomorrow morning to think that I saw you again, but now I
almost wish you hadn't come.'
Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply, when he was greatly disconcerted by the
sudden apparition of Mrs Grudden, who it seemed had declined to attend the supper in order
that she might rise earlier in the morning, and who now burst out of an adjoining bedroom,
habited in very extraordinary white robes; and throwing her arms about his neck, hugged
him with great affection.
'What! Are you going too?' said Nicholas, submitting with as good a grace as if she had
been the finest young creature in the world.
'Going?' returned Mrs Grudden. 'Lord ha' mercy, what do you think they'd do without
me?'
Nicholas submitted to another hug with even a better grace than before, if that were
possible, and waving his hat as cheerfully as he could, took farewell of the Vincent
Crummleses.
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CHAPTER 49 − Chronicles the further Proceedings of the
Nickleby Family, and the Sequel of the Adventure of the
Gentleman in the Small−clothes.
W
hile Nicholas, absorbed in the one engrossing subject of interest which had recently
opened upon him, occupied his leisure hours with thoughts of Madeline Bray, and in
execution of the commissions which the anxiety of brother Charles in her behalf imposed
upon him, saw her again and again, and each time with greater danger to his peace of mind
and a more weakening effect upon the lofty resolutions he had formed, Mrs Nickleby and
Kate continued to live in peace and quiet, agitated by no other cares than those which were
connected with certain harassing proceedings taken by Mr Snawley for the recovery of his
son, and their anxiety for Smike himself, whose health, long upon the wane, began to be so
much affected by apprehension and uncertainty as sometimes to occasion both them and
Nicholas considerable uneasiness, and even alarm.
It was no complaint or murmur on the part of the poor fellow himself that thus disturbed
them. Ever eager to be employed in such slight services as he could render, and always
anxious to repay his benefactors with cheerful and happy looks, less friendly eyes might
have seen in him no cause for any misgiving. But there were times, and often too, when the
sunken eye was too bright, the hollow cheek too flushed, the breath too thick and heavy in
its course, the frame too feeble and exhausted, to escape their regard and notice.
There is a dread disease which so prepares its victim, as it were, for death; which so
refines it of its grosser aspect, and throws around familiar looks unearthly indications of the
coming change; a dread disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is so gradual,
quiet, and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day, and grain by grain, the mortal part
wastes and withers away, so that the spirit grows light and sanguine with its lightening load,
and, feeling immortality at hand, deems it but a new term of mortal life; a disease in which
death and life are so strangely blended, that death takes the glow and hue of life, and life the
gaunt and grisly form of death; a disease which medicine never cured, wealth never warded
off, or poverty could boast exemption from; which sometimes moves in giant strides, and
sometimes at a tardy sluggish pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure and certain.
It was with some faint reference in his own mind to this disorder, though he would by
no means admit it, even to himself, that Nicholas had already carried his faithful companion
to a physician of great repute. There was no cause for immediate alarm, he said. There were
no present symptoms which could be deemed conclusive. The constitution had been greatly
tried and injured in childhood, but still it MIGHT not be – and that was all.
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But he seemed to grow no worse, and, as it was not difficult to find a reason for these
symptoms of illness in the shock and agitation he had recently undergone, Nicholas
comforted himself with the hope that his poor friend would soon recover. This hope his
mother and sister shared with him; and as the object of their joint solicitude seemed to have
no uneasiness or despondency for himself, but each day answered with a quiet smile that he
felt better than he had upon the day before, their fears abated, and the general happiness was
by degrees restored.
Many and many a time in after years did Nicholas look back to this period of his life,
and tread again the humble quiet homely scenes that rose up as of old before him. Many and
many a time, in the twilight of a summer evening, or beside the flickering winter's fire – but
not so often or so sadly then – would his thoughts wander back to these old days, and dwell
with a pleasant sorrow upon every slight remembrance which they brought crowding home.
The little room in which they had so often sat long after it was dark, figuring such happy
futures; Kate's cheerful voice and merry laugh; how, if she were from home, they used to sit
and watch for her return scarcely breaking silence but to say how dull it seemed without her;
the glee with which poor Smike would start from the darkened corner where he used to sit,
and hurry to admit her, and the tears they often saw upon his face, half wondering to see
them too, and he so pleased and happy; every little incident, and even slight words and looks
of those old days little heeded then, but well remembered when busy cares and trials were
quite forgotten, came fresh and thick before him many and many a time, and, rustling above
the dusty growth of years, came back green boughs of yesterday.
But there were other persons associated with these recollections, and many changes
came about before they had being. A necessary reflection for the purposes of these
adventures, which at once subside into their accustomed train, and shunning all flighty
anticipations or wayward wanderings, pursue their steady and decorous course.
If the brothers Cheeryble, as they found Nicholas worthy of trust and confidence,
bestowed upon him every day some new and substantial mark of kindness, they were not
less mindful of those who depended on him. Various little presents to Mrs Nickleby, always
of the very things they most required, tended in no slight degree to the improvement and
embellishment of the cottage. Kate's little store of trinkets became quite dazzling; and for
company! If brother Charles and brother Ned failed to look in for at least a few minutes
every Sunday, or one evening in the week, there was Mr Tim Linkinwater (who had never
made half−a−dozen other acquaintances in all his life, and who took such delight in his new
friends as no words can express) constantly coming and going in his evening walks, and
stopping to rest; while Mr Frank Cheeryble happened, by some strange conjunction of
circumstances, to be passing the door on some business or other at least three nights in the
week.
'He is the most attentive young man I ever saw, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby to her
daughter one evening, when this last−named gentleman had been the subject of the worthy
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lady's eulogium for some time, and Kate had sat perfectly silent.
'Attentive, mama!' rejoined Kate.
'Bless my heart, Kate!' cried Mrs Nickleby, with her wonted suddenness, 'what a colour
you have got; why, you're quite flushed!'
'Oh, mama! what strange things you fancy!'
'It wasn't fancy, Kate, my dear, I'm certain of that,' returned her mother. 'However, it's
gone now at any rate, so it don't much matter whether it was or not. What was it we were
talking about? Oh! Mr Frank. I never saw such attention in MY life, never.'
'Surely you are not serious,' returned Kate, colouring again; and this time beyond all
dispute.
'Not serious!' returned Mrs Nickleby; 'why shouldn't I be serious? I'm sure I never was
more serious. I will say that his politeness and attention to me is one of the most becoming,
gratifying, pleasant things I have seen for a very long time. You don't often meet with such
behaviour in young men, and it strikes one more when one does meet with it.'
'Oh! attention to YOU, mama,' rejoined Kate quickly – 'oh yes.'
'Dear me, Kate,' retorted Mrs Nickleby, 'what an extraordinary girl you are! Was it
likely I should be talking of his attention to anybody else? I declare I'm quite sorry to think
he should be in love with a German lady, that I am.'
'He said very positively that it was no such thing, mama,' returned Kate. 'Don't you
remember his saying so that very first night he came here? Besides,' she added, in a more
gentle tone, 'why should WE be sorry if it is the case? What is it to us, mama?'
'Nothing to US, Kate, perhaps,' said Mrs Nickleby, emphatically; 'but something to ME,
I confess. I like English people to be thorough English people, and not half English and half
I don't know what. I shall tell him point−blank next time he comes, that I wish he would
marry one of his own country−women; and see what he says to that.'
'Pray don't think of such a thing, mama,' returned Kate, hastily; 'not for the world.
Consider. How very – '
'Well, my dear, how very what?' said Mrs Nickleby, opening her eyes in great
astonishment.
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Before Kate had returned any reply, a queer little double knock announced that Miss La
Creevy had called to see them; and when Miss La Creevy presented herself, Mrs Nickleby,
though strongly disposed to be argumentative on the previous question, forgot all about it in
a gush of supposes about the coach she had come by; supposing that the man who drove
must have been either the man in the shirt−sleeves or the man with the black eye; that
whoever he was, he hadn't found that parasol she left inside last week; that no doubt they
had stopped a long while at the Halfway House, coming down; or that perhaps being full,
they had come straight on; and, lastly, that they, surely, must have passed Nicholas on the
road.
'I saw nothing of him,' answered Miss La Creevy; 'but I saw that dear old soul Mr
Linkinwater.'
'Taking his evening walk, and coming on to rest here, before he turns back to the city,
I'll be bound!' said Mrs Nickleby.
'I should think he was,' returned Miss La Creevy; 'especially as young Mr Cheeryble
was with him.'
'Surely that is no reason why Mr Linkinwater should be coming here,' said Kate.
'Why I think it is, my dear,' said Miss La Creevy. 'For a young man, Mr Frank is not a
very great walker; and I observe that he generally falls tired, and requires a good long rest,
when he has come as far as this. But where is my friend?' said the little woman, looking
about, after having glanced slyly at Kate. 'He has not been run away with again, has he?'
'Ah! where is Mr Smike?' said Mrs Nickleby; 'he was here this instant.'
Upon further inquiry, it turned out, to the good lady's unbounded astonishment, that
Smike had, that moment, gone upstairs to bed.
'Well now,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'he is the strangest creature! Last Tuesday – was it
Tuesday? Yes, to be sure it was; you recollect, Kate, my dear, the very last time young Mr
Cheeryble was here – last Tuesday night he went off in just the same strange way, at the
very moment the knock came to the door. It cannot be that he don't like company, because
he is always fond of people who are fond of Nicholas, and I am sure young Mr Cheeryble is.
And the strangest thing is, that he does not go to bed; therefore it cannot be because he is
tired. I know he doesn't go to bed, because my room is the next one, and when I went
upstairs last Tuesday, hours after him, I found that he had not even taken his shoes off; and
he had no candle, so he must have sat moping in the dark all the time. Now, upon my word,'
said Mrs Nickleby, 'when I come to think of it, that's very extraordinary!'
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As the hearers did not echo this sentiment, but remained profoundly silent, either as not
knowing what to say, or as being unwilling to interrupt, Mrs Nickleby pursued the thread of
her discourse after her own fashion.
'I hope,' said that lady, 'that this unaccountable conduct may not be the beginning of his
taking to his bed and living there all his life, like the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury, or the
Cock−lane Ghost, or some of those extraordinary creatures. One of them had some
connection with our family. I forget, without looking back to some old letters I have
upstairs, whether it was my great−grandfather who went to school with the Cock−lane
Ghost, or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury who went to school with my grandmother. Miss La
Creevy, you know, of course. Which was it that didn't mind what the clergyman said? The
Cock−lane Ghost or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury?'
'The Cock−lane Ghost, I believe.'
'Then I have no doubt,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'that it was with him my great−grandfather
went to school; for I know the master of his school was a dissenter, and that would, in a
great measure, account for the Cock−lane Ghost's behaving in such an improper manner to
the clergyman when he grew up. Ah! Train up a Ghost – child, I mean – '
Any further reflections on this fruitful theme were abruptly cut short by the arrival of
Tim Linkinwater and Mr Frank Cheeryble; in the hurry of receiving whom, Mrs Nickleby
speedily lost sight of everything else.
'I am so sorry Nicholas is not at home,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Kate, my dear, you must be
both Nicholas and yourself.'
'Miss Nickleby need be but herself,' said Frank. 'I – if I may venture to say so – oppose
all change in her.'
'Then at all events she shall press you to stay,' returned Mrs Nickleby. 'Mr Linkinwater
says ten minutes, but I cannot let you go so soon; Nicholas would be very much vexed, I am
sure. Kate, my dear!'
In obedience to a great number of nods, and winks, and frowns of extra significance,
Kate added her entreaties that the visitors would remain; but it was observable that she
addressed them exclusively to Tim Linkinwater; and there was, besides, a certain
embarrassment in her manner, which, although it was as far from impairing its graceful
character as the tinge it communicated to her cheek was from diminishing her beauty, was
obvious at a glance even to Mrs Nickleby. Not being of a very speculative character,
however, save under circumstances when her speculations could be put into words and
uttered aloud, that discreet matron attributed the emotion to the circumstance of her
daughter's not happening to have her best frock on: 'though I never saw her look better,
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certainly,' she reflected at the same time. Having settled the question in this way, and being
most complacently satisfied that in this, and in all other instances, her conjecture could not
fail to be the right one, Mrs Nickleby dismissed it from her thoughts, and inwardly
congratulated herself on being so shrewd and knowing.
Nicholas did not come home nor did Smike reappear; but neither circumstance, to say
the truth, had any great effect upon the little party, who were all in the best humour possible.
Indeed, there sprung up quite a flirtation between Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater,
who said a thousand jocose and facetious things, and became, by degrees, quite gallant, not
to say tender. Little Miss La Creevy, on her part, was in high spirits, and rallied Tim on
having remained a bachelor all his life with so much success, that Tim was actually induced
to declare, that if he could get anybody to have him, he didn't know but what he might
change his condition even yet. Miss La Creevy earnestly recommended a lady she knew,
who would exactly suit Mr Linkinwater, and had a very comfortable property of her own;
but this latter qualification had very little effect upon Tim, who manfully protested that
fortune would be no object with him, but that true worth and cheerfulness of disposition
were what a man should look for in a wife, and that if he had these, he could find money
enough for the moderate wants of both. This avowal was considered so honourable to Tim,
that neither Mrs Nickleby nor Miss La Creevy could sufficiently extol it; and stimulated by
their praises, Tim launched out into several other declarations also manifesting the
disinterestedness of his heart, and a great devotion to the fair sex: which were received with
no less approbation. This was done and said with a comical mixture of jest and earnest, and,
leading to a great amount of laughter, made them very merry indeed.
Kate was commonly the life and soul of the conversation at home; but she was more
silent than usual upon this occasion (perhaps because Tim and Miss La Creevy engrossed so
much of it), and, keeping aloof from the talkers, sat at the window watching the shadows as
the evening closed in, and enjoying the quiet beauty of the night, which seemed to have
scarcely less attractions to Frank, who first lingered near, and then sat down beside, her. No
doubt, there are a great many things to be said appropriate to a summer evening, and no
doubt they are best said in a low voice, as being most suitable to the peace and serenity of
the hour; long pauses, too, at times, and then an earnest word or so, and then another interval
of silence which, somehow, does not seem like silence either, and perhaps now and then a
hasty turning away of the head, or drooping of the eyes towards the ground, all these minor
circumstances, with a disinclination to have candles introduced and a tendency to confuse
hours with minutes, are doubtless mere influences of the time, as many lovely lips can
clearly testify. Neither is there the slightest reason why Mrs Nickleby should have expressed
surprise when, candles being at length brought in, Kate's bright eyes were unable to bear the
light which obliged her to avert her face, and even to leave the room for some short time;
because, when one has sat in the dark so long, candles ARE dazzling, and nothing can be
more strictly natural than that such results should be produced, as all well−informed young
people know. For that matter, old people know it too, or did know it once, but they forget
these things sometimes, and more's the pity.
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The good lady's surprise, however, did not end here. It was greatly increased when it
was discovered that Kate had not the least appetite for supper: a discovery so alarming that
there is no knowing in what unaccountable efforts of oratory Mrs Nickleby's apprehensions
might have been vented, if the general attention had not been attracted, at the moment, by a
very strange and uncommon noise, proceeding, as the pale and trembling servant girl
affirmed, and as everybody's sense of hearing seemed to affirm also, 'right down' the
chimney of the adjoining room.
It being quite plain to the comprehension of all present that, however extraordinary and
improbable it might appear, the noise did nevertheless proceed from the chimney in
question; and the noise (which was a strange compound of various shuffling, sliding,
rumbling, and struggling sounds, all muffled by the chimney) still continuing, Frank
Cheeryble caught up a candle, and Tim Linkinwater the tongs, and they would have very
quickly ascertained the cause of this disturbance if Mrs Nickleby had not been taken very
faint, and declined being left behind, on any account. This produced a short remonstrance,
which terminated in their all proceeding to the troubled chamber in a body, excepting only
Miss La Creevy, who, as the servant girl volunteered a confession of having been subject to
fits in her infancy, remained with her to give the alarm and apply restoratives, in case of
extremity.
Advancing to the door of the mysterious apartment, they were not a little surprised to
hear a human voice, chanting with a highly elaborated expression of melancholy, and in
tones of suffocation which a human voice might have produced from under five or six
feather−beds of the best quality, the once popular air of 'Has she then failed in her truth, the
beautiful maid I adore?' Nor, on bursting into the room without demanding a parley, was
their astonishment lessened by the discovery that these romantic sounds certainly proceeded
from the throat of some man up the chimney, of whom nothing was visible but a pair of legs,
which were dangling above the grate; apparently feeling, with extreme anxiety, for the top
bar whereon to effect a landing.
A sight so unusual and unbusiness−like as this, completely paralysed Tim Linkinwater,
who, after one or two gentle pinches at the stranger's ankles, which were productive of no
effect, stood clapping the tongs together, as if he were sharpening them for another assault,
and did nothing else.
'This must be some drunken fellow,' said Frank. 'No thief would announce his presence
thus.'
As he said this, with great indignation, he raised the candle to obtain a better view of the
legs, and was darting forward to pull them down with very little ceremony, when Mrs
Nickleby, clasping her hands, uttered a sharp sound, something between a scream and an
exclamation, and demanded to know whether the mysterious limbs were not clad in
small−clothes and grey worsted stockings, or whether her eyes had deceived her.
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'Yes,' cried Frank, looking a little closer. 'Small−clothes certainly, and – and – rough
grey stockings, too. Do you know him, ma'am?'
'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, deliberately sitting herself down in a chair with that
sort of desperate resignation which seemed to imply that now matters had come to a crisis,
and all disguise was useless, 'you will have the goodness, my love, to explain precisely how
this matter stands. I have given him no encouragement – none whatever – not the least in the
world. You know that, my dear, perfectly well. He was very respectful, exceedingly
respectful, when he declared, as you were a witness to; still at the same time, if I am to be
persecuted in this way, if vegetable what's−his−names and all kinds of garden−stuff are to
strew my path out of doors, and gentlemen are to come choking up our chimneys at home, I
really don't know – upon my word I do NOT know – what is to become of me. It's a very
hard case – harder than anything I was ever exposed to, before I married your poor dear
papa, though I suffered a good deal of annoyance then – but that, of course, I expected, and
made up my mind for. When I was not nearly so old as you, my dear, there was a young
gentleman who sat next us at church, who used, almost every Sunday, to cut my name in
large letters in the front of his pew while the sermon was going on. It was gratifying, of
course, naturally so, but still it was an annoyance, because the pew was in a very
conspicuous place, and he was several times publicly taken out by the beadle for doing it.
But that was nothing to this. This is a great deal worse, and a great deal more embarrassing.
I would rather, Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great solemnity, and an effusion of
tears: 'I would rather, I declare, have been a pig− faced lady, than be exposed to such a life
as this!'
Frank Cheeryble and Tim Linkinwater looked, in irrepressible astonishment, first at
each other and then at Kate, who felt that some explanation was necessary, but who,
between her terror at the apparition of the legs, her fear lest their owner should be
smothered, and her anxiety to give the least ridiculous solution of the mystery that it was
capable of bearing, was quite unable to utter a single word.
'He gives me great pain,' continued Mrs Nickleby, drying her eyes, 'great pain; but don't
hurt a hair of his head, I beg. On no account hurt a hair of his head.'
It would not, under existing circumstances, have been quite so easy to hurt a hair of the
gentleman's head as Mrs Nickleby seemed to imagine, inasmuch as that part of his person
was some feet up the chimney, which was by no means a wide one. But, as all this time he
had never left off singing about the bankruptcy of the beautiful maid in respect of truth, and
now began not only to croak very feebly, but to kick with great violence as if respiration
became a task of difficulty, Frank Cheeryble, without further hesitation, pulled at the shorts
and worsteds with such heartiness as to bring him floundering into the room with greater
precipitation than he had quite calculated upon.
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'Oh! yes, yes,' said Kate, directly the whole figure of this singular visitor appeared in
this abrupt manner. 'I know who it is. Pray don't be rough with him. Is he hurt? I hope not.
Oh, pray see if he is hurt.'
'He is not, I assure you,' replied Frank, handling the object of his surprise, after this
appeal, with sudden tenderness and respect. 'He is not hurt in the least.'
'Don't let him come any nearer,' said Kate, retiring as far as she could.
'Oh, no, he shall not,' rejoined Frank. 'You see I have him secure here. But may I ask
you what this means, and whether you expected, this old gentleman?'
'Oh, no,' said Kate, 'of course not; but he – mama does not think so, I believe – but he is
a mad gentleman who has escaped from the next house, and must have found an opportunity
of secreting himself here.'
'Kate,' interposed Mrs Nickleby with severe dignity, 'I am surprised at you.'
'Dear mama,' Kate gently remonstrated.
'I am surprised at you,' repeated Mrs Nickleby; 'upon my word, Kate, I am quite
astonished that you should join the persecutors of this unfortunate gentleman, when you
know very well that they have the basest designs upon his property, and that that is the
whole secret of it. It would be much kinder of you, Kate, to ask Mr Linkinwater or Mr
Cheeryble to interfere in his behalf, and see him righted. You ought not to allow your
feelings to influence you; it's not right, very far from it. What should my feelings be, do you
suppose? If anybody ought to be indignant, who is it? I, of course, and very properly so.
Still, at the same time, I wouldn't commit such an injustice for the world. No,' continued Mrs
Nickleby, drawing herself up, and looking another way with a kind of bashful stateliness;
'this gentleman will understand me when I tell him that I repeat the answer I gave him the
other day; that I always will repeat it, though I do believe him to be sincere when I find him
placing himself in such dreadful situations on my account; and that I request him to have the
goodness to go away directly, or it will be impossible to keep his behaviour a secret from
my son Nicholas. I am obliged to him, very much obliged to him, but I cannot listen to his
addresses for a moment. It's quite impossible.'
While this address was in course of delivery, the old gentleman, with his nose and
cheeks embellished with large patches of soot, sat upon the ground with his arms folded,
eyeing the spectators in profound silence, and with a very majestic demeanour. He did not
appear to take the smallest notice of what Mrs Nickleby said, but when she ceased to speak
he honoured her with a long stare, and inquired if she had quite finished.
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'I have nothing more to say,' replied that lady modestly. 'I really cannot say anything
more.'
'Very good,' said the old gentleman, raising his voice, 'then bring in the bottled
lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.'
Nobody executing this order, the old gentleman, after a short pause, raised his voice
again and demanded a thunder sandwich. This article not being forthcoming either, he
requested to be served with a fricassee of boot−tops and goldfish sauce, and then laughing
heartily, gratified his hearers with a very long, very loud, and most melodious bellow.
But still Mrs Nickleby, in reply to the significant looks of all about her, shook her head
as though to assure them that she saw nothing whatever in all this, unless, indeed, it were a
slight degree of eccentricity. She might have remained impressed with these opinions down
to the latest moment of her life, but for a slight train of circumstances, which, trivial as they
were, altered the whole complexion of the case.
It happened that Miss La Creevy, finding her patient in no very threatening condition,
and being strongly impelled by curiosity to see what was going forward, bustled into the
room while the old gentleman was in the very act of bellowing. It happened, too, that the
instant the old gentleman saw her, he stopped short, skipped suddenly on his feet, and fell to
kissing his hand violently: a change of demeanour which almost terrified the little portrait
painter out of her senses, and caused her to retreat behind Tim Linkinwater with the utmost
expedition.
'Aha!' cried the old gentleman, folding his hands, and squeezing them with great force
against each other. 'I see her now; I see her now! My love, my life, my bride, my peerless
beauty. She is come at last – at last – and all is gas and gaiters!'
Mrs Nickleby looked rather disconcerted for a moment, but immediately recovering,
nodded to Miss La Creevy and the other spectators several times, and frowned, and smiled
gravely, giving them to understand that she saw where the mistake was, and would set it all
to rights in a minute or two.
'She is come!' said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his heart. 'Cormoran and
Blunderbore! She is come! All the wealth I have is hers if she will take me for her slave.
Where are grace, beauty, and blandishments, like those? In the Empress of Madagascar? No.
In the Queen of Diamonds? No. In Mrs Rowland, who every morning bathes in Kalydor for
nothing? No. Melt all these down into one, with the three Graces, the nine Muses, and
fourteen biscuit−bakers' daughters from Oxford Street, and make a woman half as lovely.
Pho! I defy you.'
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After uttering this rhapsody, the old gentleman snapped his fingers twenty or thirty
times, and then subsided into an ecstatic contemplation of Miss La Creevy's charms. This
affording Mrs Nickleby a favourable opportunity of explanation, she went about it straight.
'I am sure,' said the worthy lady, with a prefatory cough, 'that it's a great relief, under
such trying circumstances as these, to have anybody else mistaken for me – a very great
relief; and it's a circumstance that never occurred before, although I have several times been
mistaken for my daughter Kate. I have no doubt the people were very foolish, and perhaps
ought to have known better, but still they did take me for her, and of course that was no fault
of mine, and it would be very hard indeed if I was to be made responsible for it. However, in
this instance, of course, I must feel that I should do exceedingly wrong if I suffered anybody
– especially anybody that I am under great obligations to – to be made uncomfortable on my
account. And therefore I think it my duty to tell that gentleman that he is mistaken, that I am
the lady who he was told by some impertinent person was niece to the Council of
Paving−stones, and that I do beg and entreat of him to go quietly away, if it's only for,' here
Mrs Nickleby simpered and hesitated, 'for MY sake.'
It might have been expected that the old gentleman would have been penetrated to the
heart by the delicacy and condescension of this appeal, and that he would at least have
returned a courteous and suitable reply. What, then, was the shock which Mrs Nickleby
received, when, accosting HER in the most unmistakable manner, he replied in a loud and
sonourous voice: 'Avaunt! Cat!'
'Sir!' cried Mrs Nickleby, in a faint tone.
'Cat!' repeated the old gentleman. 'Puss, Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby, Brindle! Whoosh!'
with which last sound, uttered in a hissing manner between his teeth, the old gentleman
swung his arms violently round and round, and at the same time alternately advanced on
Mrs Nickleby, and retreated from her, in that species of savage dance with which boys on
market−days may be seen to frighten pigs, sheep, and other animals, when they give out
obstinate indications of turning down a wrong street.
Mrs Nickleby wasted no words, but uttered an exclamation of horror and surprise, and
immediately fainted away.
'I'll attend to mama,' said Kate, hastily; 'I am not at all frightened. But pray take him
away: pray take him away!'
Frank was not at all confident of his power of complying with this request, until he
bethought himself of the stratagem of sending Miss La Creevy on a few paces in advance,
and urging the old gentleman to follow her. It succeeded to a miracle; and he went away in a
rapture of admiration, strongly guarded by Tim Linkinwater on one side, and Frank himself
on the other.
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'Kate,' murmured Mrs Nickleby, reviving when the coast was clear, 'is he gone?'
She was assured that he was.
'I shall never forgive myself, Kate,' said Mrs Nickleby. 'Never! That gentleman has lost
his senses, and I am the unhappy cause.'
'YOU the cause!' said Kate, greatly astonished.
'I, my love,' replied Mrs Nickleby, with a desperate calmness. 'You saw what he was the
other day; you see what he is now. I told your brother, weeks and weeks ago, Kate, that I
hoped a disappointment might not be too much for him. You see what a wreck he is. Making
allowance for his being a little flighty, you know how rationally, and sensibly, and
honourably he talked, when we saw him in the garden. You have heard the dreadful
nonsense he has been guilty of this night, and the manner in which he has gone on with that
poor unfortunate little old maid. Can anybody doubt how all this has been brought about?'
'I should scarcely think they could,' said Kate mildly.
'I should scarcely think so, either,' rejoined her mother. 'Well! if I am the unfortunate
cause of this, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am not to blame. I told Nicholas, I
said to him, «Nicholas, my dear, we should be very careful how we proceed.» He would
scarcely hear me. If the matter had only been properly taken up at first, as I wished it to be!
But you are both of you so like your poor papa. However, I have MY consolation, and that
should be enough for me!'
Washing her hands, thus, of all responsibility under this head, past, present, or to come,
Mrs Nickleby kindly added that she hoped her children might never have greater cause to
reproach themselves than she had, and prepared herself to receive the escort, who soon
returned with the intelligence that the old gentleman was safely housed, and that they found
his custodians, who had been making merry with some friends, wholly ignorant of his
absence.
Quiet being again restored, a delicious half−hour – so Frank called it, in the course of
subsequent conversation with Tim Linkinwater as they were walking home – was spent in
conversation, and Tim's watch at length apprising him that it was high time to depart, the
ladies were left alone, though not without many offers on the part of Frank to remain until
Nicholas arrived, no matter what hour of the night it might be, if, after the late neighbourly
irruption, they entertained the least fear of being left to themselves. As their freedom from
all further apprehension, however, left no pretext for his insisting on mounting guard, he was
obliged to abandon the citadel, and to retire with the trusty Tim.
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Nearly three hours of silence passed away. Kate blushed to find, when Nicholas
returned, how long she had been sitting alone, occupied with her own thoughts.
'I really thought it had not been half an hour,' she said.
'They must have been pleasant thoughts, Kate,' rejoined Nicholas gaily, 'to make time
pass away like that. What were they now?'
Kate was confused; she toyed with some trifle on the table, looked up and smiled,
looked down and dropped a tear.
'Why, Kate,' said Nicholas, drawing his sister towards him and kissing her, 'let me see
your face. No? Ah! that was but a glimpse; that's scarcely fair. A longer look than that, Kate.
Come – and I'll read your thoughts for you.'
There was something in this proposition, albeit it was said without the slightest
consciousness or application, which so alarmed his sister, that Nicholas laughingly changed
the subject to domestic matters, and thus gathered, by degrees, as they left the room and
went upstairs together, how lonely Smike had been all night – and by very slow degrees,
too; for on this subject also, Kate seemed to speak with some reluctance.
'Poor fellow,' said Nicholas, tapping gently at his door, 'what can be the cause of all
this?'
Kate was hanging on her brother's arm. The door being quickly opened, she had not
time to disengage herself, before Smike, very pale and haggard, and completely dressed,
confronted them.
'And have you not been to bed?' said Nicholas.
'N – n – no,' was the reply.
Nicholas gently detained his sister, who made an effort to retire; and asked, 'Why not?'
'I could not sleep,' said Smike, grasping the hand which his friend extended to him.
'You are not well?' rejoined Nicholas.
'I am better, indeed. A great deal better,' said Smike quickly.
'Then why do you give way to these fits of melancholy?' inquired Nicholas, in his
kindest manner; 'or why not tell us the cause? You grow a different creature, Smike.'
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'I do; I know I do,' he replied. 'I will tell you the reason one day, but not now. I hate
myself for this; you are all so good and kind. But I cannot help it. My heart is very full; you
do not know how full it is.'
He wrung Nicholas's hand before he released it; and glancing, for a moment, at the
brother and sister as they stood together, as if there were something in their strong affection
which touched him very deeply, withdrew into his chamber, and was soon the only watcher
under that quiet roof.
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe.
T
he little race−course at Hampton was in the full tide and height of its gaiety; the day
as dazzling as day could be; the sun high in the cloudless sky, and shining in its fullest
splendour. Every gaudy colour that fluttered in the air from carriage seat and garish tent top,
shone out in its gaudiest hues. Old dingy flags grew new again, faded gilding was
re−burnished, stained rotten canvas looked a snowy white, the very beggars' rags were
freshened up, and sentiment quite forgot its charity in its fervent admiration of poverty so
picturesque.
It was one of those scenes of life and animation, caught in its very brightest and freshest
moments, which can scarcely fail to please; for if the eye be tired of show and glare, or the
ear be weary with a ceaseless round of noise, the one may repose, turn almost where it will,
on eager, happy, and expectant faces, and the other deaden all consciousness of more
annoying sounds in those of mirth and exhilaration. Even the sunburnt faces of gypsy
children, half naked though they be, suggest a drop of comfort. It is a pleasant thing to see
that the sun has been there; to know that the air and light are on them every day; to feel that
they ARE children, and lead children's lives; that if their pillows be damp, it is with the dews
of Heaven, and not with tears; that the limbs of their girls are free, and that they are not
crippled by distortions, imposing an unnatural and horrible penance upon their sex; that their
lives are spent, from day to day, at least among the waving trees, and not in the midst of
dreadful engines which make young children old before they know what childhood is, and
give them the exhaustion and infirmity of age, without, like age, the privilege to die. God
send that old nursery tales were true, and that gypsies stole such children by the score!
The great race of the day had just been run; and the close lines of people, on either side
of the course, suddenly breaking up and pouring into it, imparted a new liveliness to the
scene, which was again all busy movement. Some hurried eagerly to catch a glimpse of the
winning horse; others darted to and fro, searching, no less eagerly, for the carriages they had
left in quest of better stations. Here, a little knot gathered round a pea and thimble table to
watch the plucking of some unhappy greenhorn; and there, another proprietor with his
confederates in various disguises – one man in spectacles; another, with an eyeglass and a
stylish hat; a third, dressed as a farmer well to do in the world, with his top− coat over his
arm and his flash notes in a large leathern pocket− book; and all with heavy−handled whips
to represent most innocent country fellows who had trotted there on horseback – sought, by
loud and noisy talk and pretended play, to entrap some unwary customer, while the
gentlemen confederates (of more villainous aspect still, in clean linen and good clothes),
betrayed their close interest in the concern by the anxious furtive glance they cast on all new
comers. These would be hanging on the outskirts of a wide circle of people assembled round
some itinerant juggler, opposed, in his turn, by a noisy band of music, or the classic game of
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 611
'Ring the Bull,' while ventriloquists holding dialogues with wooden dolls, and
fortune−telling women smothering the cries of real babies, divided with them, and many
more, the general attention of the company. Drinking−tents were full, glasses began to clink
in carriages, hampers to be unpacked, tempting provisions to be set forth, knives and forks
to rattle, champagne corks to fly, eyes to brighten that were not dull before, and pickpockets
to count their gains during the last heat. The attention so recently strained on one object of
interest, was now divided among a hundred; and look where you would, there was a motley
assemblage of feasting, laughing, talking, begging, gambling, and mummery.
Of the gambling−booths there was a plentiful show, flourishing in all the splendour of
carpeted ground, striped hangings, crimson cloth, pinnacled roofs, geranium pots, and livery
servants. There were the Stranger's club−house, the Athenaeum club−house, the Hampton
club−house, the St James's club−house, and half a mile of club−houses to play IN; and there
were ROUGE−ET−NOIR, French hazard, and other games to play AT. It is into one of these
booths that our story takes its way.
Fitted up with three tables for the purposes of play, and crowded with players and
lookers on, it was, although the largest place of the kind upon the course, intensely hot,
notwithstanding that a portion of the canvas roof was rolled back to admit more air, and
there were two doors for a free passage in and out. Excepting one or two men who, each
with a long roll of half−crowns, chequered with a few stray sovereigns, in his left hand,
staked their money at every roll of the ball with a business−like sedateness which showed
that they were used to it, and had been playing all day, and most probably all the day before,
there was no very distinctive character about the players, who were chiefly young men,
apparently attracted by curiosity, or staking small sums as part of the amusement of the day,
with no very great interest in winning or losing. There were two persons present, however,
who, as peculiarly good specimens of a class, deserve a passing notice.
Of these, one was a man of six or eight and fifty, who sat on a chair near one of the
entrances of the booth, with his hands folded on the top of his stick, and his chin appearing
above them. He was a tall, fat, long−bodied man, buttoned up to the throat in a light green
coat, which made his body look still longer than it was. He wore, besides, drab breeches and
gaiters, a white neckerchief, and a broad−brimmed white hat. Amid all the buzzing noise of
the games, and the perpetual passing in and out of the people, he seemed perfectly calm and
abstracted, without the smallest particle of excitement in his composition. He exhibited no
indication of weariness, nor, to a casual observer, of interest either. There he sat, quite still
and collected. Sometimes, but very rarely, he nodded to some passing face, or beckoned to a
waiter to obey a call from one of the tables. The next instant he subsided into his old state.
He might have been some profoundly deaf old gentleman, who had come in to take a rest, or
he might have been patiently waiting for a friend, without the least consciousness of
anybody's presence, or fixed in a trance, or under the influence of opium. People turned
round and looked at him; he made no gesture, caught nobody's eye, let them pass away, and
others come on and be succeeded by others, and took no notice. When he did move, it
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 612
seemed wonderful how he could have seen anything to occasion it. And so, in truth, it was.
But there was not a face that passed in or out, which this man failed to see; not a gesture at
any one of the three tables that was lost upon him; not a word, spoken by the bankers, but
reached his ear; not a winner or loser he could not have marked. And he was the proprietor
of the place.
The other presided over the ROUGE−ET−NOIR table. He was probably some ten years
younger, and was a plump, paunchy, sturdy−looking fellow, with his under−lip a little
pursed, from a habit of counting money inwardly as he paid it, but with no decidedly bad
expression in his face, which was rather an honest and jolly one than otherwise. He wore no
coat, the weather being hot, and stood behind the table with a huge mound of crowns and
half−crowns before him, and a cash−box for notes. This game was constantly playing.
Perhaps twenty people would be staking at the same time. This man had to roll the ball, to
watch the stakes as they were laid down, to gather them off the colour which lost, to pay
those who won, to do it all with the utmost dispatch, to roll the ball again, and to keep this
game perpetually alive. He did it all with a rapidity absolutely marvellous; never hesitating,
never making a mistake, never stopping, and never ceasing to repeat such unconnected
phrases as the following, which, partly from habit, and partly to have something appropriate
and business−like to say, he constantly poured out with the same monotonous emphasis, and
in nearly the same order, all day long:
'Rooge−a−nore from Paris! Gentlemen, make your game and back your own opinions –
any time while the ball rolls – rooge−a−nore from Paris, gentlemen, it's a French game,
gentlemen, I brought it over myself, I did indeed! – Rooge−a−nore from Paris – black wins
– black – stop a minute, sir, and I'll pay you, directly – two there, half a pound there, three
there – and one there – gentlemen, the ball's a rolling – any time, sir, while the ball rolls! –
The beauty of this game is, that you can double your stakes or put down your money,
gentlemen, any time while the ball rolls – black again – black wins – I never saw such a
thing – I never did, in all my life, upon my word I never did; if any gentleman had been
backing the black in the last five minutes he must have won five−and−forty pound in four
rolls of the ball, he must indeed. Gentlemen, we've port, sherry, cigars, and most excellent
champagne. Here, wai−ter, bring a bottle of champagne, and let's have a dozen or fifteen
cigars here – and let's be comfortable, gentlemen – and bring some clean glasses – any time
while the ball rolls! – I lost one hundred and thirty−seven pound yesterday, gentlemen, at
one roll of the ball, I did indeed! – how do you do, sir?' (recognising some knowing
gentleman without any halt or change of voice, and giving a wink so slight that it seems an
accident), 'will you take a glass of sherry, sir? – here, wai−ter! bring a clean glass, and hand
the sherry to this gentleman – and hand it round, will you, waiter? – this is the rooge−a−nore
from Paris, gentlemen – any time while the ball rolls! – gentlemen, make your game, and
back your own opinions – it's the rooge−a−nore from Paris – quite a new game, I brought it
over myself, I did indeed – gentlemen, the ball's a−rolling!'
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 613
This officer was busily plying his vocation when half−a−dozen persons sauntered
through the booth, to whom, but without stopping either in his speech or work, he bowed
respectfully; at the same time directing, by a look, the attention of a man beside him to the
tallest figure in the group, in recognition of whom the proprietor pulled off his hat. This was
Sir Mulberry Hawk, with whom were his friend and pupil, and a small train of
gentlemanly−dressed men, of characters more doubtful than obscure.
The proprietor, in a low voice, bade Sir Mulberry good−day. Sir Mulberry, in the same
tone, bade the proprietor go to the devil, and turned to speak with his friends.
There was evidently an irritable consciousness about him that he was an object of
curiosity, on this first occasion of showing himself in public after the accident that had
befallen him; and it was easy to perceive that he appeared on the race−course, that day, more
in the hope of meeting with a great many people who knew him, and so getting over as
much as possible of the annoyance at once, than with any purpose of enjoying the sport.
There yet remained a slight scar upon his face, and whenever he was recognised, as he was
almost every minute by people sauntering in and out, he made a restless effort to conceal it
with his glove; showing how keenly he felt the disgrace he had undergone.
'Ah! Hawk,' said one very sprucely−dressed personage in a Newmarket coat, a choice
neckerchief, and all other accessories of the most unexceptionable kind. 'How d'ye do, old
fellow?'
This was a rival trainer of young noblemen and gentlemen, and the person of all others
whom Sir Mulberry most hated and dreaded to meet. They shook hands with excessive
cordiality.
'And how are you now, old fellow, hey?'
'Quite well, quite well,' said Sir Mulberry.
'That's right,' said the other. 'How d'ye do, Verisopht? He's a little pulled down, our
friend here. Rather out of condition still, hey?'
It should be observed that the gentleman had very white teeth, and that when there was
no excuse for laughing, he generally finished with the same monosyllable, which he uttered
so as to display them.
'He's in very good condition; there's nothing the matter with him,' said the young man
carelessly.
'Upon my soul I'm glad to hear it,' rejoined the other. 'Have you just returned from
Brussels?'
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 614
'We only reached town late last night,' said Lord Frederick. Sir Mulberry turned away to
speak to one of his own party, and feigned not to hear.
'Now, upon my life,' said the friend, affecting to speak in a whisper, 'it's an uncommonly
bold and game thing in Hawk to show himself so soon. I say it advisedly; there's a vast deal
of courage in it. You see he has just rusticated long enough to excite curiosity, and not long
enough for men to have forgotten that deuced unpleasant – by−the−bye – you know the
rights of the affair, of course? Why did you never give those confounded papers the lie? I
seldom read the papers, but I looked in the papers for that, and may I be – '
'Look in the papers,' interrupted Sir Mulberry, turning suddenly round, 'tomorrow – no,
next day, will you?'
'Upon my life, my dear fellow, I seldom or never read the papers,' said the other,
shrugging his shoulders, 'but I will, at your recommendation. What shall I look for?'
'Good day,' said Sir Mulberry, turning abruptly on his heel, and drawing his pupil with
him. Falling, again, into the loitering, careless pace at which they had entered, they lounged
out, arm in arm.
'I won't give him a case of murder to read,' muttered Sir Mulberry with an oath; 'but it
shall be something very near it if whipcord cuts and bludgeons bruise.'
His companion said nothing, but there was something in his manner which galled Sir
Mulberry to add, with nearly as much ferocity as if his friend had been Nicholas himself:
'I sent Jenkins to old Nickleby before eight o'clock this morning. He's a staunch one; he
was back with me before the messenger. I had it all from him in the first five minutes. I
know where this hound is to be met with; time and place both. But there's no need to talk;
tomorrow will soon be here.'
'And wha−at's to be done tomorrow?' inquired Lord Frederick.
Sir Mulberry Hawk honoured him with an angry glance, but condescended to return no
verbal answer to this inquiry. Both walked sullenly on, as though their thoughts were busily
occupied, until they were quite clear of the crowd, and almost alone, when Sir Mulberry
wheeled round to return.
'Stop,' said his companion, 'I want to speak to you in earnest. Don't turn back. Let us
walk here, a few minutes.'
'What have you to say to me, that you could not say yonder as well as here?' returned
his Mentor, disengaging his arm.
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 615
'Hawk,' rejoined the other, 'tell me; I must know.'
'MUST know,' interrupted the other disdainfully. 'Whew! Go on. If you must know, of
course there's no escape for me. Must know!'
'Must ask then,' returned Lord Frederick, 'and must press you for a plain and
straightforward answer. Is what you have just said only a mere whim of the moment,
occasioned by your being out of humour and irritated, or is it your serious intention, and one
that you have actually contemplated?'
'Why, don't you remember what passed on the subject one night, when I was laid up
with a broken limb?' said Sir Mulberry, with a sneer.
'Perfectly well.'
'Then take that for an answer, in the devil's name,' replied Sir Mulberry, 'and ask me for
no other.'
Such was the ascendancy he had acquired over his dupe, and such the latter's general
habit of submission, that, for the moment, the young man seemed half afraid to pursue the
subject. He soon overcame this feeling, however, if it had restrained him at all, and retorted
angrily:
'If I remember what passed at the time you speak of, I expressed a strong opinion on this
subject, and said that, with my knowledge or consent, you never should do what you
threaten now.'
'Will you prevent me?' asked Sir Mulberry, with a laugh.
'Ye−es, if I can,' returned the other, promptly.
'A very proper saving clause, that last,' said Sir Mulberry; 'and one you stand in need of.
Oh! look to your own business, and leave me to look to mine.'
'This IS mine,' retorted Lord Frederick. 'I make it mine; I will make it mine. It's mine
already. I am more compromised than I should be, as it is.'
'Do as you please, and what you please, for yourself,' said Sir Mulberry, affecting an
easy good−humour. 'Surely that must content you! Do nothing for me; that's all. I advise no
man to interfere in proceedings that I choose to take. I am sure you know me better than to
do so. The fact is, I see, you mean to offer me advice. It is well meant, I have no doubt, but I
reject it. Now, if you please, we will return to the carriage. I find no entertainment here, but
quite the reverse. If we prolong this conversation, we might quarrel, which would be no
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 616
proof of wisdom in either you or me.'
With this rejoinder, and waiting for no further discussion, Sir Mulberry Hawk yawned,
and very leisurely turned back.
There was not a little tact and knowledge of the young lord's disposition in this mode of
treating him. Sir Mulberry clearly saw that if his dominion were to last, it must be
established now. He knew that the moment he became violent, the young man would
become violent too. He had, many times, been enabled to strengthen his influence, when any
circumstance had occurred to weaken it, by adopting this cool and laconic style; and he
trusted to it now, with very little doubt of its entire success.
But while he did this, and wore the most careless and indifferent deportment that his
practised arts enabled him to assume, he inwardly resolved, not only to visit all the
mortification of being compelled to suppress his feelings, with additional severity upon
Nicholas, but also to make the young lord pay dearly for it, one day, in some shape or other.
So long as he had been a passive instrument in his hands, Sir Mulberry had regarded him
with no other feeling than contempt; but, now that he presumed to avow opinions in
opposition to his, and even to turn upon him with a lofty tone and an air of superiority, he
began to hate him. Conscious that, in the vilest and most worthless sense of the term, he was
dependent upon the weak young lord, Sir Mulberry could the less brook humiliation at his
hands; and when he began to dislike him he measured his dislike – as men often do – by the
extent of the injuries he had inflicted upon its object. When it is remembered that Sir
Mulberry Hawk had plundered, duped, deceived, and fooled his pupil in every possible way,
it will not be wondered at, that, beginning to hate him, he began to hate him cordially.
On the other hand, the young lord having thought – which he very seldom did about
anything – and seriously too, upon the affair with Nicholas, and the circumstances which led
to it, had arrived at a manly and honest conclusion. Sir Mulberry's coarse and insulting
behaviour on the occasion in question had produced a deep impression on his mind; a strong
suspicion of his having led him on to pursue Miss Nickleby for purposes of his own, had
been lurking there for some time; he was really ashamed of his share in the transaction, and
deeply mortified by the misgiving that he had been gulled. He had had sufficient leisure to
reflect upon these things, during their late retirement; and, at times, when his careless and
indolent nature would permit, had availed himself of the opportunity. Slight circumstances,
too, had occurred to increase his suspicion. It wanted but a very slight circumstance to
kindle his wrath against Sir Mulberry. This his disdainful and insolent tone in their recent
conversation (the only one they had held upon the subject since the period to which Sir
Mulberry referred), effected.
Thus they rejoined their friends: each with causes of dislike against the other rankling in
his breast: and the young man haunted, besides, with thoughts of the vindictive retaliation
which was threatened against Nicholas, and the determination to prevent it by some strong
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 617
step, if possible. But this was not all. Sir Mulberry, conceiving that he had silenced him
effectually, could not suppress his triumph, or forbear from following up what he conceived
to be his advantage. Mr Pyke was there, and Mr Pluck was there, and Colonel Chowser, and
other gentlemen of the same caste, and it was a great point for Sir Mulberry to show them
that he had not lost his influence. At first, the young lord contented himself with a silent
determination to take measures for withdrawing himself from the connection immediately.
By degrees, he grew more angry, and was exasperated by jests and familiarities which, a few
hours before, would have been a source of amusement to him. This did not serve him; for, at
such bantering or retort as suited the company, he was no match for Sir Mulberry. Still, no
violent rupture took place. They returned to town; Messrs Pyke and Pluck and other
gentlemen frequently protesting, on the way thither, that Sir Mulberry had never been in
such tiptop spirits in all his life.
They dined together, sumptuously. The wine flowed freely, as indeed it had done all
day. Sir Mulberry drank to recompense himself for his recent abstinence; the young lord, to
drown his indignation; and the remainder of the party, because the wine was of the best and
they had nothing to pay. It was nearly midnight when they rushed out, wild, burning with
wine, their blood boiling, and their brains on fire, to the gaming−table.
Here, they encountered another party, mad like themselves. The excitement of play, hot
rooms, and glaring lights was not calculated to allay the fever of the time. In that giddy whirl
of noise and confusion, the men were delirious. Who thought of money, ruin, or the morrow,
in the savage intoxication of the moment? More wine was called for, glass after glass was
drained, their parched and scalding mouths were cracked with thirst. Down poured the wine
like oil on blazing fire. And still the riot went on. The debauchery gained its height; glasses
were dashed upon the floor by hands that could not carry them to lips; oaths were shouted
out by lips which could scarcely form the words to vent them in; drunken losers cursed and
roared; some mounted on the tables, waving bottles above their heads and bidding defiance
to the rest; some danced, some sang, some tore the cards and raved. Tumult and frenzy
reigned supreme; when a noise arose that drowned all others, and two men, seizing each
other by the throat, struggled into the middle of the room.
A dozen voices, until now unheard, called aloud to part them. Those who had kept
themselves cool, to win, and who earned their living in such scenes, threw themselves upon
the combatants, and, forcing them asunder, dragged them some space apart.
'Let me go!' cried Sir Mulberry, in a thick hoarse voice; 'he struck me! Do you hear? I
say, he struck me. Have I a friend here? Who is this? Westwood. Do you hear me say he
struck me?'
'I hear, I hear,' replied one of those who held him. 'Come away for tonight!'
'I will not, by G – ,' he replied. 'A dozen men about us saw the blow.'
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 618
'Tomorrow will be ample time,' said the friend.
'It will not be ample time!' cried Sir Mulberry. 'Tonight, at once, here!' His passion was
so great, that he could not articulate, but stood clenching his fist, tearing his hair, and
stamping upon the ground.
'What is this, my lord?' said one of those who surrounded him. 'Have blows passed?'
'ONE blow has,' was the panting reply. 'I struck him. I proclaim it to all here! I struck
him, and he knows why. I say, with him, let this quarrel be adjusted now. Captain Adams,'
said the young lord, looking hurriedly about him, and addressing one of those who had
interposed, 'let me speak with you, I beg.'
The person addressed stepped forward, and taking the young man's arm, they retired
together, followed shortly afterwards by Sir Mulberry and his friend.
It was a profligate haunt of the worst repute, and not a place in which such an affair was
likely to awaken any sympathy for either party, or to call forth any further remonstrance or
interposition. Elsewhere, its further progress would have been instantly prevented, and time
allowed for sober and cool reflection; but not there. Disturbed in their orgies, the party broke
up; some reeled away with looks of tipsy gravity; others withdrew noisily discussing what
had just occurred; the gentlemen of honour who lived upon their winnings remarked to each
other, as they went out, that Hawk was a good shot; and those who had been most noisy, fell
fast asleep upon the sofas, and thought no more about it.
Meanwhile, the two seconds, as they may be called now, after a long conference, each
with his principal, met together in another room. Both utterly heartless, both men upon
town, both thoroughly initiated in its worst vices, both deeply in debt, both fallen from some
higher estate, both addicted to every depravity for which society can find some genteel name
and plead its most depraving conventionalities as an excuse, they were naturally gentlemen
of most unblemished honour themselves, and of great nicety concerning the honour of other
people.
These two gentlemen were unusually cheerful just now; for the affair was pretty certain
to make some noise, and could scarcely fail to enhance their reputations.
'This is an awkward affair, Adams,' said Mr Westwood, drawing himself up.
'Very,' returned the captain; 'a blow has been struck, and there is but one course, OF
course.'
'No apology, I suppose?' said Mr Westwood.
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 619
'Not a syllable, sir, from my man, if we talk till doomsday,' returned the captain. 'The
original cause of dispute, I understand, was some girl or other, to whom your principal
applied certain terms, which Lord Frederick, defending the girl, repelled. But this led to a
long recrimination upon a great many sore subjects, charges, and counter−charges. Sir
Mulberry was sarcastic; Lord Frederick was excited, and struck him in the heat of
provocation, and under circumstances of great aggravation. That blow, unless there is a full
retraction on the part of Sir Mulberry, Lord Frederick is ready to justify.'
'There is no more to be said,' returned the other, 'but to settle the hour and the place of
meeting. It's a responsibility; but there is a strong feeling to have it over. Do you object to
say at sunrise?'
'Sharp work,' replied the captain, referring to his watch; 'however, as this seems to have
been a long time breeding, and negotiation is only a waste of words, no.'
'Something may possibly be said, out of doors, after what passed in the other room,
which renders it desirable that we should be off without delay, and quite clear of town,' said
Mr Westwood. 'What do you say to one of the meadows opposite Twickenham, by the
river− side?'
The captain saw no objection.
'Shall we join company in the avenue of trees which leads from Petersham to Ham
House, and settle the exact spot when we arrive there?' said Mr Westwood.
To this the captain also assented. After a few other preliminaries, equally brief, and
having settled the road each party should take to avoid suspicion, they separated.
'We shall just have comfortable time, my lord,' said the captain, when he had
communicated the arrangements, 'to call at my rooms for a case of pistols, and then jog
coolly down. If you will allow me to dismiss your servant, we'll take my cab; for yours,
perhaps, might be recognised.'
What a contrast, when they reached the street, to the scene they had just left! It was
already daybreak. For the flaring yellow light within, was substituted the clear, bright,
glorious morning; for a hot, close atmosphere, tainted with the smell of expiring lamps, and
reeking with the steams of riot and dissipation, the free, fresh, wholesome air. But to the
fevered head on which that cool air blew, it seemed to come laden with remorse for time
misspent and countless opportunities neglected. With throbbing veins and burning skin, eyes
wild and heavy, thoughts hurried and disordered, he felt as though the light were a reproach,
and shrunk involuntarily from the day as if he were some foul and hideous thing.
'Shivering?' said the captain. 'You are cold.'
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CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 620
'Rather.'
'It does strike cool, coming out of those hot rooms. Wrap that cloak about you. So, so;
now we're off.'
They rattled through the quiet streets, made their call at the captain's lodgings, cleared
the town, and emerged upon the open road, without hindrance or molestation.
Fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything looked very beautiful; the young man scarcely
seemed to have noticed them before, though he had passed the same objects a thousand
times. There was a peace and serenity upon them all, strangely at variance with the
bewilderment and confusion of his own half−sobered thoughts, and yet impressive and
welcome. He had no fear upon his mind; but, as he looked about him, he had less anger; and
though all old delusions, relative to his worthless late companion, were now cleared away,
he rather wished he had never known him than thought of its having come to this.
The past night, the day before, and many other days and nights beside, all mingled
themselves up in one unintelligible and senseless whirl; he could not separate the
transactions of one time from those of another. Now, the noise of the wheels resolved itself
into some wild tune in which he could recognise scraps of airs he knew; now, there was
nothing in his ears but a stunning and bewildering sound, like rushing water. But his
companion rallied him on being so silent, and they talked and laughed boisterously. When
they stopped, he was a little surprised to find himself in the act of smoking; but, on
reflection, he remembered when and where he had taken the cigar.
They stopped at the avenue gate and alighted, leaving the carriage to the care of the
servant, who was a smart fellow, and nearly as well accustomed to such proceedings as his
master. Sir Mulberry and his friend were already there. All four walked in profound silence
up the aisle of stately elm trees, which, meeting far above their heads, formed a long green
perspective of Gothic arches, terminating, like some old ruin, in the open sky.
After a pause, and a brief conference between the seconds, they, at length, turned to the
right, and taking a track across a little meadow, passed Ham House and came into some
fields beyond. In one of these, they stopped. The ground was measured, some usual forms
gone through, the two principals were placed front to front at the distance agreed upon, and
Sir Mulberry turned his face towards his young adversary for the first time. He was very
pale, his eyes were bloodshot, his dress disordered, and his hair dishevelled. For the face, it
expressed nothing but violent and evil passions. He shaded his eyes with his hand; grazed at
his opponent, steadfastly, for a few moments; and, then taking the weapon which was
tendered to him, bent his eyes upon that, and looked up no more until the word was given,
when he instantly fired.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 621
The two shots were fired, as nearly as possible, at the same instant. In that instant, the
young lord turned his head sharply round, fixed upon his adversary a ghastly stare, and
without a groan or stagger, fell down dead.
'He's gone!' cried Westwood, who, with the other second, had run up to the body, and
fallen on one knee beside it.
'His blood on his own head,' said Sir Mulberry. 'He brought this upon himself, and
forced it upon me.'
'Captain Adams,' cried Westwood, hastily, 'I call you to witness that this was fairly
done. Hawk, we have not a moment to lose. We must leave this place immediately, push for
Brighton, and cross to France with all speed. This has been a bad business, and may be
worse, if we delay a moment. Adams, consult your own safety, and don't remain here; the
living before the dead; goodbye!'
With these words, he seized Sir Mulberry by the arm, and hurried him away. Captain
Adams – only pausing to convince himself, beyond all question, of the fatal result – sped off
in the same direction, to concert measures with his servant for removing the body, and
securing his own safety likewise.
So died Lord Frederick Verisopht, by the hand which he had loaded with gifts, and
clasped a thousand times; by the act of him, but for whom, and others like him, he might
have lived a happy man, and died with children's faces round his bed.
The sun came proudly up in all his majesty, the noble river ran its winding course, the
leaves quivered and rustled in the air, the birds poured their cheerful songs from every tree,
the short−lived butterfly fluttered its little wings; all the light and life of day came on; and,
amidst it all, and pressing down the grass whose every blade bore twenty tiny lives, lay the
dead man, with his stark and rigid face turned upwards to the sky.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe. 622
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend
approaching a successful Issue,
b
ecomes unexpectedly known to another Party, not admitted into their Confidence.
In an old house, dismal dark and dusty, which seemed to have withered, like himself,
and to have grown yellow and shrivelled in hoarding him from the light of day, as he had in
hoarding his money, lived Arthur Gride. Meagre old chairs and tables, of spare and bony
make, and hard and cold as misers' hearts, were ranged, in grim array, against the gloomy
walls; attenuated presses, grown lank and lantern−jawed in guarding the treasures they
enclosed, and tottering, as though from constant fear and dread of thieves, shrunk up in dark
corners, whence they cast no shadows on the ground, and seemed to hide and cower from
observation. A tall grim clock upon the stairs, with long lean hands and famished face,
ticked in cautious whispers; and when it struck the time, in thin and piping sounds, like an
old man's voice, rattled, as if it were pinched with hunger.
No fireside couch was there, to invite repose and comfort. Elbow− chairs there were,
but they looked uneasy in their minds, cocked their arms suspiciously and timidly, and kept
upon their guard. Others, were fantastically grim and gaunt, as having drawn themselves up
to their utmost height, and put on their fiercest looks to stare all comers out of countenance.
Others, again, knocked up against their neighbours, or leant for support against the wall –
somewhat ostentatiously, as if to call all men to witness that they were not worth the taking.
The dark square lumbering bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty hangings
seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among themselves, when rustled by the
wind, their trembling knowledge of the tempting wares that lurked within the dark and
tight−locked closets.
From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and hungry house there
came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old Gride's voice, as it feebly chirruped forth the
fag end of some forgotten song, of which the burden ran:
Ta – ran – tan – too, Throw the old shoe, And may the wedding be lucky!
which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and again, until a violent fit
of coughing obliged him to desist, and to pursue in silence, the occupation upon which he
was engaged.
This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm−eaten wardrobe a
quantity of frouzy garments, one by one; to subject each to a careful and minute inspection
by holding it up against the light, and after folding it with great exactness, to lay it on one or
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,623
other of two little heaps beside him. He never took two articles of clothing out together, but
always brought them forth, singly, and never failed to shut the wardrobe door, and turn the
key, between each visit to its shelves.
'The snuff−coloured suit,' said Arthur Gride, surveying a threadbare coat. 'Did I look
well in snuff−colour? Let me think.'
The result of his cogitations appeared to be unfavourable, for he folded the garment
once more, laid it aside, and mounted on a chair to get down another, chirping while he did
so:
Young, loving, and fair, Oh what happiness there! The wedding is sure to be lucky!
'They always put in «young,»' said old Arthur, 'but songs are only written for the sake of
rhyme, and this is a silly one that the poor country−people sang, when I was a little boy.
Though stop – young is quite right too – it means the bride – yes. He, he, he! It means the
bride. Oh dear, that's good. That's very good. And true besides, quite true!'
In the satisfaction of this discovery, he went over the verse again, with increased
expression, and a shake or two here and there. He then resumed his employment.
'The bottle−green,' said old Arthur; 'the bottle−green was a famous suit to wear, and I
bought it very cheap at a pawnbroker's, and there was – he, he, he! – a tarnished shilling in
the waistcoat pocket. To think that the pawnbroker shouldn't have known there was a
shilling in it! I knew it! I felt it when I was examining the quality. Oh, what a dull dog of a
pawnbroker! It was a lucky suit too, this bottle−green. The very day I put it on first, old Lord
Mallowford was burnt to death in his bed, and all the post−obits fell in. I'll be married in the
bottle−green. Peg. Peg Sliderskew – I'll wear the bottle−green!'
This call, loudly repeated twice or thrice at the room−door, brought into the apartment a
short, thin, weasen, blear−eyed old woman, palsy−stricken and hideously ugly, who, wiping
her shrivelled face upon her dirty apron, inquired, in that subdued tone in which deaf people
commonly speak:
'Was that you a calling, or only the clock a striking? My hearing gets so bad, I never
know which is which; but when I hear a noise, I know it must be one of you, because
nothing else never stirs in the house.'
'Me, Peg, me,' said Arthur Gride, tapping himself on the breast to render the reply more
intelligible.
'You, eh?' returned Peg. 'And what do YOU want?'
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,624
'I'll be married in the bottle−green,' cried Arthur Gride.
'It's a deal too good to be married in, master,' rejoined Peg, after a short inspection of
the suit. 'Haven't you got anything worse than this?'
'Nothing that'll do,' replied old Arthur.
'Why not do?' retorted Peg. 'Why don't you wear your every−day clothes, like a man –
eh?'
'They an't becoming enough, Peg,' returned her master.
'Not what enough?' said Peg.
'Becoming.'
'Becoming what?' said Peg, sharply. 'Not becoming too old to wear?'
Arthur Gride muttered an imprecation on his housekeeper's deafness, as he roared in her
ear:
'Not smart enough! I want to look as well as I can.'
'Look?' cried Peg. 'If she's as handsome as you say she is, she won't look much at you,
master, take your oath of that; and as to how you look yourself – pepper−and−salt,
bottle−green, sky−blue, or tartan−plaid will make no difference in you.'
With which consolatory assurance, Peg Sliderskew gathered up the chosen suit, and
folding her skinny arms upon the bundle, stood, mouthing, and grinning, and blinking her
watery eyes, like an uncouth figure in some monstrous piece of carving.
'You're in a funny humour, an't you, Peg?' said Arthur, with not the best possible grace.
'Why, isn't it enough to make me?' rejoined the old woman. 'I shall, soon enough, be put
out, though, if anybody tries to domineer it over me: and so I give you notice, master.
Nobody shall be put over Peg Sliderskew's head, after so many years; you know that, and so
I needn't tell you! That won't do for me – no, no, nor for you. Try that once, and come to
ruin – ruin – ruin!'
'Oh dear, dear, I shall never try it,' said Arthur Gride, appalled by the mention of the
word, 'not for the world. It would be very easy to ruin me; we must be very careful; more
saving than ever, with another mouth to feed. Only we – we mustn't let her lose her good
looks, Peg, because I like to see 'em.'
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,625
'Take care you don't find good looks come expensive,' returned Peg, shaking her
forefinger.
'But she can earn money herself, Peg,' said Arthur Gride, eagerly watching what effect
his communication produced upon the old woman's countenance: 'she can draw, paint, work
all manner of pretty things for ornamenting stools and chairs: slippers, Peg, watch−guards,
hair−chains, and a thousand little dainty trifles that I couldn't give you half the names of.
Then she can play the piano, (and, what's more, she's got one), and sing like a little bird.
She'll be very cheap to dress and keep, Peg; don't you think she will?'
'If you don't let her make a fool of you, she may,' returned Peg.
'A fool of ME!' exclaimed Arthur. 'Trust your old master not to be fooled by pretty
faces, Peg; no, no, no – nor by ugly ones neither, Mrs Sliderskew,' he softly added by way of
soliloquy.
'You're a saying something you don't want me to hear,' said Peg; 'I know you are.'
'Oh dear! the devil's in this woman,' muttered Arthur; adding with an ugly leer, 'I said I
trusted everything to you, Peg. That was all.'
'You do that, master, and all your cares are over,' said Peg approvingly.
'WHEN I do that, Peg Sliderskew,' thought Arthur Gride, 'they will be.'
Although he thought this very distinctly, he durst not move his lips lest the old woman
should detect him. He even seemed half afraid that she might have read his thoughts; for he
leered coaxingly upon her, as he said aloud:
'Take up all loose stitches in the bottle−green with the best black silk. Have a skein of
the best, and some new buttons for the coat, and – this is a good idea, Peg, and one you'll
like, I know – as I have never given her anything yet, and girls like such attentions, you shall
polish up a sparking necklace that I have got upstairs, and I'll give it her upon the wedding
morning – clasp it round her charming little neck myself – and take it away again next day.
He, he, he! I'll lock it up for her, Peg, and lose it. Who'll be made the fool of there, I wonder,
to begin with – eh, Peg?'
Mrs Sliderskew appeared to approve highly of this ingenious scheme, and expressed her
satisfaction by various rackings and twitchings of her head and body, which by no means
enhanced her charms. These she prolonged until she had hobbled to the door, when she
exchanged them for a sour malignant look, and twisting her under−jaw from side to side,
muttered hearty curses upon the future Mrs Gride, as she crept slowly down the stairs, and
paused for breath at nearly every one.
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,626
'She's half a witch, I think,' said Arthur Gride, when he found himself again alone. 'But
she's very frugal, and she's very deaf. Her living costs me next to nothing; and it's no use her
listening at keyholes; for she can't hear. She's a charming woman – for the purpose; a most
discreet old housekeeper, and worth her weight in – copper.'
Having extolled the merits of his domestic in these high terms, old Arthur went back to
the burden of his song. The suit destined to grace his approaching nuptials being now
selected, he replaced the others with no less care than he had displayed in drawing them
from the musty nooks where they had silently reposed for many years.
Startled by a ring at the door, he hastily concluded this operation, and locked the press;
but there was no need for any particular hurry, as the discreet Peg seldom knew the bell was
rung unless she happened to cast her dim eyes upwards, and to see it shaking against the
kitchen ceiling. After a short delay, however, Peg tottered in, followed by Newman Noggs.
'Ah! Mr Noggs!' cried Arthur Gride, rubbing his hands. 'My good friend, Mr Noggs,
what news do you bring for me?'
Newman, with a steadfast and immovable aspect, and his fixed eye very fixed indeed,
replied, suiting the action to the word, 'A letter. From Mr Nickleby. Bearer waits.'
'Won't you take a – a – '
Newman looked up, and smacked his lips.
' – A chair?' said Arthur Gride.
'No,' replied Newman. 'Thankee.'
Arthur opened the letter with trembling hands, and devoured its contents with the
utmost greediness; chuckling rapturously over it, and reading it several times, before he
could take it from before his eyes. So many times did he peruse and re−peruse it, that
Newman considered it expedient to remind him of his presence.
'Answer,' said Newman. 'Bearer waits.'
'True,' replied old Arthur. 'Yes – yes; I almost forgot, I do declare.'
'I thought you were forgetting,' said Newman.
'Quite right to remind me, Mr Noggs. Oh, very right indeed,' said Arthur. 'Yes. I'll write
a line. I'm – I'm – rather flurried, Mr Noggs. The news is – '
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,627
'Bad?' interrupted Newman.
'No, Mr Noggs, thank you; good, good. The very best of news. Sit down. I'll get the pen
and ink, and write a line in answer. I'll not detain you long. I know you're a treasure to your
master, Mr Noggs. He speaks of you in such terms, sometimes, that, oh dear! you'd be
astonished. I may say that I do too, and always did. I always say the same of you.'
'That's «Curse Mr Noggs with all my heart!» then, if you do,' thought Newman, as
Gride hurried out.
The letter had fallen on the ground. Looking carefully about him for an instant,
Newman, impelled by curiosity to know the result of the design he had overheard from his
office closet, caught it up and rapidly read as follows:
'GRIDE.
'I saw Bray again this morning, and proposed the day after tomorrow (as you suggested)
for the marriage. There is no objection on his part, and all days are alike to his daughter. We
will go together, and you must be with me by seven in the morning. I need not tell you to be
punctual.
'Make no further visits to the girl in the meantime. You have been there, of late, much
oftener than you should. She does not languish for you, and it might have been dangerous.
Restrain your youthful ardour for eight−and−forty hours, and leave her to the father. You
only undo what he does, and does well.
'Yours,
'RALPH NICKLEBY.'
A footstep was heard without. Newman dropped the letter on the same spot again,
pressed it with his foot to prevent its fluttering away, regained his seat in a single stride, and
looked as vacant and unconscious as ever mortal looked. Arthur Gride, after peering
nervously about him, spied it on the ground, picked it up, and sitting down to write, glanced
at Newman Noggs, who was staring at the wall with an intensity so remarkable, that Arthur
was quite alarmed.
'Do you see anything particular, Mr Noggs?' said Arthur, trying to follow the direction
of Newman's eyes – which was an impossibility, and a thing no man had ever done.
'Only a cobweb,' replied Newman.
'Oh! is that all?'
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,628
'No,' said Newman. 'There's a fly in it.'
'There are a good many cobwebs here,' observed Arthur Gride.
'So there are in our place,' returned Newman; 'and flies too.'
Newman appeared to derive great entertainment from this repartee, and to the great
discomposure of Arthur Gride's nerves, produced a series of sharp cracks from his
finger−joints, resembling the noise of a distant discharge of small artillery. Arthur succeeded
in finishing his reply to Ralph's note, nevertheless, and at length handed it over to the
eccentric messenger for delivery.
'That's it, Mr Noggs,' said Gride.
Newman gave a nod, put it in his hat, and was shuffling away, when Gride, whose
doting delight knew no bounds, beckoned him back again, and said, in a shrill whisper, and
with a grin which puckered up his whole face, and almost obscured his eyes:
'Will you – will you take a little drop of something – just a taste?'
In good fellowship (if Arthur Gride had been capable of it) Newman would not have
drunk with him one bubble of the richest wine that was ever made; but to see what he would
be at, and to punish him as much as he could, he accepted the offer immediately.
Arthur Gride, therefore, again applied himself to the press, and from a shelf laden with
tall Flemish drinking−glasses, and quaint bottles: some with necks like so many storks, and
others with square Dutch−built bodies and short fat apoplectic throats: took down one dusty
bottle of promising appearance, and two glasses of curiously small size.
'You never tasted this,' said Arthur. 'It's EAU−D'OR – golden water. I like it on account
of its name. It's a delicious name. Water of gold, golden water! O dear me, it seems quite a
sin to drink it!'
As his courage appeared to be fast failing him, and he trifled with the stopper in a
manner which threatened the dismissal of the bottle to its old place, Newman took up one of
the little glasses, and clinked it, twice or thrice, against the bottle, as a gentle reminder that
he had not been helped yet. With a deep sigh, Arthur Gride slowly filled it – though not to
the brim – and then filled his own.
'Stop, stop; don't drink it yet,' he said, laying his hand on Newman's; 'it was given to me,
twenty years ago, and when I take a little taste, which is ve – ry seldom, I like to think of it
beforehand, and tease myself. We'll drink a toast. Shall we drink a toast, Mr Noggs?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,629
'Ah!' said Newman, eyeing his little glass impatiently. 'Look sharp. Bearer waits.'
'Why, then, I'll tell you what,' tittered Arthur, 'we'll drink – he, he, he! – we'll drink a
lady.'
'THE ladies?' said Newman.
'No, no, Mr Noggs,' replied Gride, arresting his hand, 'A lady. You wonder to hear me
say A lady. I know you do, I know you do. Here's little Madeline. That's the toast. Mr
Noggs. Little Madeline!'
'Madeline!' said Newman; inwardly adding, 'and God help her!'
The rapidity and unconcern with which Newman dismissed his portion of the golden
water, had a great effect upon the old man, who sat upright in his chair, and gazed at him,
open−mouthed, as if the sight had taken away his breath. Quite unmoved, however,
Newman left him to sip his own at leisure, or to pour it back again into the bottle, if he
chose, and departed; after greatly outraging the dignity of Peg Sliderskew by brushing past
her, in the passage, without a word of apology or recognition.
Mr Gride and his housekeeper, immediately on being left alone, resolved themselves
into a committee of ways and means, and discussed the arrangements which should be made
for the reception of the young bride. As they were, like some other committees, extremely
dull and prolix in debate, this history may pursue the footsteps of Newman Noggs; thereby
combining advantage with necessity; for it would have been necessary to do so under any
circumstances, and necessity has no law, as all the world knows.
'You've been a long time,' said Ralph, when Newman returned.
'HE was a long time,' replied Newman.
'Bah!' cried Ralph impatiently. 'Give me his note, if he gave you one: his message, if he
didn't. And don't go away. I want a word with you, sir.'
Newman handed in the note, and looked very virtuous and innocent while his employer
broke the seal, and glanced his eye over it.
'He'll be sure to come,' muttered Ralph, as he tore it to pieces; 'why of course, I know
he'll be sure to come. What need to say that? Noggs! Pray, sir, what man was that, with
whom I saw you in the street last night?'
'I don't know,' replied Newman.
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'You had better refresh your memory, sir,' said Ralph, with a threatening look.
'I tell you,' returned Newman boldly, 'that I don't know. He came here twice, and asked
for you. You were out. He came again. You packed him off, yourself. He gave the name of
Brooker.'
'I know he did,' said Ralph; 'what then?'
'What then? Why, then he lurked about and dogged me in the street. He follows me,
night after night, and urges me to bring him face to face with you; as he says he has been
once, and not long ago either. He wants to see you face to face, he says, and you'll soon hear
him out, he warrants.'
'And what say you to that?' inquired Ralph, looking keenly at his drudge.
'That it's no business of mine, and I won't. I told him he might catch you in the street, if
that was all he wanted, but no! that wouldn't do. You wouldn't hear a word there, he said. He
must have you alone in a room with the door locked, where he could speak without fear, and
you'd soon change your tone, and hear him patiently.'
'An audacious dog!' Ralph muttered.
'That's all I know,' said Newman. 'I say again, I don't know what man he is. I don't
believe he knows himself. You have seen him; perhaps YOU do.'
'I think I do,' replied Ralph.
'Well,' retored Newman, sulkily, 'don't expect me to know him too; that's all. You'll ask
me, next, why I never told you this before. What would you say, if I was to tell you all that
people say of you? What do you call me when I sometimes do? «Brute, ass!» and snap at me
like a dragon.'
This was true enough; though the question which Newman anticipated, was, in fact,
upon Ralph's lips at the moment.
'He is an idle ruffian,' said Ralph; 'a vagabond from beyond the sea where he travelled
for his crimes; a felon let loose to run his neck into the halter; a swindler, who has the
audacity to try his schemes on me who know him well. The next time he tampers with you,
hand him over to the police, for attempting to extort money by lies and threats, – d'ye hear?
– and leave the rest to me. He shall cool his heels in jail a little time, and I'll be bound he
looks for other folks to fleece, when he comes out. You mind what I say, do you?'
'I hear,' said Newman.
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,631
'Do it then,' returned Ralph, 'and I'll reward you. Now, you may go.'
Newman readily availed himself of the permission, and, shutting himself up in his little
office, remained there, in very serious cogitation, all day. When he was released at night, he
proceeded, with all the expedition he could use, to the city, and took up his old position
behind the pump, to watch for Nicholas. For Newman Noggs was proud in his way, and
could not bear to appear as his friend, before the brothers Cheeryble, in the shabby and
degraded state to which he was reduced.
He had not occupied this position many minutes, when he was rejoiced to see Nicholas
approaching, and darted out from his ambuscade to meet him. Nicholas, on his part, was no
less pleased to encounter his friend, whom he had not seen for some time; so, their greeting
was a warm one.
'I was thinking of you, at that moment,' said Nicholas.
'That's right,' rejoined Newman, 'and I of you. I couldn't help coming up, tonight. I say, I
think I am going to find out something.'
'And what may that be?' returned Nicholas, smiling at this odd communication.
'I don't know what it may be, I don't know what it may not be,' said Newman; 'it's some
secret in which your uncle is concerned, but what, I've not yet been able to discover,
although I have my strong suspicions. I'll not hint 'em now, in case you should be
disappointed.'
'I disappointed!' cried Nicholas; 'am I interested?'
'I think you are,' replied Newman. 'I have a crotchet in my head that it must be so. I
have found out a man, who plainly knows more than he cares to tell at once. And he has
already dropped such hints to me as puzzle me – I say, as puzzle me,' said Newman,
scratching his red nose into a state of violent inflammation, and staring at Nicholas with all
his might and main meanwhile.
Admiring what could have wound his friend up to such a pitch of mystery, Nicholas
endeavoured, by a series of questions, to elucidate the cause; but in vain. Newman could not
be drawn into any more explicit statement than a repetition of the perplexities he had already
thrown out, and a confused oration, showing, How it was necessary to use the utmost
caution; how the lynx−eyed Ralph had already seen him in company with his unknown
correspondent; and how he had baffled the said Ralph by extreme guardedness of manner
and ingenuity of speech; having prepared himself for such a contingency from the first.
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CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,632
Remembering his companion's propensity, – of which his nose, indeed, perpetually
warned all beholders like a beacon, – Nicholas had drawn him into a sequestered tavern.
Here, they fell to reviewing the origin and progress of their acquaintance, as men sometimes
do, and tracing out the little events by which it was most strongly marked, came at last to
Miss Cecilia Bobster.
'And that reminds me,' said Newman, 'that you never told me the young lady's real
name.'
'Madeline!' said Nicholas.
'Madeline!' cried Newman. 'What Madeline? Her other name. Say her other name.'
'Bray,' said Nicholas, in great astonishment.
'It's the same!' cried Newman. 'Sad story! Can you stand idly by, and let that unnatural
marriage take place without one attempt to save her?'
'What do you mean?' exclaimed Nicholas, starting up; 'marriage! are you mad?'
'Are you? Is she? Are you blind, deaf, senseless, dead?' said Newman. 'Do you know
that within one day, by means of your uncle Ralph, she will be married to a man as bad as
he, and worse, if worse there is? Do you know that, within one day, she will be sacrificed, as
sure as you stand there alive, to a hoary wretch – a devil born and bred, and grey in devils'
ways?'
'Be careful what you say,' replied Nicholas. 'For Heaven's sake be careful! I am left here
alone, and those who could stretch out a hand to rescue her are far away. What is it that you
mean?'
'I never heard her name,' said Newman, choking with his energy. 'Why didn't you tell
me? How was I to know? We might, at least, have had some time to think!'
'What is it that you mean?' cried Nicholas.
It was not an easy task to arrive at this information; but, after a great quantity of
extraordinary pantomime, which in no way assisted it, Nicholas, who was almost as wild as
Newman Noggs himself, forced the latter down upon his seat and held him down until he
began his tale.
Rage, astonishment, indignation, and a storm of passions, rushed through the listener's
heart, as the plot was laid bare. He no sooner understood it all, than with a face of ashy
paleness, and trembling in every limb, he darted from the house.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,633
'Stop him!' cried Newman, bolting out in pursuit. 'He'll be doing something desperate;
he'll murder somebody. Hallo! there, stop him. Stop thief! stop thief!'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a successful Issue,634
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray,
b
ut plucks up his Spirits again, and determines to attempt it. Domestic Intelligence of
the Kenwigses and Lillyvicks
Finding that Newman was determined to arrest his progress at any hazard, and
apprehensive that some well−intentioned passenger, attracted by the cry of 'Stop thief,'
might lay violent hands upon his person, and place him in a disagreeable predicament from
which he might have some difficulty in extricating himself, Nicholas soon slackened his
pace, and suffered Newman Noggs to come up with him: which he did, in so breathless a
condition, that it seemed impossible he could have held out for a minute longer.
'I will go straight to Bray's,' said Nicholas. 'I will see this man. If there is a feeling of
humanity lingering in his breast, a spark of consideration for his own child, motherless and
friendless as she is, I will awaken it.'
'You will not,' replied Newman. 'You will not, indeed.'
'Then,' said Nicholas, pressing onward, 'I will act upon my first impulse, and go straight
to Ralph Nickleby.'
'By the time you reach his house he will be in bed,' said Newman.
'I'll drag him from it,' cried Nicholas.
'Tut, tut,' said Noggs. 'Be yourself.'
'You are the best of friends to me, Newman,' rejoined Nicholas after a pause, and taking
his hand as he spoke. 'I have made head against many trials; but the misery of another, and
such misery, is involved in this one, that I declare to you I am rendered desperate, and know
not how to act.'
In truth, it did seem a hopeless case. It was impossible to make any use of such
intelligence as Newman Noggs had gleaned, when he lay concealed in the closet. The mere
circumstance of the compact between Ralph Nickleby and Gride would not invalidate the
marriage, or render Bray averse to it, who, if he did not actually know of the existence of
some such understanding, doubtless suspected it. What had been hinted with reference to
some fraud on Madeline, had been put, with sufficient obscurity by Arthur Gride, but
coming from Newman Noggs, and obscured still further by the smoke of his pocket−pistol,
it became wholly unintelligible, and involved in utter darkness.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 635
'There seems no ray of hope,' said Nicholas.
'The greater necessity for coolness, for reason, for consideration, for thought,' said
Newman, pausing at every alternate word, to look anxiously in his friend's face. 'Where are
the brothers?'
'Both absent on urgent business, as they will be for a week to come.'
'Is there no way of communicating with them? No way of getting one of them here by
tomorrow night?'
'Impossible!' said Nicholas, 'the sea is between us and them. With the fairest winds that
ever blew, to go and return would take three days and nights.'
'Their nephew,' said Newman, 'their old clerk.'
'What could either do, that I cannot?' rejoined Nicholas. 'With reference to them,
especially, I am enjoined to the strictest silence on this subject. What right have I to betray
the confidence reposed in me, when nothing but a miracle can prevent this sacrifice?'
'Think,' urged Newman. 'Is there no way.'
'There is none,' said Nicholas, in utter dejection. 'Not one. The father urges, the daughter
consents. These demons have her in their toils; legal right, might, power, money, and every
influence are on their side. How can I hope to save her?'
'Hope to the last!' said Newman, clapping him on the back. 'Always hope; that's a dear
boy. Never leave off hoping; it don't answer. Do you mind me, Nick? It don't answer. Don't
leave a stone unturned. It's always something, to know you've done the most you could. But,
don't leave off hoping, or it's of no use doing anything. Hope, hope, to the last!'
Nicholas needed encouragement. The suddenness with which intelligence of the two
usurers' plans had come upon him, the little time which remained for exertion, the
probability, almost amounting to certainty itself, that a few hours would place Madeline
Bray for ever beyond his reach, consign her to unspeakable misery, and perhaps to an
untimely death; all this quite stunned and overwhelmed him. Every hope connected with her
that he had suffered himself to form, or had entertained unconsciously, seemed to fall at his
feet, withered and dead. Every charm with which his memory or imagination had
surrounded her, presented itself before him, only to heighten his anguish and add new
bitterness to his despair. Every feeling of sympathy for her forlorn condition, and of
admiration for her heroism and fortitude, aggravated the indignation which shook him in
every limb, and swelled his heart almost to bursting.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 636
But, if Nicholas's own heart embarrassed him, Newman's came to his relief. There was
so much earnestness in his remonstrance, and such sincerity and fervour in his manner, odd
and ludicrous as it always was, that it imparted to Nicholas new firmness, and enabled him
to say, after he had walked on for some little way in silence:
'You read me a good lesson, Newman, and I will profit by it. One step, at least, I may
take – am bound to take indeed – and to that I will apply myself tomorrow.'
'What is that?' asked Noggs wistfully. 'Not to threaten Ralph? Not to see the father?'
'To see the daughter, Newman,' replied Nicholas. 'To do what, after all, is the utmost
that the brothers could do, if they were here, as Heaven send they were! To reason with her
upon this hideous union, to point out to her all the horrors to which she is hastening; rashly,
it may be, and without due reflection. To entreat her, at least, to pause. She can have had no
counsellor for her good. Perhaps even I may move her so far yet, though it is the eleventh
hour, and she upon the very brink of ruin.'
'Bravely spoken!' said Newman. 'Well done, well done! Yes. Very good.'
'And I do declare,' cried Nicholas, with honest enthusiasm, 'that in this effort I am
influenced by no selfish or personal considerations, but by pity for her, and detestation and
abhorrence of this scheme; and that I would do the same, were there twenty rivals in the
field, and I the last and least favoured of them all.'
'You would, I believe,' said Newman. 'But where are you hurrying now?'
'Homewards,' answered Nicholas. 'Do you come with me, or I shall say good−night?'
'I'll come a little way, if you will but walk: not run,' said Noggs.
'I cannot walk tonight, Newman,' returned Nicholas, hurriedly. 'I must move rapidly, or
I could not draw my breath. I'll tell you what I've said and done tomorrow.'
Without waiting for a reply, he darted off at a rapid pace, and, plunging into the crowds
which thronged the street, was quickly lost to view.
'He's a violent youth at times,' said Newman, looking after him; 'and yet like him for it.
There's cause enough now, or the deuce is in it. Hope! I SAID hope, I think! Ralph Nickleby
and Gride with their heads together! And hope for the opposite party! Ho! ho!'
It was with a very melancholy laugh that Newman Noggs concluded this soliloquy; and
it was with a very melancholy shake of the head, and a very rueful countenance, that he
turned about, and went plodding on his way.
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CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 637
This, under ordinary circumstances, would have been to some small tavern or
dram−shop; that being his way, in more senses than one. But, Newman was too much
interested, and too anxious, to betake himself even to this resource, and so, with many
desponding and dismal reflections, went straight home.
It had come to pass, that afternoon, that Miss Morleena Kenwigs had received an
invitation to repair next day, per steamer from Westminster Bridge, unto the Eel−pie Island
at Twickenham: there to make merry upon a cold collation, bottled beer, shrub, and shrimps,
and to dance in the open air to the music of a locomotive band, conveyed thither for the
purpose: the steamer being specially engaged by a dancing−master of extensive connection
for the accommodation of his numerous pupils, and the pupils displaying their appreciation
of the dancing−master's services, by purchasing themselves, and inducing their friends to do
the like, divers light− blue tickets, entitling them to join the expedition. Of these light− blue
tickets, one had been presented by an ambitious neighbour to Miss Morleena Kenwigs, with
an invitation to join her daughters; and Mrs Kenwigs, rightly deeming that the honour of the
family was involved in Miss Morleena's making the most splendid appearance possible on
so short a notice, and testifying to the dancing−master that there were other dancing−masters
besides him, and to all fathers and mothers present that other people's children could learn to
be genteel besides theirs, had fainted away twice under the magnitude of her preparations,
but, upheld by a determination to sustain the family name or perish in the attempt, was still
hard at work when Newman Noggs came home.
Now, between the italian−ironing of frills, the flouncing of trousers, the trimming of
frocks, the faintings and the comings−to again, incidental to the occasion, Mrs Kenwigs had
been so entirely occupied, that she had not observed, until within half an hour before, that
the flaxen tails of Miss Morleena's hair were, in a manner, run to seed; and that, unless she
were put under the hands of a skilful hairdresser, she never could achieve that signal triumph
over the daughters of all other people, anything less than which would be tantamount to
defeat. This discovery drove Mrs Kenwigs to despair; for the hairdresser lived three streets
and eight dangerous crossings off; Morleena could not be trusted to go there alone, even if
such a proceeding were strictly proper: of which Mrs Kenwigs had her doubts; Mr Kenwigs
had not returned from business; and there was nobody to take her. So, Mrs Kenwigs first
slapped Miss Kenwigs for being the cause of her vexation, and then shed tears.
'You ungrateful child!' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'after I have gone through what I have, this
night, for your good.'
'I can't help it, ma,' replied Morleena, also in tears; 'my hair WILL grow.'
'Don't talk to me, you naughty thing!' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'don't! Even if I was to trust
you by yourself and you were to escape being run over, I know you'd run in to Laura
Chopkins,' who was the daughter of the ambitious neighbour, 'and tell her what you're going
to wear tomorrow, I know you would. You've no proper pride in yourself, and are not to be
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 638
trusted out of sight for an instant.'
Deploring the evil−mindedness of her eldest daughter in these terms, Mrs Kenwigs
distilled fresh drops of vexation from her eyes, and declared that she did believe there never
was anybody so tried as she was. Thereupon, Morleena Kenwigs wept afresh, and they
bemoaned themselves together.
Matters were at this point, as Newman Noggs was heard to limp past the door on his
way upstairs; when Mrs Kenwigs, gaining new hope from the sound of his footsteps, hastily
removed from her countenance as many traces of her late emotion as were effaceable on so
short a notice: and presenting herself before him, and representing their dilemma, entreated
that he would escort Morleena to the hairdresser's shop.
'I wouldn't ask you, Mr Noggs,' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'if I didn't know what a good,
kind−hearted creature you are; no, not for worlds. I am a weak constitution, Mr Noggs, but
my spirit would no more let me ask a favour where I thought there was a chance of its being
refused, than it would let me submit to see my children trampled down and trod upon, by
envy and lowness!'
Newman was too good−natured not to have consented, even without this avowal of
confidence on the part of Mrs Kenwigs. Accordingly, a very few minutes had elapsed, when
he and Miss Morleena were on their way to the hairdresser's.
It was not exactly a hairdresser's; that is to say, people of a coarse and vulgar turn of
mind might have called it a barber's; for they not only cut and curled ladies elegantly, and
children carefully, but shaved gentlemen easily. Still, it was a highly genteel establishment –
quite first−rate in fact – and there were displayed in the window, besides other elegancies,
waxen busts of a light lady and a dark gentleman which were the admiration of the whole
neighbourhood. Indeed, some ladies had gone so far as to assert, that the dark gentleman
was actually a portrait of the spirted young proprietor; and the great similarity between their
head−dresses – both wore very glossy hair, with a narrow walk straight down the middle,
and a profusion of flat circular curls on both sides – encouraged the idea. The better
informed among the sex, however, made light of this assertion, for however willing they
were (and they were very willing) to do full justice to the handsome face and figure of the
proprietor, they held the countenance of the dark gentleman in the window to be an exquisite
and abstract idea of masculine beauty, realised sometimes, perhaps, among angels and
military men, but very rarely embodied to gladden the eyes of mortals.
It was to this establishment that Newman Noggs led Miss Kenwigs in safety. The
proprietor, knowing that Miss Kenwigs had three sisters, each with two flaxen tails, and all
good for sixpence apiece, once a month at least, promptly deserted an old gentleman whom
he had just lathered for shaving, and handing him over to the journeyman, (who was not
very popular among the ladies, by reason of his obesity and middle age,) waited on the
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CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 639
young lady himself.
Just as this change had been effected, there presented himself for shaving, a big, burly,
good−humoured coal−heaver with a pipe in his mouth, who, drawing his hand across his
chin, requested to know when a shaver would be disengaged.
The journeyman, to whom this question was put, looked doubtfully at the young
proprietor, and the young proprietor looked scornfully at the coal−heaver: observing at the
same time:
'You won't get shaved here, my man.'
'Why not?' said the coal−heaver.
'We don't shave gentlemen in your line,' remarked the young proprietor.
'Why, I see you a shaving of a baker, when I was a looking through the winder, last
week,' said the coal−heaver.
'It's necessary to draw the line somewheres, my fine feller,' replied the principal. 'We
draw the line there. We can't go beyond bakers. If we was to get any lower than bakers, our
customers would desert us, and we might shut up shop. You must try some other
establishment, sir. We couldn't do it here.'
The applicant stared; grinned at Newman Noggs, who appeared highly entertained;
looked slightly round the shop, as if in depreciation of the pomatum pots and other articles
of stock; took his pipe out of his mouth and gave a very loud whistle; and then put it in
again, and walked out.
The old gentleman who had just been lathered, and who was sitting in a melancholy
manner with his face turned towards the wall, appeared quite unconscious of this incident,
and to be insensible to everything around him in the depth of a reverie – a very mournful
one, to judge from the sighs he occasionally vented – in which he was absorbed. Affected by
this example, the proprietor began to clip Miss Kenwigs, the journeyman to scrape the old
gentleman, and Newman Noggs to read last Sunday's paper, all three in silence: when Miss
Kenwigs uttered a shrill little scream, and Newman, raising his eyes, saw that it had been
elicited by the circumstance of the old gentleman turning his head, and disclosing the
features of Mr Lillyvick the collector.
The features of Mr Lillyvick they were, but strangely altered. If ever an old gentleman
had made a point of appearing in public, shaved close and clean, that old gentleman was Mr
Lillyvick. If ever a collector had borne himself like a collector, and assumed, before all men,
a solemn and portentous dignity as if he had the world on his books and it was all two
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CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 640
quarters in arrear, that collector was Mr Lillyvick. And now, there he sat, with the remains
of a beard at least a week old encumbering his chin; a soiled and crumpled shirt−frill
crouching, as it were, upon his breast, instead of standing boldly out; a demeanour so
abashed and drooping, so despondent, and expressive of such humiliation, grief, and shame;
that if the souls of forty unsubstantial housekeepers, all of whom had had their water cut off
for non−payment of the rate, could have been concentrated in one body, that one body could
hardly have expressed such mortification and defeat as were now expressed in the person of
Mr Lillyvick the collector.
Newman Noggs uttered his name, and Mr Lillyvick groaned: then coughed to hide it.
But the groan was a full−sized groan, and the cough was but a wheeze.
'Is anything the matter?' said Newman Noggs.
'Matter, sir!' cried Mr Lillyvick. 'The plug of life is dry, sir, and but the mud is left.'
This speech – the style of which Newman attributed to Mr Lillyvick's recent association
with theatrical characters – not being quite explanatory, Newman looked as if he were about
to ask another question, when Mr Lillyvick prevented him by shaking his hand mournfully,
and then waving his own.
'Let me be shaved!' said Mr Lillyvick. 'It shall be done before Morleena; it IS Morleena,
isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Newman.
'Kenwigses have got a boy, haven't they?' inquired the collector.
Again Newman said 'Yes.'
'Is it a nice boy?' demanded the collector.
'It ain't a very nasty one,' returned Newman, rather embarrassed by the question.
'Susan Kenwigs used to say,' observed the collector, 'that if ever she had another boy,
she hoped it might be like me. Is this one like me, Mr Noggs?'
This was a puzzling inquiry; but Newman evaded it, by replying to Mr Lillyvick, that he
thought the baby might possibly come like him in time.
'I should be glad to have somebody like me, somehow,' said Mr Lillyvick, 'before I die.'
'You don't mean to do that, yet awhile?' said Newman.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 641
Unto which Mr Lillyvick replied in a solemn voice, 'Let me be shaved!' and again
consigning himself to the hands of the journeyman, said no more.
This was remarkable behaviour. So remarkable did it seem to Miss Morleena, that that
young lady, at the imminent hazard of having her ear sliced off, had not been able to forbear
looking round, some score of times, during the foregoing colloquy. Of her, however, Mr
Lillyvick took no notice: rather striving (so, at least, it seemed to Newman Noggs) to evade
her observation, and to shrink into himself whenever he attracted her regards. Newman
wondered very much what could have occasioned this altered behaviour on the part of the
collector; but, philosophically reflecting that he would most likely know, sooner or later, and
that he could perfectly afford to wait, he was very little disturbed by the singularity of the
old gentleman's deportment.
The cutting and curling being at last concluded, the old gentleman, who had been some
time waiting, rose to go, and, walking out with Newman and his charge, took Newman's
arm, and proceeded for some time without making any observation. Newman, who in power
of taciturnity was excelled by few people, made no attempt to break silence; and so they
went on, until they had very nearly reached Miss Morleena's home, when Mr Lillyvick said:
'Were the Kenwigses very much overpowered, Mr Noggs, by that news?'
'What news?' returned Newman.
'That about – my – being – '
'Married?' suggested Newman.
'Ah!' replied Mr Lillyvick, with another groan; this time not even disguised by a
wheeze.
'It made ma cry when she knew it,' interposed Miss Morleena, 'but we kept it from her
for a long time; and pa was very low in his spirits, but he is better now; and I was very ill,
but I am better too.'
'Would you give your great−uncle Lillyvick a kiss if he was to ask you, Morleena?' said
the collector, with some hesitation.
'Yes; uncle Lillyvick, I would,' returned Miss Morleena, with the energy of both her
parents combined; 'but not aunt Lillyvick. She's not an aunt of mine, and I'll never call her
one.'
Immediately upon the utterance of these words, Mr Lillyvick caught Miss Morleena up
in his arms, and kissed her; and, being by this time at the door of the house where Mr
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CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 642
Kenwigs lodged (which, as has been before mentioned, usually stood wide open), he walked
straight up into Mr Kenwigs's sitting−room, and put Miss Morleena down in the midst. Mr
and Mrs Kenwigs were at supper. At sight of their perjured relative, Mrs Kenwigs turned
faint and pale, and Mr Kenwigs rose majestically.
'Kenwigs,' said the collector, 'shake hands.'
'Sir,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'the time has been, when I was proud to shake hands with such a
man as that man as now surweys me. The time has been, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'when a wisit
from that man has excited in me and my family's boozums sensations both nateral and
awakening. But, now, I look upon that man with emotions totally surpassing everythink, and
I ask myself where is his Honour, where is his straight−for'ardness, and where is his human
natur?'
'Susan Kenwigs,' said Mr Lillyvick, turning humbly to his niece, 'don't you say anything
to me?'
'She is not equal to it, sir,' said Mr Kenwigs, striking the table emphatically. 'What with
the nursing of a healthy babby, and the reflections upon your cruel conduct, four pints of
malt liquor a day is hardly able to sustain her.'
'I am glad,' said the poor collector meekly, 'that the baby is a healthy one. I am very glad
of that.'
This was touching the Kenwigses on their tenderest point. Mrs Kenwigs instantly burst
into tears, and Mr Kenwigs evinced great emotion.
'My pleasantest feeling, all the time that child was expected,' said Mr Kenwigs,
mournfully, 'was a thinking, «If it's a boy, as I hope it may be; for I have heard its uncle
Lillyvick say again and again he would prefer our having a boy next, if it's a boy, what will
his uncle Lillyvick say? What will he like him to be called? Will he be Peter, or Alexander,
or Pompey, or Diorgeenes, or what will he be?» And now when I look at him; a precious,
unconscious, helpless infant, with no use in his little arms but to tear his little cap, and no
use in his little legs but to kick his little self – when I see him a lying on his mother's lap,
cooing and cooing, and, in his innocent state, almost a choking hisself with his little fist –
when I see him such a infant as he is, and think that that uncle Lillyvick, as was once
a−going to be so fond of him, has withdrawed himself away, such a feeling of wengeance
comes over me as no language can depicter, and I feel as if even that holy babe was a telling
me to hate him.'
This affecting picture moved Mrs Kenwigs deeply. After several imperfect words,
which vainly attempted to struggle to the surface, but were drowned and washed away by
the strong tide of her tears, she spake.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 643
'Uncle,' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'to think that you should have turned your back upon me and
my dear children, and upon Kenwigs which is the author of their being – you who was once
so kind and affectionate, and who, if anybody had told us such a thing of, we should have
withered with scorn like lightning – you that little Lillyvick, our first and earliest boy, was
named after at the very altar! Oh gracious!'
'Was it money that we cared for?' said Mr Kenwigs. 'Was it property that we ever
thought of?'
'No,' cried Mrs Kenwigs, 'I scorn it.'
'So do I,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'and always did.'
'My feelings have been lancerated,' said Mrs Kenwigs, 'my heart has been torn asunder
with anguish, I have been thrown back in my confinement, my unoffending infant has been
rendered uncomfortable and fractious, Morleena has pined herself away to nothing; all this I
forget and forgive, and with you, uncle, I never can quarrel. But never ask me to receive
HER, never do it, uncle. For I will not, I will not, I won't, I won't, I won't!'
'Susan, my dear,' said Mr Kenwigs, 'consider your child.'
'Yes,' shrieked Mrs Kenwigs, 'I will consider my child! I will consider my child! My
own child, that no uncles can deprive me of; my own hated, despised, deserted, cut−off little
child.' And, here, the emotions of Mrs Kenwigs became so violent, that Mr Kenwigs was
fain to administer hartshorn internally, and vinegar externally, and to destroy a staylace, four
petticoat strings, and several small buttons.
Newman had been a silent spectator of this scene; for Mr Lillyvick had signed to him
not to withdraw, and Mr Kenwigs had further solicited his presence by a nod of invitation.
When Mrs Kenwigs had been, in some degree, restored, and Newman, as a person possessed
of some influence with her, had remonstrated and begged her to compose herself, Mr
Lillyvick said in a faltering voice:
'I never shall ask anybody here to receive my – I needn't mention the word; you know
what I mean. Kenwigs and Susan, yesterday was a week she eloped with a half−pay captain!'
Mr and Mrs Kenwigs started together.
'Eloped with a half−pay captain,' repeated Mr Lillyvick, 'basely and falsely eloped with
a half−pay captain. With a bottle−nosed captain that any man might have considered himself
safe from. It was in this room,' said Mr Lillyvick, looking sternly round, 'that I first see
Henrietta Petowker. It is in this room that I turn her off, for ever.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 644
This declaration completely changed the whole posture of affairs. Mrs Kenwigs threw
herself upon the old gentleman's neck, bitterly reproaching herself for her late harshness, and
exclaiming, if she had suffered, what must his sufferings have been! Mr Kenwigs grasped
his hand, and vowed eternal friendship and remorse. Mrs Kenwigs was horror−stricken to
think that she should ever have nourished in her bosom such a snake, adder, viper, serpent,
and base crocodile as Henrietta Petowker. Mr Kenwigs argued that she must have been bad
indeed not to have improved by so long a contemplation of Mrs Kenwigs's virtue. Mrs
Kenwigs remembered that Mr Kenwigs had often said that he was not quite satisfied of the
propriety of Miss Petowker's conduct, and wondered how it was that she could have been
blinded by such a wretch. Mr Kenwigs remembered that he had had his suspicions, but did
not wonder why Mrs Kenwigs had not had hers, as she was all chastity, purity, and truth,
and Henrietta all baseness, falsehood, and deceit. And Mr and Mrs Kenwigs both said, with
strong feelings and tears of sympathy, that everything happened for the best; and conjured
the good collector not to give way to unavailing grief, but to seek consolation in the society
of those affectionate relations whose arms and hearts were ever open to him.
'Out of affection and regard for you, Susan and Kenwigs,' said Mr Lillyvick, 'and not
out of revenge and spite against her, for she is below it, I shall, tomorrow morning, settle
upon your children, and make payable to the survivors of them when they come of age of
marry, that money that I once meant to leave 'em in my will. The deed shall be executed
tomorrow, and Mr Noggs shall be one of the witnesses. He hears me promise this, and he
shall see it done.'
Overpowered by this noble and generous offer, Mr Kenwigs, Mrs Kenwigs, and Miss
Morleena Kenwigs, all began to sob together; and the noise of their sobbing, communicating
itself to the next room, where the children lay a−bed, and causing them to cry too, Mr
Kenwigs rushed wildly in, and bringing them out in his arms, by two and two, tumbled them
down in their nightcaps and gowns at the feet of Mr Lillyvick, and called upon them to
thank and bless him.
'And now,' said Mr Lillyvick, when a heart−rending scene had ensued and the children
were cleared away again, 'give me some supper. This took place twenty mile from town. I
came up this morning, and have being lingering about all day, without being able to make up
my mind to come and see you. I humoured her in everything, she had her own way, she did
just as she pleased, and now she has done this. There was twelve teaspoons and twenty−four
pound in sovereigns – I missed them first – it's a trial – I feel I shall never be able to knock a
double knock again, when I go my rounds – don't say anything more about it, please – the
spoons were worth – never mind – never mind!'
With such muttered outpourings as these, the old gentleman shed a few tears; but, they
got him into the elbow−chair, and prevailed upon him, without much pressing, to make a
hearty supper, and by the time he had finished his first pipe, and disposed of half−a−dozen
glasses out of a crown bowl of punch, ordered by Mr Kenwigs, in celebration of his return to
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 645
the bosom of his family, he seemed, though still very humble, quite resigned to his fate, and
rather relieved than otherwise by the flight of his wife.
'When I see that man,' said Mr Kenwigs, with one hand round Mrs Kenwigs's waist: his
other hand supporting his pipe (which made him wink and cough very much, for he was no
smoker): and his eyes on Morleena, who sat upon her uncle's knee, 'when I see that man as
mingling, once again, in the spear which he adorns, and see his affections deweloping
themselves in legitimate sitiwations, I feel that his nature is as elewated and expanded, as his
standing afore society as a public character is unimpeached, and the woices of my infant
children purvided for in life, seem to whisper to me softly, «This is an ewent at which Evins
itself looks down!»'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray, 646
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot
contrived by Mr Ralph
N
ickleby and Mr Arthur Gride.
With that settled resolution, and steadiness of purpose to which extreme circumstances
so often give birth, acting upon far less excitable and more sluggish temperaments than that
which was the lot of Madeline Bray's admirer, Nicholas started, at dawn of day, from the
restless couch which no sleep had visited on the previous night, and prepared to make that
last appeal, by whose slight and fragile thread her only remaining hope of escape depended.
Although, to restless and ardent minds, morning may be the fitting season for exertion
and activity, it is not always at that time that hope is strongest or the spirit most sanguine
and buoyant. In trying and doubtful positions, youth, custom, a steady contemplation of the
difficulties which surround us, and a familiarity with them, imperceptibly diminish our
apprehensions and beget comparative indifference, if not a vague and reckless confidence in
some relief, the means or nature of which we care not to foresee. But when we come, fresh,
upon such things in the morning, with that dark and silent gap between us and yesterday;
with every link in the brittle chain of hope, to rivet afresh; our hot enthusiasm subdued, and
cool calm reason substituted in its stead; doubt and misgiving revive. As the traveller sees
farthest by day, and becomes aware of rugged mountains and trackless plains which the
friendly darkness had shrouded from his sight and mind together, so, the wayfarer in the
toilsome path of human life sees, with each returning sun, some new obstacle to surmount,
some new height to be attained. Distances stretch out before him which, last night, were
scarcely taken into account, and the light which gilds all nature with its cheerful beams,
seems but to shine upon the weary obstacles that yet lie strewn between him and the grave.
So thought Nicholas, when, with the impatience natural to a situation like his, he softly
left the house, and, feeling as though to remain in bed were to lose most precious time, and
to be up and stirring were in some way to promote the end he had in view, wandered into
London; perfectly well knowing that for hours to come he could not obtain speech with
Madeline, and could do nothing but wish the intervening time away.
And, even now, as he paced the streets, and listlessly looked round on the gradually
increasing bustle and preparation for the day, everything appeared to yield him some new
occasion for despondency. Last night, the sacrifice of a young, affectionate, and beautiful
creature, to such a wretch, and in such a cause, had seemed a thing too monstrous to
succeed; and the warmer he grew, the more confident he felt that some interposition must
save her from his clutches. But now, when he thought how regularly things went on, from
day to day, in the same unvarying round; how youth and beauty died, and ugly griping age
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 647
lived tottering on; how crafty avarice grew rich, and manly honest hearts were poor and sad;
how few they were who tenanted the stately houses, and how many of those who lay in
noisome pens, or rose each day and laid them down each night, and lived and died, father
and son, mother and child, race upon race, and generation upon generation, without a home
to shelter them or the energies of one single man directed to their aid; how, in seeking, not a
luxurious and splendid life, but the bare means of a most wretched and inadequate
subsistence, there were women and children in that one town, divided into classes,
numbered and estimated as regularly as the noble families and folks of great degree, and
reared from infancy to drive most criminal and dreadful trades; how ignorance was punished
and never taught; how jail−doors gaped, and gallows loomed, for thousands urged towards
them by circumstances darkly curtaining their very cradles' heads, and but for which they
might have earned their honest bread and lived in peace; how many died in soul, and had no
chance of life; how many who could scarcely go astray, be they vicious as they would,
turned haughtily from the crushed and stricken wretch who could scarce do otherwise, and
who would have been a greater wonder had he or she done well, than even they had they
done ill; how much injustice, misery, and wrong, there was, and yet how the world rolled on,
from year to year, alike careless and indifferent, and no man seeking to remedy or redress it;
when he thought of all this, and selected from the mass the one slight case on which his
thoughts were bent, he felt, indeed, that there was little ground for hope, and little reason
why it should not form an atom in the huge aggregate of distress and sorrow, and add one
small and unimportant unit to swell the great amount.
But youth is not prone to contemplate the darkest side of a picture it can shift at will. By
dint of reflecting on what he had to do, and reviving the train of thought which night had
interrupted, Nicholas gradually summoned up his utmost energy, and when the morning was
sufficiently advanced for his purpose, had no thought but that of using it to the best
advantage. A hasty breakfast taken, and such affairs of business as required prompt attention
disposed of, he directed his steps to the residence of Madeline Bray: whither he lost no time
in arriving.
It had occurred to him that, very possibly, the young lady might be denied, although to
him she never had been; and he was still pondering upon the surest method of obtaining
access to her in that case, when, coming to the door of the house, he found it had been left
ajar – probably by the last person who had gone out. The occasion was not one upon which
to observe the nicest ceremony; therefore, availing himself of this advantage, Nicholas
walked gently upstairs and knocked at the door of the room into which he had been
accustomed to be shown. Receiving permission to enter, from some person on the other side,
he opened the door and walked in.
Bray and his daughter were sitting there alone. It was nearly three weeks since he had
seen her last, but there was a change in the lovely girl before him which told Nicholas, in
startling terms, how much mental suffering had been compressed into that short time. There
are no words which can express, nothing with which can be compared, the perfect pallor, the
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 648
clear transparent whiteness, of the beautiful face which turned towards him when he entered.
Her hair was a rich deep brown, but shading that face, and straying upon a neck that rivalled
it in whiteness, it seemed by the strong contrast raven black. Something of wildness and
restlessness there was in the dark eye, but there was the same patient look, the same
expression of gentle mournfulness which he well remembered, and no trace of a single tear.
Most beautiful – more beautiful, perhaps, than ever – there was something in her face which
quite unmanned him, and appeared far more touching than the wildest agony of grief. It was
not merely calm and composed, but fixed and rigid, as though the violent effort which had
summoned that composure beneath her father's eye, while it mastered all other thoughts, had
prevented even the momentary expression they had communicated to the features from
subsiding, and had fastened it there, as an evidence of its triumph.
The father sat opposite to her; not looking directly in her face, but glancing at her, as he
talked with a gay air which ill disguised the anxiety of his thoughts. The drawing materials
were not on their accustomed table, nor were any of the other tokens of her usual
occupations to be seen. The little vases which Nicholas had always seen filled with fresh
flowers were empty, or supplied only with a few withered stalks and leaves. The bird was
silent. The cloth that covered his cage at night was not removed. His mistress had forgotten
him.
There are times when, the mind being painfully alive to receive impressions, a great
deal may be noted at a glance. This was one, for Nicholas had but glanced round him when
he was recognised by Mr Bray, who said impatiently:
'Now, sir, what do you want? Name your errand here, quickly, if you please, for my
daughter and I are busily engaged with other and more important matters than those you
come about. Come, sir, address yourself to your business at once.'
Nicholas could very well discern that the irritability and impatience of this speech were
assumed, and that Bray, in his heart, was rejoiced at any interruption which promised to
engage the attention of his daughter. He bent his eyes involuntarily upon the father as he
spoke, and marked his uneasiness; for he coloured and turned his head away.
The device, however, so far as it was a device for causing Madeline to interfere, was
successful. She rose, and advancing towards Nicholas paused half−way, and stretched out
her hand as expecting a letter.
'Madeline,' said her father impatiently, 'my love, what are you doing?'
'Miss Bray expects an inclosure perhaps,' said Nicholas, speaking very distinctly, and
with an emphasis she could scarcely misunderstand. 'My employer is absent from England,
or I should have brought a letter with me. I hope she will give me time – a little time. I ask a
very little time.'
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 649
'If that is all you come about, sir,' said Mr Bray, 'you may make yourself easy on that
head. Madeline, my dear, I didn't know this person was in your debt?'
'A – a trifle, I believe,' returned Madeline, faintly.
'I suppose you think now,' said Bray, wheeling his chair round and confronting
Nicholas, 'that, but for such pitiful sums as you bring here, because my daughter has chosen
to employ her time as she has, we should starve?'
'I have not thought about it,' returned Nicholas.
'You have not thought about it!' sneered the invalid. 'You know you HAVE thought
about it, and have thought that, and think so every time you come here. Do you suppose,
young man, that I don't know what little purse−proud tradesmen are, when, through some
fortunate circumstances, they get the upper hand for a brief day – or think they get the upper
hand – of a gentleman?'
'My business,' said Nicholas respectfully, 'is with a lady.'
'With a gentleman's daughter, sir,' returned the sick man, 'and the pettifogging spirit is
the same. But perhaps you bring ORDERS, eh? Have you any fresh ORDERS for my
daughter, sir?'
Nicholas understood the tone of triumph in which this interrogatory was put; but
remembering the necessity of supporting his assumed character, produced a scrap of paper
purporting to contain a list of some subjects for drawings which his employer desired to
have executed; and with which he had prepared himself in case of any such contingency.
'Oh!' said Mr Bray. 'These are the orders, are they?'
'Since you insist upon the term, sir, yes,' replied Nicholas.
'Then you may tell your master,' said Bray, tossing the paper back again, with an
exulting smile, 'that my daughter, Miss Madeline Bray, condescends to employ herself no
longer in such labours as these; that she is not at his beck and call, as he supposes her to be;
that we don't live upon his money, as he flatters himself we do; that he may give whatever
he owes us, to the first beggar that passes his shop, or add it to his own profits next time he
calculates them; and that he may go to the devil for me. That's my acknowledgment of his
orders, sir!'
'And this is the independence of a man who sells his daughter as he has sold that
weeping girl!' thought Nicholas.
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 650
The father was too much absorbed with his own exultation to mark the look of scorn
which, for an instant, Nicholas could not have suppressed had he been upon the rack.
'There,' he continued, after a short silence, 'you have your message and can retire – unless
you have any further – ha! – any further orders.'
'I have none,' said Nicholas; 'nor, in the consideration of the station you once held, have
I used that or any other word which, however harmless in itself, could be supposed to imply
authority on my part or dependence on yours. I have no orders, but I have fears – fears that I
will express, chafe as you may – fears that you may be consigning that young lady to
something worse than supporting you by the labour of her hands, had she worked herself
dead. These are my fears, and these fears I found upon your own demeanour. Your
conscience will tell you, sir, whether I construe it well or not.'
'For Heaven's sake!' cried Madeline, interposing in alarm between them. 'Remember,
sir, he is ill.'
'Ill!' cried the invalid, gasping and catching for breath. 'Ill! Ill! I am bearded and bullied
by a shop−boy, and she beseeches him to pity me and remember I am ill!'
He fell into a paroxysm of his disorder, so violent that for a few moments Nicholas was
alarmed for his life; but finding that he began to recover, he withdrew, after signifying by a
gesture to the young lady that he had something important to communicate, and would wait
for her outside the room. He could hear that the sick man came gradually, but slowly, to
himself, and that without any reference to what had just occurred, as though he had no
distinct recollection of it as yet, he requested to be left alone.
'Oh!' thought Nicholas, 'that this slender chance might not be lost, and that I might
prevail, if it were but for one week's time and reconsideration!'
'You are charged with some commission to me, sir,' said Madeline, presenting herself in
great agitation. 'Do not press it now, I beg and pray you. The day after tomorrow; come here
then.'
'It will be too late – too late for what I have to say,' rejoined Nicholas, 'and you will not
be here. Oh, madam, if you have but one thought of him who sent me here, but one last
lingering care for your own peace of mind and heart, I do for God's sake urge you to give me
a hearing.'
She attempted to pass him, but Nicholas gently detained her.
'A hearing,' said Nicholas. 'I ask you but to hear me: not me alone, but him for whom I
speak, who is far away and does not know your danger. In the name of Heaven hear me!'
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 651
The poor attendant, with her eyes swollen and red with weeping, stood by; and to her
Nicholas appealed in such passionate terms that she opened a side−door, and, supporting her
mistress into an adjoining room, beckoned Nicholas to follow them.
'Leave me, sir, pray,' said the young lady.
'I cannot, will not leave you thus,' returned Nicholas. 'I have a duty to discharge; and,
either here, or in the room from which we have just now come, at whatever risk or hazard to
Mr Bray, I must beseech you to contemplate again the fearful course to which you have been
impelled.'
'What course is this you speak of, and impelled by whom, sir?' demanded the young
lady, with an effort to speak proudly.
'I speak of this marriage,' returned Nicholas, 'of this marriage, fixed for tomorrow, by
one who never faltered in a bad purpose, or lent his aid to any good design; of this marriage,
the history of which is known to me, better, far better, than it is to you. I know what web is
wound about you. I know what men they are from whom these schemes have come. You are
betrayed and sold for money; for gold, whose every coin is rusted with tears, if not red with
the blood of ruined men, who have fallen desperately by their own mad hands.'
'You say you have a duty to discharge,' said Madeline, 'and so have I. And with the help
of Heaven I will perform it.'
'Say rather with the help of devils,' replied Nicholas, 'with the help of men, one of them
your destined husband, who are – '
'I must not hear this,' cried the young lady, striving to repress a shudder, occasioned, as
it seemed, even by this slight allusion to Arthur Gride. 'This evil, if evil it be, has been of my
own seeking. I am impelled to this course by no one, but follow it of my own free will. You
see I am not constrained or forced. Report this,' said Madeline, 'to my dear friend and
benefactor, and, taking with you my prayers and thanks for him and for yourself, leave me
for ever!'
'Not until I have besought you, with all the earnestness and fervour by which I am
animated,' cried Nicholas, 'to postpone this marriage for one short week. Not until I have
besought you to think more deeply than you can have done, influenced as you are, upon the
step you are about to take. Although you cannot be fully conscious of the villainy of this
man to whom you are about to give your hand, some of his deeds you know. You have heard
him speak, and have looked upon his face. Reflect, reflect, before it is too late, on the
mockery of plighting to him at the altar, faith in which your heart can have no share – of
uttering solemn words, against which nature and reason must rebel – of the degradation of
yourself in your own esteem, which must ensue, and must be aggravated every day, as his
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 652
detested character opens upon you more and more. Shrink from the loathsome
companionship of this wretch as you would from corruption and disease. Suffer toil and
labour if you will, but shun him, shun him, and be happy. For, believe me, I speak the truth;
the most abject poverty, the most wretched condition of human life, with a pure and upright
mind, would be happiness to that which you must undergo as the wife of such a man as this!'
Long before Nicholas ceased to speak, the young lady buried her face in her hands, and
gave her tears free way. In a voice at first inarticulate with emotion, but gradually recovering
strength as she proceeded, she answered him:
'I will not disguise from you, sir – though perhaps I ought – that I have undergone great
pain of mind, and have been nearly broken− hearted since I saw you last. I do NOT love this
gentleman. The difference between our ages, tastes, and habits, forbids it. This he knows,
and knowing, still offers me his hand. By accepting it, and by that step alone, I can release
my father who is dying in this place; prolong his life, perhaps, for many years; restore him to
comfort – I may almost call it affluence; and relieve a generous man from the burden of
assisting one, by whom, I grieve to say, his noble heart is little understood. Do not think so
poorly of me as to believe that I feign a love I do not feel. Do not report so ill of me, for
THAT I could not bear. If I cannot, in reason or in nature, love the man who pays this price
for my poor hand, I can discharge the duties of a wife: I can be all he seeks in me, and will.
He is content to take me as I am. I have passed my word, and should rejoice, not weep, that
it is so. I do. The interest you take in one so friendless and forlorn as I, the delicacy with
which you have discharged your trust, the faith you have kept with me, have my warmest
thanks: and, while I make this last feeble acknowledgment, move me to tears, as you see.
But I do not repent, nor am I unhappy. I am happy in the prospect of all I can achieve so
easily. I shall be more so when I look back upon it, and all is done, I know.'
'Your tears fall faster as you talk of happiness,' said Nicholas, 'and you shun the
contemplation of that dark future which must be laden with so much misery to you. Defer
this marriage for a week. For but one week!'
'He was talking, when you came upon us just now, with such smiles as I remember to
have seen of old, and have not seen for many and many a day, of the freedom that was to
come tomorrow,' said Madeline, with momentary firmness, 'of the welcome change, the
fresh air: all the new scenes and objects that would bring fresh life to his exhausted frame.
His eye grew bright, and his face lightened at the thought. I will not defer it for an hour.'
'These are but tricks and wiles to urge you on,' cried Nicholas.
'I'll hear no more,' said Madeline, hurriedly; 'I have heard too much – more than I
should – already. What I have said to you, sir, I have said as to that dear friend to whom I
trust in you honourably to repeat it. Some time hence, when I am more composed and
reconciled to my new mode of life, if I should live so long, I will write to him. Meantime, all
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 653
holy angels shower blessings on his head, and prosper and preserve him.'
She was hurrying past Nicholas, when he threw himself before her, and implored her to
think, but once again, upon the fate to which she was precipitately hastening.
'There is no retreat,' said Nicholas, in an agony of supplication; 'no withdrawing! All
regret will be unavailing, and deep and bitter it must be. What can I say, that will induce you
to pause at this last moment? What can I do to save you?'
'Nothing,' she incoherently replied. 'This is the hardest trial I have had. Have mercy on
me, sir, I beseech, and do not pierce my heart with such appeals as these. I – I hear him
calling. I – I – must not, will not, remain here for another instant.'
'If this were a plot,' said Nicholas, with the same violent rapidity with which she spoke,
'a plot, not yet laid bare by me, but which, with time, I might unravel; if you were (not
knowing it) entitled to fortune of your own, which, being recovered, would do all that this
marriage can accomplish, would you not retract?'
'No, no, no! It is impossible; it is a child's tale. Time would bring his death. He is
calling again!'
'It may be the last time we shall ever meet on earth,' said Nicholas, 'it may be better for
me that we should never meet more.'
'For both, for both,' replied Madeline, not heeding what she said. 'The time will come
when to recall the memory of this one interview might drive me mad. Be sure to tell them,
that you left me calm and happy. And God be with you, sir, and my grateful heart and
blessing!'
She was gone. Nicholas, staggering from the house, thought of the hurried scene which
had just closed upon him, as if it were the phantom of some wild, unquiet dream. The day
wore on; at night, having been enabled in some measure to collect his thoughts, he issued
forth again.
That night, being the last of Arthur Gride's bachelorship, found him in tiptop spirits and
great glee. The bottle−green suit had been brushed, ready for the morrow. Peg Sliderskew
had rendered the accounts of her past housekeeping; the eighteen−pence had been rigidly
accounted for (she was never trusted with a larger sum at once, and the accounts were not
usually balanced more than twice a day); every preparation had been made for the coming
festival; and Arthur might have sat down and contemplated his approaching happiness, but
that he preferred sitting down and contemplating the entries in a dirty old vellum−book with
rusty clasps.
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 654
'Well−a−day!' he chuckled, as sinking on his knees before a strong chest screwed down
to the floor, he thrust in his arm nearly up to the shoulder, and slowly drew forth this greasy
volume. 'Well−a−day now, this is all my library, but it's one of the most entertaining books
that were ever written! It's a delightful book, and all true and real – that's the best of it – true
as the Bank of England, and real as its gold and silver. Written by Arthur Gride. He, he, he!
None of your storybook writers will ever make as good a book as this, I warrant me. It's
composed for private circulation, for my own particular reading, and nobody else's. He, he,
he!'
Muttering this soliloquy, Arthur carried his precious volume to the table, and, adjusting
it upon a dusty desk, put on his spectacles, and began to pore among the leaves.
'It's a large sum to Mr Nickleby,' he said, in a dolorous voice. 'Debt to be paid in full,
nine hundred and seventy−five, four, three. Additional sum as per bond, five hundred pound.
One thousand, four hundred and seventy−five pounds, four shillings, and threepence,
tomorrow at twelve o'clock. On the other side, though, there's the PER CONTRA, by
means of this pretty chick. But, again, there's the question whether I mightn't have brought
all this about, myself. «Faint heart never won fair lady.» Why was my heart so faint? Why
didn't I boldly open it to Bray myself, and save one thousand four hundred and seventy−five,
four, three?'
These reflections depressed the old usurer so much, as to wring a feeble groan or two
from his breast, and cause him to declare, with uplifted hands, that he would die in a
workhouse. Remembering on further cogitation, however, that under any circumstances he
must have paid, or handsomely compounded for, Ralph's debt, and being by no means
confident that he would have succeeded had he undertaken his enterprise alone, he regained
his equanimity, and chattered and mowed over more satisfactory items, until the entrance of
Peg Sliderskew interrupted him.
'Aha, Peg!' said Arthur, 'what is it? What is it now, Peg?'
'It's the fowl,' replied Peg, holding up a plate containing a little, a very little one. Quite a
phenomenon of a fowl. So very small and skinny.
'A beautiful bird!' said Arthur, after inquiring the price, and finding it proportionate to
the size. 'With a rasher of ham, and an egg made into sauce, and potatoes, and greens, and an
apple pudding, Peg, and a little bit of cheese, we shall have a dinner for an emperor. There'll
only be she and me – and you, Peg, when we've done.'
'Don't you complain of the expense afterwards,' said Mrs Sliderskew, sulkily.
'I am afraid we must live expensively for the first week,' returned Arthur, with a groan,
'and then we must make up for it. I won't eat more than I can help, and I know you love your
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 655
old master too much to eat more than YOU can help, don't you, Peg?'
'Don't I what?' said Peg.
'Love your old master too much – '
'No, not a bit too much,' said Peg.
'Oh, dear, I wish the devil had this woman!' cried Arthur: 'love him too much to eat
more than you can help at his expense.'
'At his what?' said Peg.
'Oh dear! she can never hear the most important word, and hears all the others!' whined
Gride. 'At his expense – you catamaran!'
The last−mentioned tribute to the charms of Mrs Sliderskew being uttered in a whisper,
that lady assented to the general proposition by a harsh growl, which was accompanied by a
ring at the street− door.
'There's the bell,' said Arthur.
'Ay, ay; I know that,' rejoined Peg.
'Then why don't you go?' bawled Arthur.
'Go where?' retorted Peg. 'I ain't doing any harm here, am I?'
Arthur Gride in reply repeated the word 'bell' as loud as he could roar; and, his meaning
being rendered further intelligible to Mrs Sliderskew's dull sense of hearing by pantomime
expressive of ringing at a street−door, Peg hobbled out, after sharply demanding why he
hadn't said there was a ring before, instead of talking about all manner of things that had
nothing to do with it, and keeping her half−pint of beer waiting on the steps.
'There's a change come over you, Mrs Peg,' said Arthur, following her out with his eyes.
'What it means I don't quite know; but, if it lasts, we shan't agree together long I see. You are
turning crazy, I think. If you are, you must take yourself off, Mrs Peg – or be taken off. All's
one to me.' Turning over the leaves of his book as he muttered this, he soon lighted upon
something which attracted his attention, and forgot Peg Sliderskew and everything else in
the engrossing interest of its pages.
The room had no other light than that which it derived from a dim and dirt−clogged
lamp, whose lazy wick, being still further obscured by a dark shade, cast its feeble rays over
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 656
a very little space, and left all beyond in heavy shadow. This lamp the money−lender had
drawn so close to him, that there was only room between it and himself for the book over
which he bent; and as he sat, with his elbows on the desk, and his sharp cheek−bones resting
on his hands, it only served to bring out his ugly features in strong relief, together with the
little table at which he sat, and to shroud all the rest of the chamber in a deep sullen gloom.
Raising his eyes, and looking vacantly into this gloom as he made some mental calculation,
Arthur Gride suddenly met the fixed gaze of a man.
'Thieves! thieves!' shrieked the usurer, starting up and folding his book to his breast.
'Robbers! Murder!'
'What is the matter?' said the form, advancing.
'Keep off!' cried the trembling wretch. 'Is it a man or a – a – '
'For what do you take me, if not for a man?' was the inquiry.
'Yes, yes,' cried Arthur Gride, shading his eyes with his hand, 'it is a man, and not a
spirit. It is a man. Robbers! robbers!'
'For what are these cries raised? Unless indeed you know me, and have some purpose in
your brain?' said the stranger, coming close up to him. 'I am no thief.'
'What then, and how come you here?' cried Gride, somewhat reassured, but still
retreating from his visitor: 'what is your name, and what do you want?'
'My name you need not know,' was the reply. 'I came here, because I was shown the
way by your servant. I have addressed you twice or thrice, but you were too profoundly
engaged with your book to hear me, and I have been silently waiting until you should be less
abstracted. What I want I will tell you, when you can summon up courage enough to hear
and understand me.'
Arthur Gride, venturing to regard his visitor more attentively, and perceiving that he
was a young man of good mien and bearing, returned to his seat, and muttering that there
were bad characters about, and that this, with former attempts upon his house, had made him
nervous, requested his visitor to sit down. This, however, he declined.
'Good God! I don't stand up to have you at an advantage,' said Nicholas (for Nicholas it
was), as he observed a gesture of alarm on the part of Gride. 'Listen to me. You are to be
married tomorrow morning.'
'N – n – no,' rejoined Gride. 'Who said I was? How do you know that?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 657
'No matter how,' replied Nicholas, 'I know it. The young lady who is to give you her
hand hates and despises you. Her blood runs cold at the mention of your name; the vulture
and the lamb, the rat and the dove, could not be worse matched than you and she. You see I
know her.'
Gride looked at him as if he were petrified with astonishment, but did not speak;
perhaps lacking the power.
'You and another man, Ralph Nickleby by name, have hatched this plot between you,'
pursued Nicholas. 'You pay him for his share in bringing about this sale of Madeline Bray.
You do. A lie is trembling on your lips, I see.'
He paused; but, Arthur making no reply, resumed again.
'You pay yourself by defrauding her. How or by what means – for I scorn to sully her
cause by falsehood or deceit – I do not know; at present I do not know, but I am not alone or
single−handed in this business. If the energy of man can compass the discovery of your
fraud and treachery before your death; if wealth, revenge, and just hatred, can hunt and track
you through your windings; you will yet be called to a dear account for this. We are on the
scent already; judge you, who know what we do not, when we shall have you down!'
He paused again, and still Arthur Gride glared upon him in silence.
'If you were a man to whom I could appeal with any hope of touching his compassion or
humanity,' said Nicholas, 'I would urge upon you to remember the helplessness, the
innocence, the youth, of this lady; her worth and beauty, her filial excellence, and last, and
more than all, as concerning you more nearly, the appeal she has made to your mercy and
your manly feeling. But, I take the only ground that can be taken with men like you, and ask
what money will buy you off. Remember the danger to which you are exposed. You see I
know enough to know much more with very little help. Bate some expected gain for the risk
you save, and say what is your price.'
Old Arthur Gride moved his lips, but they only formed an ugly smile and were
motionless again.
'You think,' said Nicholas, 'that the price would not be paid. Miss Bray has wealthy
friends who would coin their very hearts to save her in such a strait as this. Name your price,
defer these nuptials for but a few days, and see whether those I speak of, shrink from the
payment. Do you hear me?'
When Nicholas began, Arthur Gride's impression was, that Ralph Nickleby had
betrayed him; but, as he proceeded, he felt convinced that however he had come by the
knowledge he possessed, the part he acted was a genuine one, and that with Ralph he had no
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 658
concern. All he seemed to know, for certain, was, that he, Gride, paid Ralph's debt; but that,
to anybody who knew the circumstances of Bray's detention – even to Bray himself, on
Ralph's own statement – must be perfectly notorious. As to the fraud on Madeline herself,
his visitor knew so little about its nature or extent, that it might be a lucky guess, or a
hap−hazard accusation. Whether or no, he had clearly no key to the mystery, and could not
hurt him who kept it close within his own breast. The allusion to friends, and the offer of
money, Gride held to be mere empty vapouring, for purposes of delay. 'And even if money
were to be had,' thought Arthur Glide, as he glanced at Nicholas, and trembled with passion
at his boldness and audacity, 'I'd have that dainty chick for my wife, and cheat YOU of her,
young smooth−face!'
Long habit of weighing and noting well what clients said, and nicely balancing chances
in his mind and calculating odds to their faces, without the least appearance of being so
engaged, had rendered Gride quick in forming conclusions, and arriving, from puzzling,
intricate, and often contradictory premises, at very cunning deductions. Hence it was that, as
Nicholas went on, he followed him closely with his own constructions, and, when he ceased
to speak, was as well prepared as if he had deliberated for a fortnight.
'I hear you,' he cried, starting from his seat, casting back the fastenings of the
window−shutters, and throwing up the sash. 'Help here! Help! Help!'
'What are you doing?' said Nicholas, seizing him by the arm.
'I'll cry robbers, thieves, murder, alarm the neighbourhood, struggle with you, let loose
some blood, and swear you came to rob me, if you don't quit my house,' replied Gride,
drawing in his head with a frightful grin, 'I will!'
'Wretch!' cried Nicholas.
'YOU'LL bring your threats here, will you?' said Gride, whom jealousy of Nicholas and
a sense of his own triumph had converted into a perfect fiend. 'You, the disappointed lover?
Oh dear! He! he! he! But you shan't have her, nor she you. She's my wife, my doting little
wife. Do you think she'll miss you? Do you think she'll weep? I shall like to see her weep, I
shan't mind it. She looks prettier in tears.'
'Villain!' said Nicholas, choking with his rage.
'One minute more,' cried Arthur Gride, 'and I'll rouse the street with such screams, as, if
they were raised by anybody else, should wake me even in the arms of pretty Madeline.'
'You hound!' said Nicholas. 'If you were but a younger man – '
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 659
'Oh yes!' sneered Arthur Gride, 'If I was but a younger man it wouldn't be so bad; but
for me, so old and ugly! To be jilted by little Madeline for me!'
'Hear me,' said Nicholas, 'and be thankful I have enough command over myself not to
fling you into the street, which no aid could prevent my doing if I once grappled with you. I
have been no lover of this lady's. No contract or engagement, no word of love, has ever
passed between us. She does not even know my name.'
'I'll ask it for all that. I'll beg it of her with kisses,' said Arthur Gride. 'Yes, and she'll tell
me, and pay them back, and we'll laugh together, and hug ourselves, and be very merry,
when we think of the poor youth that wanted to have her, but couldn't because she was
bespoke by me!'
This taunt brought such an expression into the face of Nicholas, that Arthur Gride
plainly apprehended it to be the forerunner of his putting his threat of throwing him into the
street in immediate execution; for he thrust his head out of the window, and holding tight on
with both hands, raised a pretty brisk alarm. Not thinking it necessary to abide the issue of
the noise, Nicholas gave vent to an indignant defiance, and stalked from the room and from
the house. Arthur Gride watched him across the street, and then, drawing in his head,
fastened the window as before, and sat down to take breath.
'If she ever turns pettish or ill−humoured, I'll taunt her with that spark,' he said, when he
had recovered. 'She'll little think I know about him; and, if I manage it well, I can break her
spirit by this means and have her under my thumb. I'm glad nobody came. I didn't call too
loud. The audacity to enter my house, and open upon me! But I shall have a very good
triumph tomorrow, and he'll be gnawing his fingers off: perhaps drown himself or cut his
throat! I shouldn't wonder! That would make it quite complete, that would: quite.'
When he had become restored to his usual condition by these and other comments on
his approaching triumph, Arthur Gride put away his book, and, having locked the chest with
great caution, descended into the kitchen to warn Peg Sliderskew to bed, and scold her for
having afforded such ready admission to a stranger.
The unconscious Peg, however, not being able to comprehend the offence of which she
had been guilty, he summoned her to hold the light, while he made a tour of the fastenings,
and secured the street−door with his own hands.
'Top bolt,' muttered Arthur, fastening as he spoke, 'bottom bolt, chain, bar, double lock,
and key out to put under my pillow! So, if any more rejected admirers come, they may come
through the keyhole. And now I'll go to sleep till half−past five, when I must get up to be
married, Peg!'
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CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 660
With that, he jocularly tapped Mrs Sliderskew under the chin, and appeared, for the
moment, inclined to celebrate the close of his bachelor days by imprinting a kiss on her
shrivelled lips. Thinking better of it, however, he gave her chin another tap, in lieu of that
warmer familiarity, and stole away to bed.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph 661
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result.
T
here are not many men who lie abed too late, or oversleep themselves, on their
wedding morning. A legend there is of somebody remarkable for absence of mind, who
opened his eyes upon the day which was to give him a young wife, and forgetting all about
the matter, rated his servants for providing him with such fine clothes as had been prepared
for the festival. There is also a legend of a young gentleman, who, not having before his
eyes the fear of the canons of the church for such cases made and provided, conceived a
passion for his grandmother. Both cases are of a singular and special kind and it is very
doubtful whether either can be considered as a precedent likely to be extensively followed
by succeeding generations.
Arthur Gride had enrobed himself in his marriage garments of bottle− green, a full hour
before Mrs Sliderskew, shaking off her more heavy slumbers, knocked at his chamber door;
and he had hobbled downstairs in full array and smacked his lips over a scanty taste of his
favourite cordial, ere that delicate piece of antiquity enlightened the kitchen with her
presence.
'Faugh!' said Peg, grubbing, in the discharge of her domestic functions, among a scanty
heap of ashes in the rusty grate. 'Wedding indeed! A precious wedding! He wants somebody
better than his old Peg to take care of him, does he? And what has he said to me, many and
many a time, to keep me content with short food, small wages, and little fire? «My will, Peg!
my will!» says he: «I'm a bachelor – no friends – no relations, Peg.» Lies! And now he's to
bring home a new mistress, a baby−faced chit of a girl! If he wanted a wife, the fool, why
couldn't he have one suitable to his age, and that knew his ways? She won't come in MY
way, he says. No, that she won't, but you little think why, Arthur boy!'
While Mrs Sliderskew, influenced possibly by some lingering feelings of
disappointment and personal slight, occasioned by her old master's preference for another,
was giving loose to these grumblings below stairs, Arthur Gride was cogitating in the
parlour upon what had taken place last night.
'I can't think how he can have picked up what he knows,' said Arthur, 'unless I have
committed myself – let something drop at Bray's, for instance – which has been overheard.
Perhaps I may. I shouldn't be surprised if that was it. Mr Nickleby was often angry at my
talking to him before we got outside the door. I mustn't tell him that part of the business, or
he'll put me out of sorts, and make me nervous for the day.'
Ralph was universally looked up to, and recognised among his fellows as a superior
genius, but upon Arthur Gride his stern unyielding character and consummate art had made
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 662
so deep an impression, that he was actually afraid of him. Cringing and cowardly to the core
by nature, Arthur Gride humbled himself in the dust before Ralph Nickleby, and, even when
they had not this stake in common, would have licked his shoes and crawled upon the
ground before him rather than venture to return him word for word, or retort upon him in
any other spirit than one of the most slavish and abject sycophancy.
To Ralph Nickleby's, Arthur Gride now betook himself according to appointment; and
to Ralph Nickleby he related how, last night, some young blustering blade, whom he had
never seen, forced his way into his house, and tried to frighten him from the proposed
nuptials. Told, in short, what Nicholas had said and done, with the slight reservation upon
which he had determined.
'Well, and what then?' said Ralph.
'Oh! nothing more,' rejoined Gride.
'He tried to frighten you,' said Ralph, 'and you WERE frightened I suppose; is that it?'
'I frightened HIM by crying thieves and murder,' replied Gride. 'Once I was in earnest, I
tell you that, for I had more than half a mind to swear he uttered threats, and demanded my
life or my money.'
'Oho!' said Ralph, eyeing him askew. 'Jealous too!'
'Dear now, see that!' cried Arthur, rubbing his hands and affecting to laugh.
'Why do you make those grimaces, man?' said Ralph; 'you ARE jealous – and with good
cause I think.'
'No, no, no; not with good cause, hey? You don't think with good cause, do you?' cried
Arthur, faltering. 'Do you though, hey?'
'Why, how stands the fact?' returned Ralph. 'Here is an old man about to be forced in
marriage upon a girl; and to this old man there comes a handsome young fellow – you said
he was handsome, didn't you?'
'No!' snarled Arthur Gride.
'Oh!' rejoined Ralph, 'I thought you did. Well! Handsome or not handsome, to this old
man there comes a young fellow who casts all manner of fierce defiances in his teeth – gums
I should rather say – and tells him in plain terms that his mistress hates him. What does he
do that for? Philanthropy's sake?'
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CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 663
'Not for love of the lady,' replied Gride, 'for he said that no word of love – his very
words – had ever passed between 'em.'
'He said!' repeated Ralph, contemptuously. 'But I like him for one thing, and that is, his
giving you this fair warning to keep your – what is it? – Tit−tit or dainty chick – which? –
under lock and key. Be careful, Gride, be careful. It's a triumph, too, to tear her away from a
gallant young rival: a great triumph for an old man! It only remains to keep her safe when
you have her – that's all.'
'What a man it is!' cried Arthur Gride, affecting, in the extremity of his torture, to be
highly amused. And then he added, anxiously, 'Yes; to keep her safe, that's all. And that isn't
much, is it?'
'Much!' said Ralph, with a sneer. 'Why, everybody knows what easy things to
understand and to control, women are. But come, it's very nearly time for you to be made
happy. You'll pay the bond now, I suppose, to save us trouble afterwards.'
'Oh what a man you are!' croaked Arthur.
'Why not?' said Ralph. 'Nobody will pay you interest for the money, I suppose, between
this and twelve o'clock; will they?'
'But nobody would pay you interest for it either, you know,' returned Arthur, leering at
Ralph with all the cunning and slyness he could throw into his face.
'Besides which,' said Ralph, suffering his lip to curl into a smile, 'you haven't the money
about you, and you weren't prepared for this, or you'd have brought it with you; and there's
nobody you'd so much like to accommodate as me. I see. We trust each other in about an
equal degree. Are you ready?'
Gride, who had done nothing but grin, and nod, and chatter, during this last speech of
Ralph's, answered in the affirmative; and, producing from his hat a couple of large white
favours, pinned one on his breast, and with considerable difficulty induced his friend to do
the like. Thus accoutred, they got into a hired coach which Ralph had in waiting, and drove
to the residence of the fair and most wretched bride.
Gride, whose spirits and courage had gradually failed him more and more as they
approached nearer and nearer to the house, was utterly dismayed and cowed by the mournful
silence which pervaded it. The face of the poor servant girl, the only person they saw, was
disfigured with tears and want of sleep. There was nobody to receive or welcome them; and
they stole upstairs into the usual sitting−room, more like two burglars than the bridegroom
and his friend.
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CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 664
'One would think,' said Ralph, speaking, in spite of himself, in a low and subdued voice,
'that there was a funeral going on here, and not a wedding.'
'He, he!' tittered his friend, 'you are so – so very funny!'
'I need be,' remarked Ralph, drily, 'for this is rather dull and chilling. Look a little
brisker, man, and not so hangdog like!'
'Yes, yes, I will,' said Gride. 'But – but – you don't think she's coming just yet, do you?'
'Why, I suppose she'll not come till she is obliged,' returned Ralph, looking at his watch,
'and she has a good half−hour to spare yet. Curb your impatience.'
'I – I – am not impatient,' stammered Arthur. 'I wouldn't be hard with her for the world.
Oh dear, dear, not on any account. Let her take her time – her own time. Her time shall be
ours by all means.'
While Ralph bent upon his trembling friend a keen look, which showed that he perfectly
understood the reason of this great consideration and regard, a footstep was heard upon the
stairs, and Bray himself came into the room on tiptoe, and holding up his hand with a
cautious gesture, as if there were some sick person near, who must not be disturbed.
'Hush!' he said, in a low voice. 'She was very ill last night. I thought she would have
broken her heart. She is dressed, and crying bitterly in her own room; but she's better, and
quite quiet. That's everything!'
'She is ready, is she?' said Ralph.
'Quite ready,' returned the father.
'And not likely to delay us by any young−lady weaknesses – fainting, or so forth?' said
Ralph.
'She may be safely trusted now,' returned Bray. 'I have been talking to her this morning.
Here! Come a little this way.'
He drew Ralph Nickleby to the further end of the room, and pointed towards Gride, who
sat huddled together in a corner, fumbling nervously with the buttons of his coat, and
exhibiting a face, of which every skulking and base expression was sharpened and
aggravated to the utmost by his anxiety and trepidation.
'Look at that man,' whispered Bray, emphatically. 'This seems a cruel thing, after all.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 665
'What seems a cruel thing?' inquired Ralph, with as much stolidity of face, as if he really
were in utter ignorance of the other's meaning.
'This marriage,' answered Bray. 'Don't ask me what. You know as well as I do.'
Ralph shrugged his shoulders, in silent deprecation of Bray's impatience, and elevated
his eyebrows, and pursed his lips, as men do when they are prepared with a sufficient
answer to some remark, but wait for a more favourable opportunity of advancing it, or think
it scarcely worth while to answer their adversary at all.
'Look at him. Does it not seem cruel?' said Bray.
'No!' replied Ralph, boldly.
'I say it does,' retorted Bray, with a show of much irritation. 'It is a cruel thing, by all
that's bad and treacherous!'
When men are about to commit, or to sanction the commission of some injustice, it is
not uncommon for them to express pity for the object either of that or some parallel
proceeding, and to feel themselves, at the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immensely
superior to those who express no pity at all. This is a kind of upholding of faith above
works, and is very comfortable. To do Ralph Nickleby justice, he seldom practised this sort
of dissimulation; but he understood those who did, and therefore suffered Bray to say, again
and again, with great vehemence, that they were jointly doing a very cruel thing, before he
again offered to interpose a word.
'You see what a dry, shrivelled, withered old chip it is,' returned Ralph, when the other
was at length silent. 'If he were younger, it might be cruel, but as it is – harkee, Mr Bray,
he'll die soon, and leave her a rich young widow! Miss Madeline consults your tastes this
time; let her consult her own next.'
'True, true,' said Bray, biting his nails, and plainly very ill at ease. 'I couldn't do
anything better for her than advise her to accept these proposals, could I? Now, I ask you,
Nickleby, as a man of the world; could I?'
'Surely not,' answered Ralph. 'I tell you what, sir; there are a hundred fathers, within a
circuit of five miles from this place; well off; good, rich, substantial men; who would gladly
give their daughters, and their own ears with them, to that very man yonder, ape and
mummy as he looks.'
'So there are!' exclaimed Bray, eagerly catching at anything which seemed a
justification of himself. 'And so I told her, both last night and today.'
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CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 666
'You told her truth,' said Ralph, 'and did well to do so; though I must say, at the same
time, that if I had a daughter, and my freedom, pleasure, nay, my very health and life,
depended on her taking a husband whom I pointed out, I should hope it would not be
necessary to advance any other arguments to induce her to consent to my wishes.'
Bray looked at Ralph as if to see whether he spoke in earnest, and having nodded twice
or thrice in unqualified assent to what had fallen from him, said:
'I must go upstairs for a few minutes, to finish dressing. When I come down, I'll bring
Madeline with me. Do you know, I had a very strange dream last night, which I have not
remembered till this instant. I dreamt that it was this morning, and you and I had been
talking as we have been this minute; that I went upstairs, for the very purpose for which I am
going now; and that as I stretched out my hand to take Madeline's, and lead her down, the
floor sunk with me, and after falling from such an indescribable and tremendous height as
the imagination scarcely conceives, except in dreams, I alighted in a grave.'
'And you awoke, and found you were lying on your back, or with your head hanging
over the bedside, or suffering some pain from indigestion?' said Ralph. 'Pshaw, Mr Bray! Do
as I do (you will have the opportunity, now that a constant round of pleasure and enjoyment
opens upon you), and, occupying yourself a little more by day, have no time to think of what
you dream by night.'
Ralph followed him, with a steady look, to the door; and, turning to the bridegroom,
when they were again alone, said,
'Mark my words, Gride, you won't have to pay HIS annuity very long. You have the
devil's luck in bargains, always. If he is not booked to make the long voyage before many
months are past and gone, I wear an orange for a head!'
To this prophecy, so agreeable to his ears, Arthur returned no answer than a cackle of
great delight. Ralph, throwing himself into a chair, they both sat waiting in profound silence.
Ralph was thinking, with a sneer upon his lips, on the altered manner of Bray that day, and
how soon their fellowship in a bad design had lowered his pride and established a familiarity
between them, when his attentive ear caught the rustling of a female dress upon the stairs,
and the footstep of a man.
'Wake up,' he said, stamping his foot impatiently upon the ground, 'and be something
like life, man, will you? They are here. Urge those dry old bones of yours this way. Quick,
man, quick!'
Gride shambled forward, and stood, leering and bowing, close by Ralph's side, when the
door opened and there entered in haste – not Bray and his daughter, but Nicholas and his
sister Kate.
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CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 667
If some tremendous apparition from the world of shadows had suddenly presented itself
before him, Ralph Nickleby could not have been more thunder−stricken than he was by this
surprise. His hands fell powerless by his side, he reeled back; and with open mouth, and a
face of ashy paleness, stood gazing at them in speechless rage: his eyes so prominent, and
his face so convulsed and changed by the passions which raged within him, that it would
have been difficult to recognise in him the same stern, composed, hard−featured man he had
been not a minute ago.
'The man that came to me last night,' whispered Gride, plucking at his elbow. 'The man
that came to me last night!'
'I see,' muttered Ralph, 'I know! I might have guessed as much before. Across my every
path, at every turn, go where I will, do what I may, he comes!'
The absence of all colour from the face; the dilated nostril; the quivering of the lips
which, though set firmly against each other, would not be still; showed what emotions were
struggling for the mastery with Nicholas. But he kept them down, and gently pressing Kate's
arm to reassure her, stood erect and undaunted, front to front with his unworthy relative.
As the brother and sister stood side by side, with a gallant bearing which became them
well, a close likeness between them was apparent, which many, had they only seen them
apart, might have failed to remark. The air, carriage, and very look and expression of the
brother were all reflected in the sister, but softened and refined to the nicest limit of
feminine delicacy and attraction. More striking still was some indefinable resemblance, in
the face of Ralph, to both. While they had never looked more handsome, nor he more ugly;
while they had never held themselves more proudly, nor he shrunk half so low; there never
had been a time when this resemblance was so perceptible, or when all the worst
characteristics of a face rendered coarse and harsh by evil thoughts were half so manifest as
now.
'Away!' was the first word he could utter as he literally gnashed his teeth. 'Away! What
brings you here? Liar, scoundrel, dastard, thief!'
'I come here,' said Nicholas in a low deep voice, 'to save your victim if I can. Liar and
scoundrel you are, in every action of your life; theft is your trade; and double dastard you
must be, or you were not here today. Hard words will not move me, nor would hard blows.
Here I stand, and will, till I have done my errand.'
'Girl!' said Ralph, 'retire! We can use force to him, but I would not hurt you if I could
help it. Retire, you weak and silly wench, and leave this dog to be dealt with as he deserves.'
'I will not retire,' cried Kate, with flashing eyes and the red blood mantling in her
cheeks. 'You will do him no hurt that he will not repay. You may use force with me; I think
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 668
you will, for I AM a girl, and that would well become you. But if I have a girl's weakness, I
have a woman's heart, and it is not you who in a cause like this can turn that from its
purpose.'
'And what may your purpose be, most lofty lady?' said Ralph.
'To offer to the unhappy subject of your treachery, at this last moment,' replied
Nicholas, 'a refuge and a home. If the near prospect of such a husband as you have provided
will not prevail upon her, I hope she may be moved by the prayers and entreaties of one of
her own sex. At all events they shall be tried. I myself, avowing to her father from whom I
come and by whom I am commissioned, will render it an act of greater baseness, meanness,
and cruelty in him if he still dares to force this marriage on. Here I wait to see him and his
daughter. For this I came and brought my sister even into your presence. Our purpose is not
to see or speak with you; therefore to you we stoop to say no more.'
'Indeed!' said Ralph. 'You persist in remaining here, ma'am, do you?'
His niece's bosom heaved with the indignant excitement into which he had lashed her,
but she gave him no reply.
'Now, Gride, see here,' said Ralph. 'This fellow – I grieve to say my brother's son: a
reprobate and profligate, stained with every mean and selfish crime – this fellow, coming
here today to disturb a solemn ceremony, and knowing that the consequence of his
presenting himself in another man's house at such a time, and persisting in remaining there,
must be his being kicked into the streets and dragged through them like the vagabond he is –
this fellow, mark you, brings with him his sister as a protection, thinking we would not
expose a silly girl to the degradation and indignity which is no novelty to him; and, even
after I have warned her of what must ensue, he still keeps her by him, as you see, and clings
to her apron−strings like a cowardly boy to his mother's. Is not this a pretty fellow to talk as
big as you have heard him now?'
'And as I heard him last night,' said Arthur Gride; 'as I heard him last night when he
sneaked into my house, and – he! he! he! – very soon sneaked out again, when I nearly
frightened him to death. And HE wanting to marry Miss Madeline too! Oh dear! Is there
anything else he'd like? Anything else we can do for him, besides giving her up? Would he
like his debts paid and his house furnished, and a few bank notes for shaving paper if he
shaves at all? He! he! he!'
'You will remain, girl, will you?' said Ralph, turning upon Kate again, 'to be hauled
downstairs like a drunken drab, as I swear you shall if you stop here? No answer! Thank
your brother for what follows. Gride, call down Bray – and not his daughter. Let them keep
her above.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 669
'If you value your head,' said Nicholas, taking up a position before the door, and
speaking in the same low voice in which he had spoken before, and with no more outward
passion than he had before displayed; 'stay where you are!'
'Mind me, and not him, and call down Bray,' said Ralph.
'Mind yourself rather than either of us, and stay where you are!' said Nicholas.
'Will you call down Bray?' cried Ralph.
'Remember that you come near me at your peril,' said Nicholas.
Gride hesitated. Ralph being, by this time, as furious as a baffled tiger, made for the
door, and, attempting to pass Kate, clasped her arm roughly with his hand. Nicholas, with
his eyes darting fire, seized him by the collar. At that moment, a heavy body fell with great
violence on the floor above, and, in an instant afterwards, was heard a most appalling and
terrific scream.
They all stood still, and gazed upon each other. Scream succeeded scream; a heavy
pattering of feet succeeded; and many shrill voices clamouring together were heard to cry,
'He is dead!'
'Stand off!' cried Nicholas, letting loose all the passion he had restrained till now; 'if this
is what I scarcely dare to hope it is, you are caught, villains, in your own toils.'
He burst from the room, and, darting upstairs to the quarter from whence the noise
proceeded, forced his way through a crowd of persons who quite filled a small
bed−chamber, and found Bray lying on the floor quite dead; his daughter clinging to the
body.
'How did this happen?' he cried, looking wildly about him.
Several voices answered together, that he had been observed, through the half−opened
door, reclining in a strange and uneasy position upon a chair; that he had been spoken to
several times, and not answering, was supposed to be asleep, until some person going in and
shaking him by the arm, he fell heavily to the ground and was discovered to be dead.
'Who is the owner of this house?' said Nicholas, hastily.
An elderly woman was pointed out to him; and to her he said, as he knelt down and
gently unwound Madeline's arms from the lifeless mass round which they were entwined: 'I
represent this lady's nearest friends, as her servant here knows, and must remove her from
this dreadful scene. This is my sister to whose charge you confide her. My name and address
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 670
are upon that card, and you shall receive from me all necessary directions for the
arrangements that must be made. Stand aside, every one of you, and give me room and air
for God's sake!'
The people fell back, scarce wondering more at what had just occurred, than at the
excitement and impetuosity of him who spoke. Nicholas, taking the insensible girl in his
arms, bore her from the chamber and downstairs into the room he had just quitted, followed
by his sister and the faithful servant, whom he charged to procure a coach directly, while he
and Kate bent over their beautiful charge and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore her to
animation. The girl performed her office with such expedition, that in a very few minutes the
coach was ready.
Ralph Nickleby and Gride, stunned and paralysed by the awful event which had so
suddenly overthrown their schemes (it would not otherwise, perhaps, have made much
impression on them), and carried away by the extraordinary energy and precipitation of
Nicholas, which bore down all before him, looked on at these proceedings like men in a
dream or trance. It was not until every preparation was made for Madeline's immediate
removal that Ralph broke silence by declaring she should not be taken away.
'Who says so?' cried Nicholas, rising from his knee and confronting them, but still
retaining Madeline's lifeless hand in his.
'I!' answered Ralph, hoarsely.
'Hush, hush!' cried the terrified Gride, catching him by the arm again. 'Hear what he
says.'
'Ay!' said Nicholas, extending his disengaged hand in the air, 'hear what he says. That
both your debts are paid in the one great debt of nature. That the bond, due today at twelve,
is now waste paper. That your contemplated fraud shall be discovered yet. That your
schemes are known to man, and overthrown by Heaven. Wretches, that he defies you both to
do your worst.'
'This man,' said Ralph, in a voice scarcely intelligible, 'this man claims his wife, and he
shall have her.'
'That man claims what is not his, and he should not have her if he were fifty men, with
fifty more to back him,' said Nicholas.
'Who shall prevent him?'
'I will.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 671
'By what right I should like to know,' said Ralph. 'By what right I ask?'
'By this right. That, knowing what I do, you dare not tempt me further,' said Nicholas,
'and by this better right; that those I serve, and with whom you would have done me base
wrong and injury, are her nearest and her dearest friends. In their name I bear her hence.
Give way!'
'One word!' cried Ralph, foaming at the mouth.
'Not one,' replied Nicholas, 'I will not hear of one – save this. Look to yourself, and
heed this warning that I give you! Your day is past, and night is comin' on.'
'My curse, my bitter, deadly curse, upon you, boy!'
'Whence will curses come at your command? Or what avails a curse or blessing from a
man like you? I tell you, that misfortune and discovery are thickening about your head; that
the structures you have raised, through all your ill−spent life, are crumbling into dust; that
your path is beset with spies; that this very day, ten thousand pounds of your hoarded wealth
have gone in one great crash!'
''Tis false!' cried Ralph, shrinking back.
''Tis true, and you shall find it so. I have no more words to waste. Stand from the door.
Kate, do you go first. Lay not a hand on her, or on that woman, or on me, or so much a brush
their garments as they pass you by! – You let them pass, and he blocks the door again!'
Arthur Gride happened to be in the doorway, but whether intentionally or from
confusion was not quite apparent. Nicholas swung him away, with such violence as to cause
him to spin round the room until he was caught by a sharp angle of the wall, and there
knocked down; and then taking his beautiful burden in his arms rushed out. No one cared to
stop him, if any were so disposed. Making his way through a mob of people, whom a report
of the circumstances had attracted round the house, and carrying Madeline, in his
excitement, as easily as if she were an infant, he reached the coach in which Kate and the
girl were already waiting, and, confiding his charge to them, jumped up beside the
coachman and bade him drive away.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result. 672
CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes,
Disappointments, and Sorrows.
A
lthough Mrs Nickleby had been made acquainted by her son and daughter with every
circumstance of Madeline Bray's history which was known to them; although the
responsible situation in which Nicholas stood had been carefully explained to her, and she
had been prepared, even for the possible contingency of having to receive the young lady in
her own house, improbable as such a result had appeared only a few minutes before it came
about, still, Mrs Nickleby, from the moment when this confidence was first reposed in her,
late on the previous evening, had remained in an unsatisfactory and profoundly mystified
state, from which no explanations or arguments could relieve her, and which every fresh
soliloquy and reflection only aggravated more and more.
'Bless my heart, Kate!' so the good lady argued; 'if the Mr Cheerybles don't want this
young lady to be married, why don't they file a bill against the Lord Chancellor, make her a
Chancery ward, and shut her up in the Fleet prison for safety? – I have read of such things in
the newspapers a hundred times. Or, if they are so very fond of her as Nicholas says they
are, why don't they marry her themselves – one of them I mean? And even supposing they
don't want her to be married, and don't want to marry her themselves, why in the name of
wonder should Nicholas go about the world, forbidding people's banns?'
'I don't think you quite understand,' said Kate, gently.
'Well I am sure, Kate, my dear, you're very polite!' replied Mrs Nickleby. 'I have been
married myself I hope, and I have seen other people married. Not understand, indeed!'
'I know you have had great experience, dear mama,' said Kate; 'I mean that perhaps you
don't quite understand all the circumstances in this instance. We have stated them
awkwardly, I dare say.'
'That I dare say you have,' retorted her mother, briskly. 'That's very likely. I am not to be
held accountable for that; though, at the same time, as the circumstances speak for
themselves, I shall take the liberty, my love, of saying that I do understand them, and
perfectly well too; whatever you and Nicholas may choose to think to the contrary. Why is
such a great fuss made because this Miss Magdalen is going to marry somebody who is
older than herself? Your poor papa was older than I was, four years and a half older. Jane
Dibabs – the Dibabses lived in the beautiful little thatched white house one story high,
covered all over with ivy and creeping plants, with an exquisite little porch with twining
honysuckles and all sorts of things: where the earwigs used to fall into one's tea on a summer
evening, and always fell upon their backs and kicked dreadfully, and where the frogs used to
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 673
get into the rushlight shades when one stopped all night, and sit up and look through the
little holes like Christians – Jane Dibabs, SHE married a man who was a great deal older
than herself, and WOULD marry him, notwithstanding all that could be said to the contrary,
and she was so fond of him that nothing was ever equal to it. There was no fuss made about
Jane Dibabs, and her husband was a most honourable and excellent man, and everybody
spoke well of him. Then why should there by any fuss about this Magdalen?'
'Her husband is much older; he is not her own choice; his character is the very reverse
of that which you have just described. Don't you see a broad destinction between the two
cases?' said Kate.
To this, Mrs Nickleby only replied that she durst say she was very stupid, indeed she
had no doubt she was, for her own children almost as much as told her so, every day of her
life; to be sure she was a little older than they, and perhaps some foolish people might think
she ought reasonably to know best. However, no doubt she was wrong; of course she was;
she always was, she couldn't be right, she couldn't be expected to be; so she had better not
expose herself any more; and to all Kate's conciliations and concessions for an hour ensuing,
the good lady gave no other replies than Oh, certainly, why did they ask HER?, HER
opinion was of no consequence, it didn't matter what SHE said, with many other rejoinders
of the same class.
In this frame of mind (expressed, when she had become too resigned for speech, by
nods of the head, upliftings of the eyes, and little beginnings of groans, converted, as they
attracted attention, into short coughs), Mrs Nickleby remained until Nicholas and Kate
returned with the object of their solicitude; when, having by this time asserted her own
importance, and becoming besides interested in the trials of one so young and beautiful, she
not only displayed the utmost zeal and solicitude, but took great credit to herself for
recommending the course of procedure which her son had adopted: frequently declaring,
with an expressive look, that it was very fortunate things were AS they were: and hinting,
that but for great encouragement and wisdom on her own part, they never could have been
brought to that pass.
Not to strain the question whether Mrs Nickleby had or had not any great hand in
bringing matters about, it is unquestionable that she had strong ground for exultation. The
brothers, on their return, bestowed such commendations on Nicholas for the part he had
taken, and evinced so much joy at the altered state of events and the recovery of their young
friend from trials so great and dangers so threatening, that, as she more than once informed
her daughter, she now considered the fortunes of the family 'as good as' made. Mr Charles
Cheeryble, indeed, Mrs Nickleby positively asserted, had, in the first transports of his
surprise and delight, 'as good as' said so. Without precisely explaining what this
qualification meant, she subsided, whenever she mentioned the subject, into such a
mysterious and important state, and had such visions of wealth and dignity in perspective,
that (vague and clouded though they were) she was, at such times, almost as happy as if she
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 674
had really been permanently provided for, on a scale of great splendour.
The sudden and terrible shock she had received, combined with the great affliction and
anxiety of mind which she had, for a long time, endured, proved too much for Madeline's
strength. Recovering from the state of stupefaction into which the sudden death of her father
happily plunged her, she only exchanged that condition for one of dangerous and active
illness. When the delicate physical powers which have been sustained by an unnatural strain
upon the mental energies and a resolute determination not to yield, at last give way, their
degree of prostration is usually proportionate to the strength of the effort which has
previously upheld them. Thus it was that the illness which fell on Madeline was of no slight
or temporary nature, but one which, for a time, threatened her reason, and – scarcely worse –
her life itself.
Who, slowly recovering from a disorder so severe and dangerous, could be insensible to
the unremitting attentions of such a nurse as gentle, tender, earnest Kate? On whom could
the sweet soft voice, the light step, the delicate hand, the quiet, cheerful, noiseless discharge
of those thousand little offices of kindness and relief which we feel so deeply when we are
ill, and forget so lightly when we are well – on whom could they make so deep an
impression as on a young heart stored with every pure and true affection that women
cherish; almost a stranger to the endearments and devotion of its own sex, save as it learnt
them from itself; and rendered, by calamity and suffering, keenly susceptible of the
sympathy so long unknown and so long sought in vain? What wonder that days became as
years in knitting them together! What wonder, if with every hour of returning health, there
came some stronger and sweeter recognition of the praises which Kate, when they recalled
old scenes – they seemed old now, and to have been acted years ago – would lavish on her
brother! Where would have been the wonder, even, if those praises had found a quick
response in the breast of Madeline, and if, with the image of Nicholas so constantly
recurring in the features of his sister that she could scarcely separate the two, she had
sometimes found it equally difficult to assign to each the feelings they had first inspired, and
had imperceptibly mingled with her gratitude to Nicholas, some of that warmer feeling
which she had assigned to Kate?
'My dear,' Mrs Nickleby would say, coming into the room with an elaborate caution,
calculated to discompose the nerves of an invalid rather more than the entry of a
horse−soldier at full gallop; 'how do you find yourself tonight? I hope you are better.'
'Almost well, mama,' Kate would reply, laying down her work, and taking Madeline's
hand in hers.
'Kate!' Mrs Nickleby would say, reprovingly, 'don't talk so loud' (the worthy lady
herself talking in a whisper that would have made the blood of the stoutest man run cold in
his veins).
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 675
Kate would take this reproof very quietly, and Mrs Nickleby, making every board creak
and every thread rustle as she moved stealthily about, would add:
'My son Nicholas has just come home, and I have come, according to custom, my dear,
to know, from your own lips, exactly how you are; for he won't take my account, and never
will.'
'He is later than usual to−night,' perhaps Madeline would reply. 'Nearly half an hour.'
'Well, I never saw such people in all my life as you are, for time, up here!' Mrs Nickleby
would exclaim in great astonishment; 'I declare I never did! I had not the least idea that
Nicholas was after his time, not the smallest. Mr Nickleby used to say – your poor papa, I
am speaking of, Kate my dear – used to say, that appetite was the best clock in the world,
but you have no appetite, my dear Miss Bray, I wish you had, and upon my word I really
think you ought to take something that would give you one. I am sure I don't know, but I
have heard that two or three dozen native lobsters give an appetite, though that comes to the
same thing after all, for I suppose you must have an appetite before you can take 'em. If I
said lobsters, I meant oysters, but of course it's all the same, though really how you came to
know about Nicholas – '
'We happened to be just talking about him, mama; that was it.'
'You never seem to me to be talking about anything else, Kate, and upon my word I am
quite surprised at your being so very thoughtless. You can find subjects enough to talk about
sometimes, and when you know how important it is to keep up Miss Bray's spirits, and
interest her, and all that, it really is quite extraordinary to me what can induce you to keep
on prose, prose, prose, din, din, din, everlastingly, upon the same theme. You are a very kind
nurse, Kate, and a very good one, and I know you mean very well; but I will say this – that if
it wasn't for me, I really don't know what would become of Miss Bray's spirits, and so I tell
the doctor every day. He says he wonders how I sustain my own, and I am sure I very often
wonder myself how I can contrive to keep up as I do. Of course it's an exertion, but still,
when I know how much depends upon me in this house, I am obliged to make it. There's
nothing praiseworthy in that, but it's necessary, and I do it.'
With that, Mrs Nickleby would draw up a chair, and for some three− quarters of an hour
run through a great variety of distracting topics in the most distracting manner possible;
tearing herself away, at length, on the plea that she must now go and amuse Nicholas while
he took his supper. After a preliminary raising of his spirits with the information that she
considered the patient decidedly worse, she would further cheer him up by relating how dull,
listless, and low−spirited Miss Bray was, because Kate foolishly talked about nothing else
but him and family matters. When she had made Nicholas thoroughly comfortable with
these and other inspiriting remarks, she would discourse at length on the arduous duties she
had performed that day; and, sometimes, be moved to tears in wondering how, if anything
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 676
were to happen to herself, the family would ever get on without her.
At other times, when Nicholas came home at night, he would be accompanied by Mr
Frank Cheeryble, who was commissioned by the brothers to inquire how Madeline was that
evening. On such occasions (and they were of very frequent occurrence), Mrs Nickleby
deemed it of particular importance that she should have her wits about her; for, from certain
signs and tokens which had attracted her attention, she shrewdly suspected that Mr Frank,
interested as his uncles were in Madeline, came quite as much to see Kate as to inquire after
her; the more especially as the brothers were in constant communication with the medical
man, came backwards and forwards very frequently themselves, and received a full report
from Nicholas every morning. These were proud times for Mrs Nickleby; never was
anybody half so discreet and sage as she, or half so mysterious withal; and never were there
such cunning generalship, and such unfathomable designs, as she brought to bear upon Mr
Frank, with the view of ascertaining whether her suspicions were well founded: and if so, of
tantalising him into taking her into his confidence and throwing himself upon her merciful
consideration. Extensive was the artillery, heavy and light, which Mrs Nickleby brought into
play for the furtherance of these great schemes; various and opposite the means which she
employed to bring about the end she had in view. At one time, she was all cordiality and
ease; at another, all stiffness and frigidity. Now, she would seem to open her whole heart to
her unhappy victim; the next time they met, she would receive him with the most distant and
studious reserve, as if a new light had broken in upon her, and, guessing his intentions, she
had resolved to check them in the bud; as if she felt it her bounden duty to act with Spartan
firmness, and at once and for ever to discourage hopes which never could be realised. At
other times, when Nicholas was not there to overhear, and Kate was upstairs busily tending
her sick friend, the worthy lady would throw out dark hints of an intention to send her
daughter to France for three or four years, or to Scotland for the improvement of her health
impaired by her late fatigues, or to America on a visit, or anywhere that threatened a long
and tedious separation. Nay, she even went so far as to hint, obscurely, at an attachment
entertained for her daughter by the son of an old neighbour of theirs, one Horatio Peltirogus
(a young gentleman who might have been, at that time, four years old, or thereabouts), and
to represent it, indeed, as almost a settled thing between the families – only waiting for her
daughter's final decision, to come off with the sanction of the church, and to the unspeakable
happiness and content of all parties.
It was in the full pride and glory of having sprung this last mine one night with
extraordinary success, that Mrs Nickleby took the opportunity of being left alone with her
son before retiring to rest, to sound him on the subject which so occupied her thoughts: not
doubting that they could have but one opinion respecting it. To this end, she approached the
question with divers laudatory and appropriate remarks touching the general amiability of
Mr Frank Cheeryble.
'You are quite right, mother,' said Nicholas, 'quite right. He is a fine fellow.'
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 677
'Good−looking, too,' said Mrs Nickleby.
'Decidedly good−looking,' answered Nicholas.
'What may you call his nose, now, my dear?' pursued Mrs Nickleby, wishing to interest
Nicholas in the subject to the utmost.
'Call it?' repeated Nicholas.
'Ah!' returned his mother, 'what style of nose? What order of architecture, if one may
say so. I am not very learned in noses. Do you call it a Roman or a Grecian?'
'Upon my word, mother,' said Nicholas, laughing, 'as well as I remember, I should call it
a kind of Composite, or mixed nose. But I have no very strong recollection on the subject. If
it will afford you any gratification, I'll observe it more closely, and let you know.'
'I wish you would, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, with an earnest look.
'Very well,' returned Nicholas. 'I will.'
Nicholas returned to the perusal of the book he had been reading, when the dialogue had
gone thus far. Mrs Nickleby, after stopping a little for consideration, resumed.
'He is very much attached to you, Nicholas, my dear.'
Nicholas laughingly said, as he closed his book, that he was glad to hear it, and
observed that his mother seemed deep in their new friend's confidence already.
'Hem!' said Mrs Nickleby. 'I don't know about that, my dear, but I think it is very
necessary that somebody should be in his confidence; highly necessary.'
Elated by a look of curiosity from her son, and the consciousness of possessing a great
secret, all to herself, Mrs Nickleby went on with great animation:
'I am sure, my dear Nicholas, how you can have failed to notice it, is, to me, quite
extraordinary; though I don't know why I should say that, either, because, of course, as far as
it goes, and to a certain extent, there is a great deal in this sort of thing, especially in this
early stage, which, however clear it may be to females, can scarcely be expected to be so
evident to men. I don't say that I have any particular penetration in such matters. I may have;
those about me should know best about that, and perhaps do know. Upon that point I shall
express no opinion, it wouldn't become me to do so, it's quite out of the question, quite.'
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 678
Nicholas snuffed the candles, put his hands in his pockets, and, leaning back in his
chair, assumed a look of patient suffering and melancholy resignation.
'I think it my duty, Nicholas, my dear,' resumed his mother, 'to tell you what I know: not
only because you have a right to know it too, and to know everything that happens in this
family, but because you have it in your power to promote and assist the thing very much;
and there is no doubt that the sooner one can come to a clear understanding on such subjects,
it is always better, every way. There are a great many things you might do; such as taking a
walk in the garden sometimes, or sitting upstairs in your own room for a little while, or
making believe to fall asleep occasionally, or pretending that you recollected some business,
and going out for an hour or so, and taking Mr Smike with you. These seem very slight
things, and I dare say you will be amused at my making them of so much importance; at the
same time, my dear, I can assure you (and you'll find this out, Nicholas, for yourself one of
these days, if you ever fall in love with anybody; as I trust and hope you will, provided she
is respectable and well conducted, and of course you'd never dream of falling in love with
anybody who was not), I say, I can assure you that a great deal more depends upon these
little things than you would suppose possible. If your poor papa was alive, he would tell you
how much depended on the parties being left alone. Of course, you are not to go out of the
room as if you meant it and did it on purpose, but as if it was quite an accident, and to come
back again in the same way. If you cough in the passage before you open the door, or
whistle carelessly, or hum a tune, or something of that sort, to let them know you're coming,
it's always better; because, of course, though it's not only natural but perfectly correct and
proper under the circumstances, still it is very confusing if you interrupt young people when
they are – when they are sitting on the sofa, and – and all that sort of thing: which is very
nonsensical, perhaps, but still they will do it.'
The profound astonishment with which her son regarded her during this long address,
gradually increasing as it approached its climax in no way discomposed Mrs Nickleby, but
rather exalted her opinion of her own cleverness; therefore, merely stopping to remark, with
much complacency, that she had fully expected him to be surprised, she entered on a vast
quantity of circumstantial evidence of a particularly incoherent and perplexing kind; the
upshot of which was, to establish, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Mr Frank Cheeryble
had fallen desperately in love with Kate.
'With whom?' cried Nicholas.
Mrs Nickleby repeated, with Kate.
'What! OUR Kate! My sister!'
'Lord, Nicholas!' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'whose Kate should it be, if not ours; or what
should I care about it, or take any interest in it for, if it was anybody but your sister?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 679
'Dear mother,' said Nicholas, 'surely it can't be!'
'Very good, my dear,' replied Mrs Nickleby, with great confidence. 'Wait and see.'
Nicholas had never, until that moment, bestowed a thought upon the remote possibility
of such an occurrence as that which was now communicated to him; for, besides that he had
been much from home of late and closely occupied with other matters, his own jealous fears
had prompted the suspicion that some secret interest in Madeline, akin to that which he felt
himself, occasioned those visits of Frank Cheeryble which had recently become so frequent.
Even now, although he knew that the observation of an anxious mother was much more
likely to be correct in such a case than his own, and although she reminded him of many
little circumstances which, taken together, were certainly susceptible of the construction she
triumphantly put upon them, he was not quite convinced but that they arose from mere
good−natured thoughtless gallantry, which would have dictated the same conduct towards
any other girl who was young and pleasing. At all events, he hoped so, and therefore tried to
believe it.
'I am very much disturbed by what you tell me,' said Nicholas, after a little reflection,
'though I yet hope you may be mistaken.'
'I don't understand why you should hope so,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I confess; but you may
depend upon it I am not.'
'What of Kate?' inquired Nicholas.
'Why that, my dear,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'is just the point upon which I am not yet
satisfied. During this sickness, she has been constantly at Madeline's bedside – never were
two people so fond of each other as they have grown – and to tell you the truth, Nicholas, I
have rather kept her away now and then, because I think it's a good plan, and urges a young
man on. He doesn't get too sure, you know.'
She said this with such a mingling of high delight and self− congratulation, that it was
inexpressibly painful to Nicholas to dash her hopes; but he felt that there was only one
honourable course before him, and that he was bound to take it.
'Dear mother,' he said kindly, 'don't you see that if there were really any serious
inclination on the part of Mr Frank towards Kate, and we suffered ourselves for a moment to
encourage it, we should be acting a most dishonourable and ungrateful part? I ask you if you
don't see it, but I need not say that I know you don't, or you would have been more strictly
on your guard. Let me explain my meaning to you. Remember how poor we are.'
Mrs Nickleby shook her head, and said, through her tears, that poverty was not a crime.
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 680
'No,' said Nicholas, 'and for that reason poverty should engender an honest pride, that it
may not lead and tempt us to unworthy actions, and that we may preserve the self−respect
which a hewer of wood and drawer of water may maintain, and does better in maintaining
than a monarch in preserving his. Think what we owe to these two brothers: remember what
they have done, and what they do every day for us with a generosity and delicacy for which
the devotion of our whole lives would be a most imperfect and inadequate return. What kind
of return would that be which would be comprised in our permitting their nephew, their only
relative, whom they regard as a son, and for whom it would be mere childishness to suppose
they have not formed plans suitably adapted to the education he has had, and the fortune he
will inherit – in our permitting him to marry a portionless girl: so closely connected with us,
that the irresistible inference must be, that he was entrapped by a plot; that it was a
deliberate scheme, and a speculation amongst us three? Bring the matter clearly before
yourself, mother. Now, how would you feel, if they were married, and the brothers, coming
here on one of those kind errands which bring them here so often, you had to break out to
them the truth? Would you be at ease, and feel that you had played an open part?'
Poor Mrs Nickleby, crying more and more, murmured that of course Mr Frank would
ask the consent of his uncles first.
'Why, to be sure, that would place HIM in a better situation with them,' said Nicholas,
'but we should still be open to the same suspicions; the distance between us would still be as
great; the advantages to be gained would still be as manifest as now. We may be reckoning
without our host in all this,' he added more cheerfully, 'and I trust, and almost believe we
are. If it be otherwise, I have that confidence in Kate that I know she will feel as I do – and
in you, dear mother, to be assured that after a little consideration you will do the same.'
After many more representations and entreaties, Nicholas obtained a promise from Mrs
Nickleby that she would try all she could to think as he did; and that if Mr Frank persevered
in his attentions she would endeavour to discourage them, or, at the least, would render him
no countenance or assistance. He determined to forbear mentioning the subject to Kate until
he was quite convinced that there existed a real necessity for his doing so; and resolved to
assure himself, as well as he could by close personal observation, of the exact position of
affairs. This was a very wise resolution, but he was prevented from putting it in practice by a
new source of anxiety and uneasiness.
Smike became alarmingly ill; so reduced and exhausted that he could scarcely move
from room to room without assistance; and so worn and emaciated, that it was painful to
look upon him. Nicholas was warned, by the same medical authority to whom he had at first
appealed, that the last chance and hope of his life depended on his being instantly removed
from London. That part of Devonshire in which Nicholas had been himself bred was named
as the most favourable spot; but this advice was cautiously coupled with the information,
that whoever accompanied him thither must be prepared for the worst; for every token of
rapid consumption had appeared, and he might never return alive.
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 681
The kind brothers, who were acquainted with the poor creature's sad history, dispatched
old Tim to be present at this consultation. That same morning, Nicholas was summoned by
brother Charles into his private room, and thus addressed:
'My dear sir, no time must be lost. This lad shall not die, if such human means as we can
use can save his life; neither shall he die alone, and in a strange place. Remove him
tomorrow morning, see that he has every comfort that his situation requires, and don't leave
him; don't leave him, my dear sir, until you know that there is no longer any immediate
danger. It would be hard, indeed, to part you now. No, no, no! Tim shall wait upon you
tonight, sir; Tim shall wait upon you tonight with a parting word or two. Brother Ned, my
dear fellow, Mr Nickleby waits to shake hands and say goodbye; Mr Nickleby won't be long
gone; this poor chap will soon get better, very soon get better; and then he'll find out some
nice homely country−people to leave him with, and will go backwards and forwards
sometimes – backwards and forwards you know, Ned. And there's no cause to be
downhearted, for he'll very soon get better, very soon. Won't he, won't he, Ned?'
What Tim Linkinwater said, or what he brought with him that night, needs not to be
told. Next morning Nicholas and his feeble companion began their journey.
And who but one – and that one he who, but for those who crowded round him then,
had never met a look of kindness, or known a word of pity – could tell what agony of mind,
what blighted thoughts, what unavailing sorrow, were involved in that sad parting?
'See,' cried Nicholas eagerly, as he looked from the coach window, 'they are at the
corner of the lane still! And now there's Kate, poor Kate, whom you said you couldn't bear
to say goodbye to, waving her handkerchief. Don't go without one gesture of farewell to
Kate!'
'I cannot make it!' cried his trembling companion, falling back in his seat and covering
his eyes. 'Do you see her now? Is she there still?'
'Yes, yes!' said Nicholas earnestly. 'There! She waves her hand again! I have answered
it for you – and now they are out of sight. Do not give way so bitterly, dear friend, don't.
You will meet them all again.'
He whom he thus encouraged, raised his withered hands and clasped them fervently
together.
'In heaven. I humbly pray to God in heaven.'
It sounded like the prayer of a broken heart.
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CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows. 682
CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late
Design,
h
atches a Scheme of Retaliation which Accident suggests to him, and takes into his
Counsels a tried Auxiliary.
The course which these adventures shape out for themselves, and imperatively call upon
the historian to observe, now demands that they should revert to the point they attained
previously to the commencement of the last chapter, when Ralph Nickleby and Arthur Gride
were left together in the house where death had so suddenly reared his dark and heavy
banner.
With clenched hands, and teeth ground together so firm and tight that no locking of the
jaws could have fixed and riveted them more securely, Ralph stood, for some minutes, in the
attitude in which he had last addressed his nephew: breathing heavily, but as rigid and
motionless in other respects as if he had been a brazen statue. After a time, he began, by
slow degrees, as a man rousing himself from heavy slumber, to relax. For a moment he
shook his clasped fist towards the door by which Nicholas had disappeared; and then
thrusting it into his breast, as if to repress by force even this show of passion, turned round
and confronted the less hardy usurer, who had not yet risen from the ground.
The cowering wretch, who still shook in every limb, and whose few grey hairs trembled
and quivered on his head with abject dismay, tottered to his feet as he met Ralph's eye, and,
shielding his face with both hands, protested, while he crept towards the door, that it was no
fault of his.
'Who said it was, man?' returned Ralph, in a suppressed voice. 'Who said it was?'
'You looked as if you thought I was to blame,' said Gride, timidly.
'Pshaw!' Ralph muttered, forcing a laugh. 'I blame him for not living an hour longer.
One hour longer would have been long enough. I blame no one else.'
'N – n – no one else?' said Gride.
'Not for this mischance,' replied Ralph. 'I have an old score to clear with that young
fellow who has carried off your mistress; but that has nothing to do with his blustering just
now, for we should soon have been quit of him, but for this cursed accident.'
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 683
There was something so unnatural in the calmness with which Ralph Nickleby spoke,
when coupled with his face, the expression of the features, to which every nerve and muscle,
as it twitched and throbbed with a spasm whose workings no effort could conceal, gave,
every instant, some new and frightful aspect – there was something so unnatural and ghastly
in the contrast between his harsh, slow, steady voice (only altered by a certain halting of the
breath which made him pause between almost every word like a drunken man bent upon
speaking plainly), and these evidences of the most intense and violent passion, and the
struggle he made to keep them under; that if the dead body which lay above had stood,
instead of him, before the cowering Gride, it could scarcely have presented a spectacle
which would have terrified him more.
'The coach,' said Ralph after a time, during which he had struggled like some strong
man against a fit. 'We came in a coach. Is it waiting?'
Gride gladly availed himself of the pretext for going to the window to see. Ralph,
keeping his face steadily the other way, tore at his shirt with the hand which he had thrust
into his breast, and muttered in a hoarse whisper:
'Ten thousand pounds! He said ten thousand! The precise sum paid in but yesterday for
the two mortgages, and which would have gone out again, at heavy interest, tomorrow. If
that house has failed, and he the first to bring the news! – Is the coach there?'
'Yes, yes,' said Gride, startled by the fierce tone of the inquiry. 'It's here. Dear, dear,
what a fiery man you are!'
'Come here,' said Ralph, beckoning to him. 'We mustn't make a show of being
disturbed. We'll go down arm in arm.'
'But you pinch me black and blue,' urged Gride.
Ralph let him go impatiently, and descending the stairs with his usual firm and heavy
tread, got into the coach. Arthur Gride followed. After looking doubtfully at Ralph when the
man asked where he was to drive, and finding that he remained silent, and expressed no
wish upon the subject, Arthur mentioned his own house, and thither they proceeded.
On their way, Ralph sat in the furthest corner with folded arms, and uttered not a word.
With his chin sunk upon his breast, and his downcast eyes quite hidden by the contraction of
his knotted brows, he might have been asleep for any sign of consciousness he gave until the
coach stopped, when he raised his head, and glancing through the window, inquired what
place that was.
'My house,' answered the disconsolate Gride, affected perhaps by its loneliness. 'Oh
dear! my house.'
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 684
'True,' said Ralph 'I have not observed the way we came. I should like a glass of water.
You have that in the house, I suppose?'
'You shall have a glass of – of anything you like,' answered Gride, with a groan. 'It's no
use knocking, coachman. Ring the bell!'
The man rang, and rang, and rang again; then, knocked until the street re−echoed with
the sounds; then, listened at the keyhole of the door. Nobody came. The house was silent as
the grave.
'How's this?' said Ralph impatiently.
'Peg is so very deaf,' answered Gride with a look of anxiety and alarm. 'Oh dear! Ring
again, coachman. She SEES the bell.'
Again the man rang and knocked, and knocked and rang again. Some of the neighbours
threw up their windows, and called across the street to each other that old Gride's
housekeeper must have dropped down dead. Others collected round the coach, and gave vent
to various surmises; some held that she had fallen asleep; some, that she had burnt herself to
death; some, that she had got drunk; and one very fat man that she had seen something to eat
which had frightened her so much (not being used to it) that she had fallen into a fit. This
last suggestion particularly delighted the bystanders, who cheered it rather uproariously, and
were, with some difficulty, deterred from dropping down the area and breaking open the
kitchen door to ascertain the fact. Nor was this all. Rumours having gone abroad that Arthur
was to be married that morning, very particular inquiries were made after the bride, who was
held by the majority to be disguised in the person of Mr Ralph Nickleby, which gave rise to
much jocose indignation at the public appearance of a bride in boots and pantaloons, and
called forth a great many hoots and groans. At length, the two money−lenders obtained
shelter in a house next door, and, being accommodated with a ladder, clambered over the
wall of the back−yard – which was not a high one – and descended in safety on the other
side.
'I am almost afraid to go in, I declare,' said Arthur, turning to Ralph when they were
alone. 'Suppose she should be murdered. Lying with her brains knocked out by a poker, eh?'
'Suppose she were,' said Ralph. 'I tell you, I wish such things were more common than
they are, and more easily done. You may stare and shiver. I do!'
He applied himself to a pump in the yard; and, having taken a deep draught of water and
flung a quantity on his head and face, regained his accustomed manner and led the way into
the house: Gride following close at his heels.
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 685
It was the same dark place as ever: every room dismal and silent as it was wont to be,
and every ghostly article of furniture in its customary place. The iron heart of the grim old
clock, undisturbed by all the noise without, still beat heavily within its dusty case; the
tottering presses slunk from the sight, as usual, in their melancholy corners; the echoes of
footsteps returned the same dreary sound; the long−legged spider paused in his nimble run,
and, scared by the sight of men in that his dull domain, hung motionless on the wall,
counterfeiting death until they should have passed him by.
From cellar to garret went the two usurers, opening every creaking door and looking
into every deserted room. But no Peg was there. At last, they sat them down in the apartment
which Arthur Gride usually inhabited, to rest after their search.
'The hag is out, on some preparation for your wedding festivities, I suppose,' said Ralph,
preparing to depart. 'See here! I destroy the bond; we shall never need it now.'
Gride, who had been peering narrowly about the room, fell, at that moment, upon his
knees before a large chest, and uttered a terrible yell.
'How now?' said Ralph, looking sternly round.
'Robbed! robbed!' screamed Arthur Gride.
'Robbed! of money?'
'No, no, no. Worse! far worse!'
'Of what then?' demanded Ralph.
'Worse than money, worse than money!' cried the old man, casting the papers out of the
chest, like some beast tearing up the earth. 'She had better have stolen money – all my
money – I haven't much! She had better have made me a beggar than have done this!'
'Done what?' said Ralph. 'Done what, you devil's dotard?'
Still Gride made no answer, but tore and scratched among the papers, and yelled and
screeched like a fiend in torment.
'There is something missing, you say,' said Ralph, shaking him furiously by the collar.
'What is it?'
'Papers, deeds. I am a ruined man. Lost, lost! I am robbed, I am ruined! She saw me
reading it – reading it of late – I did very often – She watched me, saw me put it in the box
that fitted into this, the box is gone, she has stolen it. Damnation seize her, she has robbed
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 686
me!'
'Of WHAT?' cried Ralph, on whom a sudden light appeared to break, for his eyes
flashed and his frame trembled with agitation as he clutched Gride by his bony arm. 'Of
what?'
'She don't know what it is; she can't read!' shrieked Gride, not heeding the inquiry.
'There's only one way in which money can be made of it, and that is by taking it to her.
Somebody will read it for her, and tell her what to do. She and her accomplice will get
money for it and be let off besides; they'll make a merit of it – say they found it – knew it –
and be evidence against me. The only person it will fall upon is me, me, me!'
'Patience!' said Ralph, clutching him still tighter and eyeing him with a sidelong look,
so fixed and eager as sufficiently to denote that he had some hidden purpose in what he was
about to say. 'Hear reason. She can't have been gone long. I'll call the police. Do you but
give information of what she has stolen, and they'll lay hands upon her, trust me. Here!
Help!'
'No, no, no!' screamed the old man, putting his hand on Ralph's mouth. 'I can't, I
daren't.'
'Help! help!' cried Ralph.
'No, no, no!' shrieked the other, stamping on the ground with the energy of a madman. 'I
tell you no. I daren't, I daren't!'
'Daren't make this robbery public?' said Ralph.
'No!' rejoined Gride, wringing his hands. 'Hush! Hush! Not a word of this; not a word
must be said. I am undone. Whichever way I turn, I am undone. I am betrayed. I shall be
given up. I shall die in Newgate!'
With frantic exclamations such as these, and with many others in which fear, grief, and
rage, were strangely blended, the panic− stricken wretch gradually subdued his first loud
outcry, until it had softened down into a low despairing moan, chequered now and then by a
howl, as, going over such papers as were left in the chest, he discovered some new loss.
With very little excuse for departing so abruptly, Ralph left him, and, greatly disappointing
the loiterers outside the house by telling them there was nothing the matter, got into the
coach, and was driven to his own home.
A letter lay on his table. He let it lie there for some time, as if he had not the courage to
open it, but at length did so and turned deadly pale.
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 687
'The worst has happened,' he said; 'the house has failed. I see. The rumour was abroad in
the city last night, and reached the ears of those merchants. Well, well!'
He strode violently up and down the room and stopped again.
'Ten thousand pounds! And only lying there for a day – for one day! How many anxious
years, how many pinching days and sleepless nights, before I scraped together that ten
thousand pounds! – Ten thousand pounds! How many proud painted dames would have
fawned and smiled, and how many spendthrift blockheads done me lip−service to my face
and cursed me in their hearts, while I turned that ten thousand pounds into twenty! While I
ground, and pinched, and used these needy borrowers for my pleasure and profit, what
smooth−tongued speeches, and courteous looks, and civil letters, they would have given me!
The cant of the lying world is, that men like me compass our riches by dissimulation and
treachery: by fawning, cringing, and stooping. Why, how many lies, what mean and abject
evasions, what humbled behaviour from upstarts who, but for my money, would spurn me
aside as they do their betters every day, would that ten thousand pounds have brought me in!
Grant that I had doubled it – made cent. per cent. – for every sovereign told another – there
would not be one piece of money in all the heap which wouldn't represent ten thousand
mean and paltry lies, told, not by the money−lender, oh no! but by the money−borrowers,
your liberal, thoughtless, generous, dashing folks, who wouldn't be so mean as save a
sixpence for the world!'
Striving, as it would seem, to lose part of the bitterness of his regrets in the bitterness of
these other thoughts, Ralph continued to pace the room. There was less and less of
resolution in his manner as his mind gradually reverted to his loss; at length, dropping into
his elbow−chair and grasping its sides so firmly that they creaked again, he said:
'The time has been when nothing could have moved me like the loss of this great sum.
Nothing. For births, deaths, marriages, and all the events which are of interest to most men,
have (unless they are connected with gain or loss of money) no interest for me. But now, I
swear, I mix up with the loss, his triumph in telling it. If he had brought it about, – I almost
feel as if he had, – I couldn't hate him more. Let me but retaliate upon him, by degrees,
however slow – let me but begin to get the better of him, let me but turn the scale – and I can
bear it.'
His meditations were long and deep. They terminated in his dispatching a letter by
Newman, addressed to Mr Squeers at the Saracen's Head, with instructions to inquire
whether he had arrived in town, and, if so, to wait an answer. Newman brought back the
information that Mr Squeers had come by mail that morning, and had received the letter in
bed; but that he sent his duty, and word that he would get up and wait upon Mr Nickleby
directly.
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 688
The interval between the delivery of this message, and the arrival of Mr Squeers, was
very short; but, before he came, Ralph had suppressed every sign of emotion, and once more
regained the hard, immovable, inflexible manner which was habitual to him, and to which,
perhaps, was ascribable no small part of the influence which, over many men of no very
strong prejudices on the score of morality, he could exert, almost at will.
'Well, Mr Squeers,' he said, welcoming that worthy with his accustomed smile, of which
a sharp look and a thoughtful frown were part and parcel: 'how do YOU do?'
'Why, sir,' said Mr Squeers, 'I'm pretty well. So's the family, and so's the boys, except
for a sort of rash as is a running through the school, and rather puts 'em off their feed. But
it's a ill wind as blows no good to nobody; that's what I always say when them lads has a
wisitation. A wisitation, sir, is the lot of mortality. Mortality itself, sir, is a wisitation. The
world is chock full of wisitations; and if a boy repines at a wisitation and makes you
uncomfortable with his noise, he must have his head punched. That's going according to the
Scripter, that is.'
'Mr Squeers,' said Ralph, drily.
'Sir.'
'We'll avoid these precious morsels of morality if you please, and talk of business.'
'With all my heart, sir,' rejoined Squeers, 'and first let me say – '
'First let ME say, if you please. – Noggs!'
Newman presented himself when the summons had been twice or thrice repeated, and
asked if his master called.
'I did. Go to your dinner. And go at once. Do you hear?'
'It an't time,' said Newman, doggedly.
'My time is yours, and I say it is,' returned Ralph.
'You alter it every day,' said Newman. 'It isn't fair.'
'You don't keep many cooks, and can easily apologise to them for the trouble,' retorted
Ralph. 'Begone, sir!'
Ralph not only issued this order in his most peremptory manner, but, under pretence of
fetching some papers from the little office, saw it obeyed, and, when Newman had left the
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 689
house, chained the door, to prevent the possibility of his returning secretly, by means of his
latch−key.
'I have reason to suspect that fellow,' said Ralph, when he returned to his own office.
'Therefore, until I have thought of the shortest and least troublesome way of ruining him, I
hold it best to keep him at a distance.'
'It wouldn't take much to ruin him, I should think,' said Squeers, with a grin.
'Perhaps not,' answered Ralph. 'Nor to ruin a great many people whom I know. You
were going to say – ?'
Ralph's summary and matter−of−course way of holding up this example, and throwing
out the hint that followed it, had evidently an effect (as doubtless it was designed to have)
upon Mr Squeers, who said, after a little hesitation and in a much more subdued tone:
'Why, what I was a−going to say, sir, is, that this here business regarding of that
ungrateful and hard−hearted chap, Snawley senior, puts me out of my way, and occasions a
inconveniency quite unparalleled, besides, as I may say, making, for whole weeks together,
Mrs Squeers a perfect widder. It's a pleasure to me to act with you, of course.'
'Of course,' said Ralph, drily.
'Yes, I say of course,' resumed Mr Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'but at the same time,
when one comes, as I do now, better than two hundred and fifty mile to take a afferdavid, it
does put a man out a good deal, letting alone the risk.'
'And where may the risk be, Mr Squeers?' said Ralph.
'I said, letting alone the risk,' replied Squeers, evasively.
'And I said, where was the risk?'
'I wasn't complaining, you know, Mr Nickleby,' pleaded Squeers. 'Upon my word I
never see such a – '
'I ask you where is the risk?' repeated Ralph, emphatically.
'Where the risk?' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees still harder. 'Why, it an't necessary
to mention. Certain subjects is best awoided. Oh, you know what risk I mean.'
'How often have I told you,' said Ralph, 'and how often am I to tell you, that you run no
risk? What have you sworn, or what are you asked to swear, but that at such and such a time
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 690
a boy was left with you in the name of Smike; that he was at your school for a given number
of years, was lost under such and such circumstances, is now found, and has been identified
by you in such and such keeping? This is all true; is it not?'
'Yes,' replied Squeers, 'that's all true.'
'Well, then,' said Ralph, 'what risk do you run? Who swears to a lie but Snawley; a man
whom I have paid much less than I have you?'
'He certainly did it cheap, did Snawley,' observed Squeers.
'He did it cheap!' retorted Ralph, testily; 'yes, and he did it well, and carries it off with a
hypocritical face and a sanctified air, but you! Risk! What do you mean by risk? The
certificates are all genuine, Snawley HAD another son, he HAS been married twice, his first
wife IS dead, none but her ghost could tell that she didn't write that letter, none but Snawley
himself can tell that this is not his son, and that his son is food for worms! The only perjury
is Snawley's, and I fancy he is pretty well used to it. Where's your risk?'
'Why, you know,' said Squeers, fidgeting in his chair, 'if you come to that, I might say
where's yours?'
'You might say where's mine!' returned Ralph; 'you may say where's mine. I don't
appear in the business, neither do you. All Snawley's interest is to stick well to the story he
has told; and all his risk is, to depart from it in the least. Talk of YOUR risk in the
conspiracy!'
'I say,' remonstrated Squeers, looking uneasily round: 'don't call it that! Just as a favour,
don't.'
'Call it what you like,' said Ralph, irritably, 'but attend to me. This tale was originally
fabricated as a means of annoyance against one who hurt your trade and half cudgelled you
to death, and to enable you to obtain repossession of a half−dead drudge, whom you wished
to regain, because, while you wreaked your vengeance on him for his share in the business,
you knew that the knowledge that he was again in your power would be the best punishment
you could inflict upon your enemy. Is that so, Mr Squeers?'
'Why, sir,' returned Squeers, almost overpowered by the determination which Ralph
displayed to make everything tell against him, and by his stern unyielding manner, 'in a
measure it was.'
'What does that mean?' said Ralph.
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 691
'Why, in a measure means," returned Squeers, 'as it may be, that it wasn't all on my
account, because you had some old grudge to satisfy, too.'
'If I had not had,' said Ralph, in no way abashed by the reminder, 'do you think I should
have helped you?'
'Why no, I don't suppose you would,' Squeers replied. 'I only wanted that point to be all
square and straight between us.'
'How can it ever be otherwise?' retorted Ralph. 'Except that the account is against me,
for I spend money to gratify my hatred, and you pocket it, and gratify yours at the same
time. You are, at least, as avaricious as you are revengeful. So am I. Which is best off? You,
who win money and revenge, at the same time and by the same process, and who are, at all
events, sure of money, if not of revenge; or I, who am only sure of spending money in any
case, and can but win bare revenge at last?'
As Mr Squeers could only answer this proposition by shrugs and smiles, Ralph bade
him be silent, and thankful that he was so well off; and then, fixing his eyes steadily upon
him, proceeded to say:
First, that Nicholas had thwarted him in a plan he had formed for the disposal in
marriage of a certain young lady, and had, in the confusion attendant on her father's sudden
death, secured that lady himself, and borne her off in triumph.
Secondly, that by some will or settlement – certainly by some instrument in writing,
which must contain the young lady's name, and could be, therefore, easily selected from
others, if access to the place where it was deposited were once secured – she was entitled to
property which, if the existence of this deed ever became known to her, would make her
husband (and Ralph represented that Nicholas was certain to marry her) a rich and
prosperous man, and most formidable enemy.
Thirdly, that this deed had been, with others, stolen from one who had himself obtained
or concealed it fraudulently, and who feared to take any steps for its recovery; and that he
(Ralph) knew the thief.
To all this Mr Squeers listened, with greedy ears that devoured every syllable, and with
his one eye and his mouth wide open: marvelling for what special reason he was honoured
with so much of Ralph's confidence, and to what it all tended.
'Now,' said Ralph, leaning forward, and placing his hand on Squeers's arm, 'hear the
design which I have conceived, and which I must – I say, must, if I can ripen it – have
carried into execution. No advantage can be reaped from this deed, whatever it is, save by
the girl herself, or her husband; and the possession of this deed by one or other of them is
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 692
indispensable to any advantage being gained. THAT I have discovered beyond the
possibility of doubt. I want that deed brought here, that I may give the man who brings it
fifty pounds in gold, and burn it to ashes before his face.'
Mr Squeers, after following with his eye the action of Ralph's hand towards the
fire−place as if he were at that moment consuming the paper, drew a long breath, and said:
'Yes; but who's to bring it?'
'Nobody, perhaps, for much is to be done before it can be got at,' said Ralph. 'But if
anybody – you!'
Mr Squeers's first tokens of consternation, and his flat relinquishment of the task, would
have staggered most men, if they had not immediately occasioned an utter abandonment of
the proposition. On Ralph they produced not the slightest effect. Resuming, when the
schoolmaster had quite talked himself out of breath, as coolly as if he had never been
interrupted, Ralph proceeded to expatiate on such features of the case as he deemed it most
advisable to lay the greatest stress on.
These were, the age, decrepitude, and weakness of Mrs Sliderskew; the great
improbability of her having any accomplice or even acquaintance: taking into account her
secluded habits, and her long residence in such a house as Gride's; the strong reason there
was to suppose that the robbery was not the result of a concerted plan: otherwise she would
have watched an opportunity of carrying off a sum of money; the difficulty she would be
placed in when she began to think on what she had done, and found herself encumbered with
documents of whose nature she was utterly ignorant; and the comparative ease with which
somebody, with a full knowledge of her position, obtaining access to her, and working on
her fears, if necessary, might worm himself into her confidence and obtain, under one
pretence or another, free possession of the deed. To these were added such considerations as
the constant residence of Mr Squeers at a long distance from London, which rendered his
association with Mrs Sliderskew a mere masquerading frolic, in which nobody was likely to
recognise him, either at the time or afterwards; the impossibility of Ralph's undertaking the
task himself, he being already known to her by sight; and various comments on the
uncommon tact and experience of Mr Squeers: which would make his overreaching one old
woman a mere matter of child's play and amusement. In addition to these influences and
persuasions, Ralph drew, with his utmost skill and power, a vivid picture of the defeat which
Nicholas would sustain, should they succeed, in linking himself to a beggar, where he
expected to wed an heiress – glanced at the immeasurable importance it must be to a man
situated as Squeers, to preserve such a friend as himself – dwelt on a long train of benefits,
conferred since their first acquaintance, when he had reported favourably of his treatment of
a sickly boy who had died under his hands (and whose death was very convenient to Ralph
and his clients, but this he did NOT say), and finally hinted that the fifty pounds might be
increased to seventy−five, or, in the event of very great success, even to a hundred.
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 693
These arguments at length concluded, Mr Squeers crossed his legs, uncrossed them,
scratched his head, rubbed his eye, examined the palms of his hands, and bit his nails, and
after exhibiting many other signs of restlessness and indecision, asked 'whether one hundred
pound was the highest that Mr Nickleby could go.' Being answered in the affirmative, he
became restless again, and, after some thought, and an unsuccessful inquiry 'whether he
couldn't go another fifty,' said he supposed he must try and do the most he could for a friend:
which was always his maxim, and therefore he undertook the job.
'But how are you to get at the woman?' he said; 'that's what it is as puzzles me.'
'I may not get at her at all,' replied Ralph, 'but I'll try. I have hunted people in this city,
before now, who have been better hid than she; and I know quarters in which a guinea or
two, carefully spent, will often solve darker riddles than this. Ay, and keep them close too, if
need be! I hear my man ringing at the door. We may as well part. You had better not come
to and fro, but wait till you hear from me.'
'Good!' returned Squeers. 'I say! If you shouldn't find her out, you'll pay expenses at the
Saracen, and something for loss of time?'
'Well,' said Ralph, testily; 'yes! You have nothing more to say?'
Squeers shaking his head, Ralph accompanied him to the streetdoor, and audibly
wondering, for the edification of Newman, why it was fastened as if it were night, let him in
and Squeers out, and returned to his own room.
'Now!' he muttered, 'come what come may, for the present I am firm and unshaken. Let
me but retrieve this one small portion of my loss and disgrace; let me but defeat him in this
one hope, dear to his heart as I know it must be; let me but do this; and it shall be the first
link in such a chain which I will wind about him, as never man forged yet.'
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CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design, 694
CHAPTER 57 − How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his
Work, and how he prospered with it.
I
t was a dark, wet, gloomy night in autumn, when in an upper room of a mean house
situated in an obscure street, or rather court, near Lambeth, there sat, all alone, a one−eyed
man grotesquely habited, either for lack of better garments or for purposes of disguise, in a
loose greatcoat, with arms half as long again as his own, and a capacity of breadth and
length which would have admitted of his winding himself in it, head and all, with the utmost
ease, and without any risk of straining the old and greasy material of which it was
composed.
So attired, and in a place so far removed from his usual haunts and occupations, and so
very poor and wretched in its character, perhaps Mrs Squeers herself would have had some
difficulty in recognising her lord: quickened though her natural sagacity doubtless would
have been by the affectionate yearnings and impulses of a tender wife. But Mrs Squeers's
lord it was; and in a tolerably disconsolate mood Mrs Squeers's lord appeared to be, as,
helping himself from a black bottle which stood on the table beside him, he cast round the
chamber a look, in which very slight regard for the objects within view was plainly mingled
with some regretful and impatient recollection of distant scenes and persons.
There were, certainly, no particular attractions, either in the room over which the glance
of Mr Squeers so discontentedly wandered, or in the narrow street into which it might have
penetrated, if he had thought fit to approach the window. The attic chamber in which he sat
was bare and mean; the bedstead, and such few other articles of necessary furniture as it
contained, were of the commonest description, in a most crazy state, and of a most
uninviting appearance. The street was muddy, dirty, and deserted. Having but one outlet, it
was traversed by few but the inhabitants at any time; and the night being one of those on
which most people are glad to be within doors, it now presented no other signs of life than
the dull glimmering of poor candles from the dirty windows, and few sounds but the
pattering of the rain, and occasionally the heavy closing of some creaking door.
Mr Squeers continued to look disconsolately about him, and to listen to these noises in
profound silence, broken only by the rustling of his large coat, as he now and then moved
his arm to raise his glass to his lips. Mr Squeers continued to do this for some time, until the
increasing gloom warned him to snuff the candle. Seeming to be slightly roused by this
exertion, he raised his eye to the ceiling, and fixing it upon some uncouth and fantastic
figures, traced upon it by the wet and damp which had penetrated through the roof, broke
into the following soliloquy:
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CHAPTER 57 − How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he prospered with it.695
'Well, this is a pretty go, is this here! An uncommon pretty go! Here have I been, a
matter of how many weeks – hard upon six – a follering up this here blessed old dowager
petty larcenerer,' – Mr Squeers delivered himself of this epithet with great difficulty and
effort, – 'and Dotheboys Hall a−running itself regularly to seed the while! That's the worst of
ever being in with a owdacious chap like that old Nickleby. You never know when he's done
with you, and if you're in for a penny, you're in for a pound.'
This remark, perhaps, reminded Mr Squeers that he was in for a hundred pound at any
rate. His countenance relaxed, and he raised his glass to his mouth with an air of greater
enjoyment of its contents than he had before evinced.
'I never see,' soliloquised Mr Squeers in continuation, 'I never see nor come across such
a file as that old Nickleby. Never! He's out of everybody's depth, he is. He's what you may
call a rasper, is Nickleby. To see how sly and cunning he grubbed on, day after day,
a−worming and plodding and tracing and turning and twining of hisself about, till he found
out where this precious Mrs Peg was hid, and cleared the ground for me to work upon.
Creeping and crawling and gliding, like a ugly, old, bright−eyed, stagnation− blooded adder!
Ah! He'd have made a good 'un in our line, but it would have been too limited for him; his
genius would have busted all bonds, and coming over every obstacle, broke down all before
it, till it erected itself into a monneyment of – Well, I'll think of the rest, and say it when
conwenient.'
Making a halt in his reflections at this place, Mr Squeers again put his glass to his lips,
and drawing a dirty letter from his pocket, proceeded to con over its contents with the air of
a man who had read it very often, and now refreshed his memory rather in the absence of
better amusement than for any specific information.
'The pigs is well,' said Mr Squeers, 'the cows is well, and the boys is bobbish. Young
Sprouter has been a−winking, has he? I'll wink him when I get back. «Cobbey would persist
in sniffing while he was a−eating his dinner, and said that the beef was so strong it made
him.» – Very good, Cobbey, we'll see if we can't make you sniff a little without beef.
«Pitcher was took with another fever,» – of course he was – «and being fetched by his
friends, died the day after he got home,» – of course he did, and out of aggravation; it's part
of a deep−laid system. There an't another chap in the school but that boy as would have died
exactly at the end of the quarter: taking it out of me to the very last, and then carrying his
spite to the utmost extremity. «The juniorest Palmer said he wished he was in Heaven.» I
really don't know, I do NOT know what's to be done with that young fellow; he's always
a−wishing something horrid. He said once, he wished he was a donkey, because then he
wouldn't have a father as didn't love him! Pretty wicious that for a child of six!'
Mr Squeers was so much moved by the contemplation of this hardened nature in one so
young, that he angrily put up the letter, and sought, in a new train of ideas, a subject of
consolation.
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'It's a long time to have been a−lingering in London,' he said; 'and this is a precious hole
to come and live in, even if it has been only for a week or so. Still, one hundred pound is
five boys, and five boys takes a whole year to pay one hundred pounds, and there's their
keep to be substracted, besides. There's nothing lost, neither, by one's being here; because
the boys' money comes in just the same as if I was at home, and Mrs Squeers she keeps them
in order. There'll be some lost time to make up, of course. There'll be an arrear of flogging
as'll have to be gone through: still, a couple of days makes that all right, and one don't mind
a little extra work for one hundred pound. It's pretty nigh the time to wait upon the old
woman. From what she said last night, I suspect that if I'm to succeed at all, I shall succeed
tonight; so I'll have half a glass more, to wish myself success, and put myself in spirits. Mrs
Squeers, my dear, your health!'
Leering with his one eye as if the lady to whom he drank had been actually present, Mr
Squeers – in his enthusiasm, no doubt – poured out a full glass, and emptied it; and as the
liquor was raw spirits, and he had applied himself to the same bottle more than once already,
it is not surprising that he found himself, by this time, in an extremely cheerful state, and
quite enough excited for his purpose.
What this purpose was soon appeared; for, after a few turns about the room to steady
himself, he took the bottle under his arm and the glass in his hand, and blowing out the
candle as if he purposed being gone some time, stole out upon the staircase, and creeping
softly to a door opposite his own, tapped gently at it.
'But what's the use of tapping?' he said, 'She'll never hear. I suppose she isn't doing
anything very particular; and if she is, it don't much matter, that I see.'
With this brief preface, Mr Squeers applied his hand to the latch of the door, and
thrusting his head into a garret far more deplorable than that he had just left, and seeing that
there was nobody there but an old woman, who was bending over a wretched fire (for
although the weather was still warm, the evening was chilly), walked in, and tapped her on
the shoulder.
'Well, my Slider,' said Mr Squeers, jocularly.
'Is that you?' inquired Peg.
'Ah! it's me, and me's the first person singular, nominative case, agreeing with the verb
«it's», and governed by Squeers understood, as a acorn, a hour; but when the h is sounded,
the a only is to be used, as a and, a art, a ighway,' replied Mr Squeers, quoting at random
from the grammar. 'At least, if it isn't, you don't know any better, and if it is, I've done it
accidentally.'
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Delivering this reply in his accustomed tone of voice, in which of course it was
inaudible to Peg, Mr Squeers drew a stool to the fire, and placing himself over against her,
and the bottle and glass on the floor between them, roared out again, very loud,
'Well, my Slider!'
'I hear you,' said Peg, receiving him very graciously.
'I've come according to promise,' roared Squeers.
'So they used to say in that part of the country I come from,' observed Peg,
complacently, 'but I think oil's better.'
'Better than what?' roared Squeers, adding some rather strong language in an undertone.
'No,' said Peg, 'of course not.'
'I never saw such a monster as you are!' muttered Squeers, looking as amiable as he
possibly could the while; for Peg's eye was upon him, and she was chuckling fearfully, as
though in delight at having made a choice repartee, 'Do you see this? This is a bottle.'
'I see it,' answered Peg.
'Well, and do you see THIS?' bawled Squeers. 'This is a glass.' Peg saw that too.
'See here, then,' said Squeers, accompanying his remarks with appropriate action, 'I fill
the glass from the bottle, and I say «Your health, Slider,» and empty it; then I rinse it
genteelly with a little drop, which I'm forced to throw into the fire – hallo! we shall have the
chimbley alight next – fill it again, and hand it over to you.'
'YOUR health,' said Peg.
'She understands that, anyways,' muttered Squeers, watching Mrs Sliderskew as she
dispatched her portion, and choked and gasped in a most awful manner after so doing. 'Now
then, let's have a talk. How's the rheumatics?'
Mrs Sliderskew, with much blinking and chuckling, and with looks expressive of her
strong admiration of Mr Squeers, his person, manners, and conversation, replied that the
rheumatics were better.
'What's the reason,' said Mr Squeers, deriving fresh facetiousness from the bottle;
'what's the reason of rheumatics? What do they mean? What do people have'em for – eh?'
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Mrs Sliderskew didn't know, but suggested that it was possibly because they couldn't
help it.
'Measles, rheumatics, hooping−cough, fevers, agers, and lumbagers,' said Mr Squeers,
'is all philosophy together; that's what it is. The heavenly bodies is philosophy, and the
earthly bodies is philosophy. If there's a screw loose in a heavenly body, that's philosophy;
and if there's screw loose in a earthly body, that's philosophy too; or it may be that
sometimes there's a little metaphysics in it, but that's not often. Philosophy's the chap for me.
If a parent asks a question in the classical, commercial, or mathematical line, says I, gravely,
«Why, sir, in the first place, are you a philosopher?» – «No, Mr Squeers,» he says, «I an't.»
«Then, sir,» says I, «I am sorry for you, for I shan't be able to explain it.» Naturally, the
parent goes away and wishes he was a philosopher, and, equally naturally, thinks I'm one.'
Saying this, and a great deal more, with tipsy profundity and a serio−comic air, and
keeping his eye all the time on Mrs Sliderskew, who was unable to hear one word, Mr
Squeers concluded by helping himself and passing the bottle: to which Peg did becoming
reverence.
'That's the time of day!' said Mr Squeers. 'You look twenty pound ten better than you
did.'
Again Mrs Sliderskew chuckled, but modesty forbade her assenting verbally to the
compliment.
'Twenty pound ten better,' repeated Mr Squeers, 'than you did that day when I first
introduced myself. Don't you know?'
'Ah!' said Peg, shaking her head, 'but you frightened me that day.'
'Did I?' said Squeers; 'well, it was rather a startling thing for a stranger to come and
recommend himself by saying that he knew all about you, and what your name was, and
why you were living so quiet here, and what you had boned, and who you boned it from,
wasn't it?'
Peg nodded her head in strong assent.
'But I know everything that happens in that way, you see,' continued Squeers. 'Nothing
takes place, of that kind, that I an't up to entirely. I'm a sort of a lawyer, Slider, of first−rate
standing, and understanding too; I'm the intimate friend and confidential adwiser of pretty
nigh every man, woman, and child that gets themselves into difficulties by being too nimble
with their fingers, I'm – '
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Mr Squeers's catalogue of his own merits and accomplishments, which was partly the
result of a concerted plan between himself and Ralph Nickleby, and flowed, in part, from the
black bottle, was here interrupted by Mrs Sliderskew.
'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried, folding her arms and wagging her head; 'and so he wasn't married
after all, wasn't he. Not married after all?'
'No,' replied Squeers, 'that he wasn't!'
'And a young lover come and carried off the bride, eh?' said Peg.
'From under his very nose,' replied Squeers; 'and I'm told the young chap cut up rough
besides, and broke the winders, and forced him to swaller his wedding favour which nearly
choked him.'
'Tell me all about it again,' cried Peg, with a malicious relish of her old master's defeat,
which made her natural hideousness something quite fearful; 'let's hear it all again,
beginning at the beginning now, as if you'd never told me. Let's have it every word – now –
now – beginning at the very first, you know, when he went to the house that morning!'
Mr Squeers, plying Mrs Sliderskew freely with the liquor, and sustaining himself under
the exertion of speaking so loud by frequent applications to it himself, complied with this
request by describing the discomfiture of Arthur Gride, with such improvements on the truth
as happened to occur to him, and the ingenious invention and application of which had been
very instrumental in recommending him to her notice in the beginning of their acquaintance.
Mrs Sliderskew was in an ecstasy of delight, rolling her head about, drawing up her skinny
shoulders, and wrinkling her cadaverous face into so many and such complicated forms of
ugliness, as awakened the unbounded astonishment and disgust even of Mr Squeers.
'He's a treacherous old goat,' said Peg, 'and cozened me with cunning tricks and lying
promises, but never mind. I'm even with him. I'm even with him.'
'More than even, Slider,' returned Squeers; 'you'd have been even with him if he'd got
married; but with the disappointment besides, you're a long way ahead. Out of sight, Slider,
quite out of sight. And that reminds me,' he added, handing her the glass, 'if you want me to
give you my opinion of them deeds, and tell you what you'd better keep and what you'd
better burn, why, now's your time, Slider.'
'There an't no hurry for that,' said Peg, with several knowing looks and winks.
'Oh! very well!' observed Squeers, 'it don't matter to me; you asked me, you know. I
shouldn't charge you nothing, being a friend. You're the best judge of course. But you're a
bold woman, Slider.'
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'How do you mean, bold?' said Peg.
'Why, I only mean that if it was me, I wouldn't keep papers as might hang me, littering
about when they might be turned into money – them as wasn't useful made away with, and
them as was, laid by somewheres, safe; that's all,' returned Squeers; 'but everybody's the best
judge of their own affairs. All I say is, Slider, I wouldn't do it.'
'Come,' said Peg, 'then you shall see 'em.'
'I don't want to see 'em,' replied Squeers, affecting to be out of humour; 'don't talk as if it
was a treat. Show 'em to somebody else, and take their advice.'
Mr Squeers would, very likely, have carried on the farce of being offended a little
longer, if Mrs Sliderskew, in her anxiety to restore herself to her former high position in his
good graces, had not become so extremely affectionate that he stood at some risk of being
smothered by her caresses. Repressing, with as good a grace as possible, these little
familiarities – for which, there is reason to believe, the black bottle was at least as much to
blame as any constitutional infirmity on the part of Mrs Sliderskew – he protested that he
had only been joking: and, in proof of his unimpaired good− humour, that he was ready to
examine the deeds at once, if, by so doing, he could afford any satisfaction or relief of mind
to his fair friend.
'And now you're up, my Slider,' bawled Squeers, as she rose to fetch them, 'bolt the
door.'
Peg trotted to the door, and after fumbling at the bolt, crept to the other end of the room,
and from beneath the coals which filled the bottom of the cupboard, drew forth a small deal
box. Having placed this on the floor at Squeers's feet, she brought, from under the pillow of
her bed, a small key, with which she signed to that gentleman to open it. Mr Squeers, who
had eagerly followed her every motion, lost no time in obeying this hint: and, throwing back
the lid, gazed with rapture on the documents which lay within.
'Now you see,' said Peg, kneeling down on the floor beside him, and staying his
impatient hand; 'what's of no use we'll burn; what we can get any money by, we'll keep; and
if there's any we could get him into trouble by, and fret and waste away his heart to shreds,
those we'll take particular care of; for that's what I want to do, and what I hoped to do when
I left him.'
'I thought,' said Squeers, 'that you didn't bear him any particular good−will. But, I say,
why didn't you take some money besides?'
'Some what?' asked Peg.
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'Some money,' roared Squeers. 'I do believe the woman hears me, and wants to make
me break a wessel, so that she may have the pleasure of nursing me. Some money, Slider,
money!'
'Why, what a man you are to ask!' cried Peg, with some contempt. 'If I had taken money
from Arthur Gride, he'd have scoured the whole earth to find me – aye, and he'd have smelt
it out, and raked it up, somehow, if I had buried it at the bottom of the deepest well in
England. No, no! I knew better than that. I took what I thought his secrets were hid in: and
them he couldn't afford to make public, let'em be worth ever so much money. He's an old
dog; a sly, old, cunning, thankless dog! He first starved, and then tricked me; and if I could
I'd kill him.'
'All right, and very laudable,' said Squeers. 'But, first and foremost, Slider, burn the box.
You should never keep things as may lead to discovery. Always mind that. So while you
pull it to pieces (which you can easily do, for it's very old and rickety) and burn it in little
bits, I'll look over the papers and tell you what they are.'
Peg, expressing her acquiescence in this arrangement, Mr Squeers turned the box
bottom upwards, and tumbling the contents upon the floor, handed it to her; the destruction
of the box being an extemporary device for engaging her attention, in case it should prove
desirable to distract it from his own proceedings.
'There!' said Squeers; 'you poke the pieces between the bars, and make up a good fire,
and I'll read the while. Let me see, let me see.' And taking the candle down beside him, Mr
Squeers, with great eagerness and a cunning grin overspreading his face, entered upon his
task of examination.
If the old woman had not been very deaf, she must have heard, when she last went to
the door, the breathing of two persons close behind it: and if those two persons had been
unacquainted with her infirmity, they must probably have chosen that moment either for
presenting themselves or taking to flight. But, knowing with whom they had to deal, they
remained quite still, and now, not only appeared unobserved at the door – which was not
bolted, for the bolt had no hasp – but warily, and with noiseless footsteps, advanced into the
room.
As they stole farther and farther in by slight and scarcely perceptible degrees, and with
such caution that they scarcely seemed to breathe, the old hag and Squeers little dreaming of
any such invasion, and utterly unconscious of there being any soul near but themselves,
were busily occupied with their tasks. The old woman, with her wrinkled face close to the
bars of the stove, puffing at the dull embers which had not yet caught the wood; Squeers
stooping down to the candle, which brought out the full ugliness of his face, as the light of
the fire did that of his companion; both intently engaged, and wearing faces of exultation
which contrasted strongly with the anxious looks of those behind, who took advantage of the
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slightest sound to cover their advance, and, almost before they had moved an inch, and all
was silent, stopped again. This, with the large bare room, damp walls, and flickering
doubtful light, combined to form a scene which the most careless and indifferent spectator
(could any have been present) could scarcely have failed to derive some interest from, and
would not readily have forgotten.
Of the stealthy comers, Frank Cheeryble was one, and Newman Noggs the other.
Newman had caught up, by the rusty nozzle, an old pair of bellows, which were just
undergoing a flourish in the air preparatory to a descent upon the head of Mr Squeers, when
Frank, with an earnest gesture, stayed his arm, and, taking another step in advance, came so
close behind the schoolmaster that, by leaning slightly forward, he could plainly distinguish
the writing which he held up to his eye.
Mr Squeers, not being remarkably erudite, appeared to be considerably puzzled by this
first prize, which was in an engrossing hand, and not very legible except to a practised eye.
Having tried it by reading from left to right, and from right to left, and finding it equally
clear both ways, he turned it upside down with no better success.
'Ha, ha, ha!' chuckled Peg, who, on her knees before the fire, was feeding it with
fragments of the box, and grinning in most devilish exultation. 'What's that writing about,
eh?'
'Nothing particular,' replied Squeers, tossing it towards her. 'It's only an old lease, as
well as I can make out. Throw it in the fire.'
Mrs Sliderskew complied, and inquired what the next one was.
'This,' said Squeers, 'is a bundle of overdue acceptances and renewed bills of six or eight
young gentlemen, but they're all MPs, so it's of no use to anybody. Throw it in the fire!' Peg
did as she was bidden, and waited for the next.
'This,' said Squeers, 'seems to be some deed of sale of the right of presentation to the
rectory of Purechurch, in the valley of Cashup. Take care of that, Slider, literally for God's
sake. It'll fetch its price at the Auction Mart.'
'What's the next?' inquired Peg.
'Why, this,' said Squeers, 'seems, from the two letters that's with it, to be a bond from a
curate down in the country, to pay half a year's wages of forty pound for borrowing twenty.
Take care of that, for if he don't pay it, his bishop will very soon be down upon him. We
know what the camel and the needle's eye means; no man as can't live upon his income,
whatever it is, must expect to go to heaven at any price. It's very odd; I don't see anything
like it yet.'
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'What's the matter?' said Peg.
'Nothing,' replied Squeers, 'only I'm looking for – '
Newman raised the bellows again. Once more, Frank, by a rapid motion of his arm,
unaccompanied by any noise, checked him in his purpose.
'Here you are,' said Squeers, 'bonds – take care of them. Warrant of attorney – take care
of that. Two cognovits – take care of them. Lease and release – burn that. Ah! «Madeline
Bray – come of age or marry – the said Madeline» – here, burn THAT!'
Eagerly throwing towards the old woman a parchment that he caught up for the purpose,
Squeers, as she turned her head, thrust into the breast of his large coat, the deed in which
these words had caught his eye, and burst into a shout of triumph.
'I've got it!' said Squeers. 'I've got it! Hurrah! The plan was a good one, though the
chance was desperate, and the day's our own at last!'
Peg demanded what he laughed at, but no answer was returned. Newman's arm could no
longer be restrained; the bellows, descending heavily and with unerring aim on the very
centre of Mr Squeers's head, felled him to the floor, and stretched him on it flat and
senseless.
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CHAPTER 58 − In which one Scene of this History is closed.
D
ividing the distance into two days' journey, in order that his charge might sustain the
less exhaustion and fatigue from travelling so far, Nicholas, at the end of the second day
from their leaving home, found himself within a very few miles of the spot where the
happiest years of his life had been passed, and which, while it filled his mind with pleasant
and peaceful thoughts, brought back many painful and vivid recollections of the
circumstances in which he and his had wandered forth from their old home, cast upon the
rough world and the mercy of strangers.
It needed no such reflections as those which the memory of old days, and wanderings
among scenes where our childhood has been passed, usually awaken in the most insensible
minds, to soften the heart of Nicholas, and render him more than usually mindful of his
drooping friend. By night and day, at all times and seasons: always watchful, attentive, and
solicitous, and never varying in the discharge of his self−imposed duty to one so friendless
and helpless as he whose sands of life were now fast running out and dwindling rapidly
away: he was ever at his side. He never left him. To encourage and animate him, administer
to his wants, support and cheer him to the utmost of his power, was now his constant and
unceasing occupation.
They procured a humble lodging in a small farmhouse, surrounded by meadows where
Nicholas had often revelled when a child with a troop of merry schoolfellows; and here they
took up their rest.
At first, Smike was strong enough to walk about, for short distances at a time, with no
other support or aid than that which Nicholas could afford him. At this time, nothing
appeared to interest him so much as visiting those places which had been most familiar to
his friend in bygone days. Yielding to this fancy, and pleased to find that its indulgence
beguiled the sick boy of many tedious hours, and never failed to afford him matter for
thought and conversation afterwards, Nicholas made such spots the scenes of their daily
rambles: driving him from place to place in a little pony−chair, and supporting him on his
arm while they walked slowly among these old haunts, or lingered in the sunlight to take
long parting looks of those which were most quiet and beautiful.
It was on such occasions as these, that Nicholas, yielding almost unconsciously to the
interest of old associations, would point out some tree that he had climbed, a hundred times,
to peep at the young birds in their nest; and the branch from which he used to shout to little
Kate, who stood below terrified at the height he had gained, and yet urging him higher still
by the intensity of her admiration. There was the old house too, which they would pass
every day, looking up at the tiny window through which the sun used to stream in and wake
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him on the summer mornings – they were all summer mornings then – and climbing up the
garden−wall and looking over, Nicholas could see the very rose−bush which had come, a
present to Kate, from some little lover, and she had planted with her own hands. There were
the hedgerows where the brother and sister had so often gathered wild flowers together, and
the green fields and shady paths where they had so often strayed. There was not a lane, or
brook, or copse, or cottage near, with which some childish event was not entwined, and back
it came upon the mind – as events of childhood do – nothing in itself: perhaps a word, a
laugh, a look, some slight distress, a passing thought or fear: and yet more strongly and
distinctly marked, and better remembered, than the hardest trials or severest sorrows of a
year ago.
One of these expeditions led them through the churchyard where was his father's grave.
'Even here,' said Nicholas softly, 'we used to loiter before we knew what death was, and
when we little thought whose ashes would rest beneath; and, wondering at the silence, sit
down to rest and speak below our breath. Once, Kate was lost, and after an hour of fruitless
search, they found her, fast asleep, under that tree which shades my father's grave. He was
very fond of her, and said when he took her up in his arms, still sleeping, that whenever he
died he would wish to be buried where his dear little child had laid her head. You see his
wish was not forgotten.'
Nothing more passed at the time, but that night, as Nicholas sat beside his bed, Smike
started from what had seemed to be a slumber, and laying his hand in his, prayed, as the
tears coursed down his face, that he would make him one solemn promise.
'What is that?' said Nicholas, kindly. 'If I can redeem it, or hope to do so, you know I
will.'
'I am sure you will,' was the reply. 'Promise me that when I die, I shall be buried near –
as near as they can make my grave – to the tree we saw today.'
Nicholas gave the promise; he had few words to give it in, but they were solemn and
earnest. His poor friend kept his hand in his, and turned as if to sleep. But there were stifled
sobs; and the hand was pressed more than once, or twice, or thrice, before he sank to rest,
and slowly loosed his hold.
In a fortnight's time, he became too ill to move about. Once or twice, Nicholas drove
him out, propped up with pillows; but the motion of the chaise was painful to him, and
brought on fits of fainting, which, in his weakened state, were dangerous. There was an old
couch in the house, which was his favourite resting−place by day; and when the sun shone,
and the weather was warm, Nicholas had this wheeled into a little orchard which was close
at hand, and his charge being well wrapped up and carried out to it, they used to sit there
sometimes for hours together.
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It was on one of these occasions that a circumstance took place, which Nicholas, at the
time, thoroughly believed to be the mere delusion of an imagination affected by disease; but
which he had, afterwards, too good reason to know was of real and actual occurrence.
He had brought Smike out in his arms – poor fellow! a child might have carried him
then – to see the sunset, and, having arranged his couch, had taken his seat beside it. He had
been watching the whole of the night before, and being greatly fatigued both in mind and
body, gradually fell asleep.
He could not have closed his eyes five minutes, when he was awakened by a scream,
and starting up in that kind of terror which affects a person suddenly roused, saw, to his
great astonishment, that his charge had struggled into a sitting posture, and with eyes almost
starting from their sockets, cold dew standing on his forehead, and in a fit of trembling
which quite convulsed his frame, was calling to him for help.
'Good Heaven, what is this?' said Nicholas, bending over him. 'Be calm; you have been
dreaming.'
'No, no, no!' cried Smike, clinging to him. 'Hold me tight. Don't let me go. There, there.
Behind the tree!'
Nicholas followed his eyes, which were directed to some distance behind the chair from
which he himself had just risen. But, there was nothing there.
'This is nothing but your fancy,' he said, as he strove to compose him; 'nothing else,
indeed.'
'I know better. I saw as plain as I see now,' was the answer. 'Oh! say you'll keep me with
you. Swear you won't leave me for an instant!'
'Do I ever leave you?' returned Nicholas. 'Lie down again – there! You see I'm here.
Now, tell me; what was it?'
'Do you remember,' said Smike, in a low voice, and glancing fearfully round, 'do you
remember my telling you of the man who first took me to the school?'
'Yes, surely.'
'I raised my eyes, just now, towards that tree – that one with the thick trunk – and there,
with his eyes fixed on me, he stood!'
'Only reflect for one moment,' said Nicholas; 'granting, for an instant, that it's likely he
is alive and wandering about a lonely place like this, so far removed from the public road, do
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you think that at this distance of time you could possibly know that man again?'
'Anywhere – in any dress,' returned Smike; 'but, just now, he stood leaning upon his
stick and looking at me, exactly as I told you I remembered him. He was dusty with
walking, and poorly dressed – I think his clothes were ragged – but directly I saw him, the
wet night, his face when he left me, the parlour I was left in, and the people that were there,
all seemed to come back together. When he knew I saw him, he looked frightened; for he
started, and shrunk away. I have thought of him by day, and dreamt of him by night. He
looked in my sleep, when I was quite a little child, and has looked in my sleep ever since, as
he did just now.'
Nicholas endeavoured, by every persuasion and argument he could think of, to convince
the terrified creature that his imagination had deceived him, and that this close resemblance
between the creation of his dreams and the man he supposed he had seen was but a proof of
it; but all in vain. When he could persuade him to remain, for a few moments, in the care of
the people to whom the house belonged, he instituted a strict inquiry whether any stranger
had been seen, and searched himself behind the tree, and through the orchard, and upon the
land immediately adjoining, and in every place near, where it was possible for a man to lie
concealed; but all in vain. Satisfied that he was right in his original conjecture, he applied
himself to calming the fears of Smike, which, after some time, he partially succeeded in
doing, though not in removing the impression upon his mind; for he still declared, again and
again, in the most solemn and fervid manner, that he had positively seen what he had
described, and that nothing could ever remove his conviction of its reality.
And now, Nicholas began to see that hope was gone, and that, upon the partner of his
poverty, and the sharer of his better fortune, the world was closing fast. There was little
pain, little uneasiness, but there was no rallying, no effort, no struggle for life. He was worn
and wasted to the last degree; his voice had sunk so low, that he could scarce be heard to
speak. Nature was thoroughly exhausted, and he had lain him down to die.
On a fine, mild autumn day, when all was tranquil and at peace: when the soft sweet air
crept in at the open window of the quiet room, and not a sound was heard but the gentle
rustling of the leaves: Nicholas sat in his old place by the bedside, and knew that the time
was nearly come. So very still it was, that, every now and then, he bent down his ear to
listen for the breathing of him who lay asleep, as if to assure himself that life was still there,
and that he had not fallen into that deep slumber from which on earth there is no waking.
While he was thus employed, the closed eyes opened, and on the pale face there came a
placid smile.
'That's well!' said Nicholas. 'The sleep has done you good.'
'I have had such pleasant dreams,' was the answer. 'Such pleasant, happy dreams!'
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CHAPTER 58 − In which one Scene of this History is closed. 708
'Of what?' said Nicholas.
The dying boy turned towards him, and, putting his arm about his neck, made answer, 'I
shall soon be there!'
After a short silence, he spoke again.
'I am not afraid to die,' he said. 'I am quite contented. I almost think that if I could rise
from this bed quite well I would not wish to do so, now. You have so often told me we shall
meet again – so very often lately, and now I feel the truth of that so strongly – that I can
even bear to part from you.'
The trembling voice and tearful eye, and the closer grasp of the arm which accompanied
these latter words, showed how they filled the speaker's heart; nor were there wanting
indications of how deeply they had touched the heart of him to whom they were addressed.
'You say well,' returned Nicholas at length, 'and comfort me very much, dear fellow. Let
me hear you say you are happy, if you can.'
'I must tell you something, first. I should not have a secret from you. You would not
blame me, at a time like this, I know.'
'I blame you!' exclaimed Nicholas.
'I am sure you would not. You asked me why I was so changed, and – and sat so much
alone. Shall I tell you why?'
'Not if it pains you,' said Nicholas. 'I only asked that I might make you happier, if I
could.'
'I know. I felt that, at the time.' He drew his friend closer to him. 'You will forgive me; I
could not help it, but though I would have died to make her happy, it broke my heart to see –
I know he loves her dearly – Oh! who could find that out so soon as I?'
The words which followed were feebly and faintly uttered, and broken by long pauses;
but, from them, Nicholas learnt, for the first time, that the dying boy, with all the ardour of a
nature concentrated on one absorbing, hopeless, secret passion, loved his sister Kate.
He had procured a lock of her hair, which hung at his breast, folded in one or two slight
ribbons she had worn. He prayed that, when he was dead, Nicholas would take it off, so that
no eyes but his might see it, and that when he was laid in his coffin and about to be placed in
the earth, he would hang it round his neck again, that it might rest with him in the grave.
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CHAPTER 58 − In which one Scene of this History is closed. 709
Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that he should rest
in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed each other on the cheek.
'Now,' he murmured, 'I am happy.'
He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke of beautiful
gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men,
women, and many children, all with light upon their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden
– and so died.
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CHAPTER 58 − In which one Scene of this History is closed. 710
CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers
to disturb the Plotter.
R
alph sat alone, in the solitary room where he was accustomed to take his meals, and to
sit of nights when no profitable occupation called him abroad. Before him was an untasted
breakfast, and near to where his fingers beat restlessly upon the table, lay his watch. It was
long past the time at which, for many years, he had put it in his pocket and gone with
measured steps downstairs to the business of the day, but he took as little heed of its
monotonous warning, as of the meat and drink before him, and remained with his head
resting on one hand, and his eyes fixed moodily on the ground.
This departure from his regular and constant habit, in one so regular and unvarying in
all that appertained to the daily pursuit of riches, would almost of itself have told that the
usurer was not well. That he laboured under some mental or bodily indisposition, and that it
was one of no slight kind so to affect a man like him, was sufficiently shown by his haggard
face, jaded air, and hollow languid eyes: which he raised at last with a start and a hasty
glance around him, as one who suddenly awakes from sleep, and cannot immediately
recognise the place in which he finds himself.
'What is this,' he said, 'that hangs over me, and I cannot shake off? I have never
pampered myself, and should not be ill. I have never moped, and pined, and yielded to
fancies; but what CAN a man do without rest?'
He pressed his hand upon his forehead.
'Night after night comes and goes, and I have no rest. If I sleep, what rest is that which
is disturbed by constant dreams of the same detested faces crowding round me – of the same
detested people, in every variety of action, mingling with all I say and do, and always to my
defeat? Waking, what rest have I, constantly haunted by this heavy shadow of – I know not
what – which is its worst character? I must have rest. One night's unbroken rest, and I should
be a man again.'
Pushing the table from him while he spoke, as though he loathed the sight of food, he
encountered the watch: the hands of which were almost upon noon.
'This is strange!' he said; 'noon, and Noggs not here! What drunken brawl keeps him
away? I would give something now – something in money even after that dreadful loss – if
he had stabbed a man in a tavern scuffle, or broken into a house, or picked a pocket, or done
anything that would send him abroad with an iron ring upon his leg, and rid me of him.
Better still, if I could throw temptation in his way, and lure him on to rob me. He should be
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 711
welcome to what he took, so I brought the law upon him; for he is a traitor, I swear! How, or
when, or where, I don't know, though I suspect.'
After waiting for another half−hour, he dispatched the woman who kept his house to
Newman's lodging, to inquire if he were ill, and why he had not come or sent. She brought
back answer that he had not been home all night, and that no one could tell her anything
about him.
'But there is a gentleman, sir,' she said, 'below, who was standing at the door when I
came in, and he says – '
'What says he?' demanded Ralph, turning angrily upon her. 'I told you I would see
nobody.'
'He says,' replied the woman, abashed by his harshness, 'that he comes on very
particular business which admits of no excuse; and I thought perhaps it might be about – '
'About what, in the devil's name?' said Ralph. 'You spy and speculate on people's
business with me, do you?'
'Dear, no, sir! I saw you were anxious, and thought it might be about Mr Noggs; that's
all.'
'Saw I was anxious!' muttered Ralph; 'they all watch me, now. Where is this person?
You did not say I was not down yet, I hope?'
The woman replied that he was in the little office, and that she had said her master was
engaged, but she would take the message.
'Well,' said Ralph, 'I'll see him. Go you to your kitchen, and keep there. Do you mind
me?'
Glad to be released, the woman quickly disappeared. Collecting himself, and assuming
as much of his accustomed manner as his utmost resolution could summon, Ralph
descended the stairs. After pausing for a few moments, with his hand upon the lock, he
entered Newman's room, and confronted Mr Charles Cheeryble.
Of all men alive, this was one of the last he would have wished to meet at any time; but,
now that he recognised in him only the patron and protector of Nicholas, he would rather
have seen a spectre. One beneficial effect, however, the encounter had upon him. It instantly
roused all his dormant energies; rekindled in his breast the passions that, for many years, had
found an improving home there; called up all his wrath, hatred, and malice; restored the
sneer to his lip, and the scowl to his brow; and made him again, in all outward appearance,
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 712
the same Ralph Nickleby whom so many had bitter cause to remember.
'Humph!' said Ralph, pausing at the door. 'This is an unexpected favour, sir.'
'And an unwelcome one,' said brother Charles; 'an unwelcome one, I know.'
'Men say you are truth itself, sir,' replied Ralph. 'You speak truth now, at all events, and
I'll not contradict you. The favour is, at least, as unwelcome as it is unexpected. I can
scarcely say more.'
'Plainly, sir – ' began brother Charles.
'Plainly, sir,' interrupted Ralph, 'I wish this conference to be a short one, and to end
where it begins. I guess the subject upon which you are about to speak, and I'll not hear you.
You like plainness, I believe; there it is. Here is the door as you see. Our way lies in very
different directions. Take yours, I beg of you, and leave me to pursue mine in quiet.'
'In quiet!' repeated brother Charles mildly, and looking at him with more of pity than
reproach. 'To pursue HIS way in quiet!'
'You will scarcely remain in my house, I presume, sir, against my will,' said Ralph; 'or
you can scarcely hope to make an impression upon a man who closes his ears to all that you
can say, and is firmly and resolutely determined not to hear you.'
'Mr Nickleby, sir,' returned brother Charles: no less mildly than before, but firmly too: 'I
come here against my will, sorely and grievously against my will. I have never been in this
house before; and, to speak my mind, sir, I don't feel at home or easy in it, and have no wish
ever to be here again. You do not guess the subject on which I come to speak to you; you do
not indeed. I am sure of that, or your manner would be a very different one.'
Ralph glanced keenly at him, but the clear eye and open countenance of the honest old
merchant underwent no change of expression, and met his look without reserve.
'Shall I go on?' said Mr Cheeryble.
'Oh, by all means, if you please,' returned Ralph drily. 'Here are walls to speak to, sir, a
desk, and two stools: most attentive auditors, and certain not to interrupt you. Go on, I beg;
make my house yours, and perhaps by the time I return from my walk, you will have
finished what you have to say, and will yield me up possession again.'
So saying, he buttoned his coat, and turning into the passage, took down his hat. The old
gentleman followed, and was about to speak, when Ralph waved him off impatiently, and
said:
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 713
'Not a word. I tell you, sir, not a word. Virtuous as you are, you are not an angel yet, to
appear in men's houses whether they will or no, and pour your speech into unwilling ears.
Preach to the walls I tell you; not to me!'
'I am no angel, Heaven knows,' returned brother Charles, shaking his head, 'but an
erring and imperfect man; nevertheless, there is one quality which all men have, in common
with the angels, blessed opportunities of exercising, if they will; mercy. It is an errand of
mercy that brings me here. Pray let me discharge it.'
'I show no mercy,' retorted Ralph with a triumphant smile, 'and I ask none. Seek no
mercy from me, sir, in behalf of the fellow who has imposed upon your childish credulity,
but let him expect the worst that I can do.'
'HE ask mercy at your hands!' exclaimed the old merchant warmly; 'ask it at his, sir; ask
it at his. If you will not hear me now, when you may, hear me when you must, or anticipate
what I would say, and take measures to prevent our ever meeting again. Your nephew is a
noble lad, sir, an honest, noble lad. What you are, Mr Nickleby, I will not say; but what you
have done, I know. Now, sir, when you go about the business in which you have been
recently engaged, and find it difficult of pursuing, come to me and my brother Ned, and Tim
Linkinwater, sir, and we'll explain it for you – and come soon, or it may be too late, and you
may have it explained with a little more roughness, and a little less delicacy – and never
forget, sir, that I came here this morning, in mercy to you, and am still ready to talk to you in
the same spirit.'
With these words, uttered with great emphasis and emotion, brother Charles put on his
broad−brimmed hat, and, passing Ralph Nickleby without any other remark, trotted nimbly
into the street. Ralph looked after him, but neither moved nor spoke for some time: when he
broke what almost seemed the silence of stupefaction, by a scornful laugh.
'This,' he said, 'from its wildness, should be another of those dreams that have so broken
my rest of late. In mercy to me! Pho! The old simpleton has gone mad.'
Although he expressed himself in this derisive and contemptuous manner, it was plain
that, the more Ralph pondered, the more ill at ease he became, and the more he laboured
under some vague anxiety and alarm, which increased as the time passed on and no tidings
of Newman Noggs arrived. After waiting until late in the afternoon, tortured by various
apprehensions and misgivings, and the recollection of the warning which his nephew had
given him when they last met: the further confirmation of which now presented itself in one
shape of probability, now in another, and haunted him perpetually: he left home, and,
scarcely knowing why, save that he was in a suspicious and agitated mood, betook himself
to Snawley's house. His wife presented herself; and, of her, Ralph inquired whether her
husband was at home.
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 714
'No,' she said sharply, 'he is not indeed, and I don't think he will be at home for a very
long time; that's more.'
'Do you know who I am?' asked Ralph.
'Oh yes, I know you very well; too well, perhaps, and perhaps he does too, and sorry am
I that I should have to say it.'
'Tell him that I saw him through the window−blind above, as I crossed the road just
now, and that I would speak to him on business,' said Ralph. 'Do you hear?'
'I hear,' rejoined Mrs Snawley, taking no further notice of the request.
'I knew this woman was a hypocrite, in the way of psalms and Scripture phrases,' said
Ralph, passing quietly by, 'but I never knew she drank before.'
'Stop! You don't come in here,' said Mr Snawley's better−half, interposing her person,
which was a robust one, in the doorway. 'You have said more than enough to him on
business, before now. I always told him what dealing with you and working out your
schemes would come to. It was either you or the schoolmaster – one of you, or the two
between you – that got the forged letter done; remember that! That wasn't his doing, so don't
lay it at his door.'
'Hold your tongue, you Jezebel,' said Ralph, looking fearfully round.
'Ah, I know when to hold my tongue, and when to speak, Mr Nickleby,' retorted the
dame. 'Take care that other people know when to hold theirs.'
'You jade,' said Ralph, 'if your husband has been idiot enough to trust you with his
secrets, keep them; keep them, she−devil that you are!'
'Not so much his secrets as other people's secrets, perhaps,' retorted the woman; 'not so
much his secrets as yours. None of your black looks at me! You'll want 'em all, perhaps, for
another time. You had better keep 'em.'
'Will you,' said Ralph, suppressing his passion as well as he could, and clutching her
tightly by the wrist; 'will you go to your husband and tell him that I know he is at home, and
that I must see him? And will you tell me what it is that you and he mean by this new style
of behaviour?'
'No,' replied the woman, violently disengaging herself, 'I'll do neither.'
'You set me at defiance, do you?' said Ralph.
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 715
'Yes,' was the answer. I do.'
For an instant Ralph had his hand raised, as though he were about to strike her; but,
checking himself, and nodding his head and muttering as though to assure her he would not
forget this, walked away.
Thence, he went straight to the inn which Mr Squeers frequented, and inquired when he
had been there last; in the vague hope that, successful or unsuccessful, he might, by this
time, have returned from his mission and be able to assure him that all was safe. But Mr
Squeers had not been there for ten days, and all that the people could tell about him was, that
he had left his luggage and his bill.
Disturbed by a thousand fears and surmises, and bent upon ascertaining whether
Squeers had any suspicion of Snawley, or was, in any way, a party to this altered behaviour,
Ralph determined to hazard the extreme step of inquiring for him at the Lambeth lodging,
and having an interview with him even there. Bent upon this purpose, and in that mood in
which delay is insupportable, he repaired at once to the place; and being, by description,
perfectly acquainted with the situation of his room, crept upstairs and knocked gently at the
door.
Not one, nor two, nor three, nor yet a dozen knocks, served to convince Ralph, against
his wish, that there was nobody inside. He reasoned that he might be asleep; and, listening,
almost persuaded himself that he could hear him breathe. Even when he was satisfied that he
could not be there, he sat patiently on a broken stair and waited; arguing, that he had gone
out upon some slight errand, and must soon return.
Many feet came up the creaking stairs; and the step of some seemed to his listening ear
so like that of the man for whom he waited, that Ralph often stood up to be ready to address
him when he reached the top; but, one by one, each person turned off into some room short
of the place where he was stationed: and at every such disappointment he felt quite chilled
and lonely.
At length he felt it was hopeless to remain, and going downstairs again, inquired of one
of the lodgers if he knew anything of Mr Squeers's movements – mentioning that worthy by
an assumed name which had been agreed upon between them. By this lodger he was referred
to another, and by him to someone else, from whom he learnt, that, late on the previous
night, he had gone out hastily with two men, who had shortly afterwards returned for the old
woman who lived on the same floor; and that, although the circumstance had attracted the
attention of the informant, he had not spoken to them at the time, nor made any inquiry
afterwards.
This possessed him with the idea that, perhaps, Peg Sliderskew had been apprehended
for the robbery, and that Mr Squeers, being with her at the time, had been apprehended also,
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 716
on suspicion of being a confederate. If this were so, the fact must be known to Gride; and to
Gride's house he directed his steps; now thoroughly alarmed, and fearful that there were
indeed plots afoot, tending to his discomfiture and ruin.
Arrived at the usurer's house, he found the windows close shut, the dingy blinds drawn
down; all was silent, melancholy, and deserted. But this was its usual aspect. He knocked –
gently at first – then loud and vigorously. Nobody came. He wrote a few words in pencil on
a card, and having thrust it under the door was going away, when a noise above, as though a
window−sash were stealthily raised, caught his ear, and looking up he could just discern the
face of Gride himself, cautiously peering over the house parapet from the window of the
garret. Seeing who was below, he drew it in again; not so quickly, however, but that Ralph
let him know he was observed, and called to him to come down.
The call being repeated, Gride looked out again, so cautiously that no part of the old
man's body was visible. The sharp features and white hair appearing alone, above the
parapet, looked like a severed head garnishing the wall.
'Hush!' he cried. 'Go away, go away!'
'Come down,' said Ralph, beckoning him.
'Go a – way!' squeaked Gride, shaking his head in a sort of ecstasy of impatience. 'Don't
speak to me, don't knock, don't call attention to the house, but go away.'
'I'll knock, I swear, till I have your neighbours up in arms,' said Ralph, 'if you don't tell
me what you mean by lurking there, you whining cur.'
'I can't hear what you say – don't talk to me – it isn't safe – go away – go away!'
returned Gride.
'Come down, I say. Will you come down?' said Ralph fiercely.
'No – o – o – oo,' snarled Gride. He drew in his head; and Ralph, left standing in the
street, could hear the sash closed, as gently and carefully as it had been opened.
'How is this,' said he, 'that they all fall from me, and shun me like the plague, these men
who have licked the dust from my feet? IS my day past, and is this indeed the coming on of
night? I'll know what it means! I will, at any cost. I am firmer and more myself, just now,
than I have been these many days.'
Turning from the door, which, in the first transport of his rage, he had meditated
battering upon until Gride's very fears should impel him to open it, he turned his face
towards the city, and working his way steadily through the crowd which was pouring from it
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 717
(it was by this time between five and six o'clock in the afternoon) went straight to the house
of business of the brothers Cheeryble, and putting his head into the glass case, found Tim
Linkinwater alone.
'My name's Nickleby,' said Ralph.
'I know it,' replied Tim, surveying him through his spectacles.
'Which of your firm was it who called on me this morning?' demanded Ralph.
'Mr Charles.'
'Then, tell Mr Charles I want to see him.'
'You shall see,' said Tim, getting off his stool with great agility, 'you shall see, not only
Mr Charles, but Mr Ned likewise.'
Tim stopped, looked steadily and severely at Ralph, nodded his head once, in a curt
manner which seemed to say there was a little more behind, and vanished. After a short
interval, he returned, and, ushering Ralph into the presence of the two brothers, remained in
the room himself.
'I want to speak to you, who spoke to me this morning,' said Ralph, pointing out with
his finger the man whom he addressed.
'I have no secrets from my brother Ned, or from Tim Linkinwater,' observed brother
Charles quietly.
'I have,' said Ralph.
'Mr Nickleby, sir,' said brother Ned, 'the matter upon which my brother Charles called
upon you this morning is one which is already perfectly well known to us three, and to
others besides, and must unhappily soon become known to a great many more. He waited
upon you, sir, this morning, alone, as a matter of delicacy and consideration. We feel, now,
that further delicacy and consideration would be misplaced; and, if we confer together, it
must be as we are or not at all.'
'Well, gentlemen,' said Ralph with a curl of the lip, 'talking in riddles would seem to be
the peculiar forte of you two, and I suppose your clerk, like a prudent man, has studied the
art also with a view to your good graces. Talk in company, gentlemen, in God's name. I'll
humour you.'
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 718
'Humour!' cried Tim Linkinwater, suddenly growing very red in the face. 'He'll humour
us! He'll humour Cheeryble Brothers! Do you hear that? Do you hear him? DO you hear him
say he'll humour Cheeryble Brothers?'
'Tim,' said Charles and Ned together, 'pray, Tim, pray now, don't.'
Tim, taking the hint, stifled his indignation as well as he could, and suffered it to escape
through his spectacles, with the additional safety−valve of a short hysterical laugh now and
then, which seemed to relieve him mightily.
'As nobody bids me to a seat,' said Ralph, looking round, 'I'll take one, for I am fatigued
with walking. And now, if you please, gentlemen, I wish to know – I demand to know; I
have the right – what you have to say to me, which justifies such a tone as you have
assumed, and that underhand interference in my affairs which, I have reason to suppose, you
have been practising. I tell you plainly, gentlemen, that little as I care for the opinion of the
world (as the slang goes), I don't choose to submit quietly to slander and malice. Whether
you suffer yourselves to be imposed upon too easily, or wilfully make yourselves parties to
it, the result to me is the same. In either case, you can't expect from a plain man like myself
much consideration or forbearance.'
So coolly and deliberately was this said, that nine men out of ten, ignorant of the
circumstances, would have supposed Ralph to be really an injured man. There he sat, with
folded arms; paler than usual, certainly, and sufficiently ill−favoured, but quite collected –
far more so than the brothers or the exasperated Tim – and ready to face out the worst.
'Very well, sir,' said brother Charles. 'Very well. Brother Ned, will you ring the bell?'
'Charles, my dear fellow! stop one instant,' returned the other. 'It will be better for Mr
Nickleby and for our object that he should remain silent, if he can, till we have said what we
have to say. I wish him to understand that.'
'Quite right, quite right,' said brother Charles.
Ralph smiled, but made no reply. The bell was rung; the room−door opened; a man
came in, with a halting walk; and, looking round, Ralph's eyes met those of Newman Noggs.
From that moment, his heart began to fail him.
'This is a good beginning,' he said bitterly. 'Oh! this is a good beginning. You are
candid, honest, open−hearted, fair−dealing men! I always knew the real worth of such
characters as yours! To tamper with a fellow like this, who would sell his soul (if he had
one) for drink, and whose every word is a lie. What men are safe if this is done? Oh, it's a
good beginning!'
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 719
'I WILL speak,' cried Newman, standing on tiptoe to look over Tim's head, who had
interposed to prevent him. 'Hallo, you sir – old Nickleby! – what do you mean when you talk
of «a fellow like this»? Who made me «a fellow like this»? If I would sell my soul for drink,
why wasn't I a thief, swindler, housebreaker, area sneak, robber of pence out of the trays of
blind men's dogs, rather than your drudge and packhorse? If my every word was a lie, why
wasn't I a pet and favourite of yours? Lie! When did I ever cringe and fawn to you. Tell me
that! I served you faithfully. I did more work, because I was poor, and took more hard words
from you because I despised you and them, than any man you could have got from the
parish workhouse. I did. I served you because I was proud; because I was a lonely man with
you, and there were no other drudges to see my degradation; and because nobody knew,
better than you, that I was a ruined man: that I hadn't always been what I am: and that I
might have been better off, if I hadn't been a fool and fallen into the hands of you and others
who were knaves. Do you deny that?'
'Gently,' reasoned Tim; 'you said you wouldn't.'
'I said I wouldn't!' cried Newman, thrusting him aside, and moving his hand as Tim
moved, so as to keep him at arm's length; 'don't tell me! Here, you Nickleby! Don't pretend
not to mind me; it won't do; I know better. You were talking of tampering, just now. Who
tampered with Yorkshire schoolmasters, and, while they sent the drudge out, that he
shouldn't overhear, forgot that such great caution might render him suspicious, and that he
might watch his master out at nights, and might set other eyes to watch the schoolmaster?
Who tampered with a selfish father, urging him to sell his daughter to old Arthur Gride, and
tampered with Gride too, and did so in the little office, WITH A
CLOSET IN THE ROOM?'
Ralph had put a great command upon himself; but he could not have suppressed a slight
start, if he had been certain to be beheaded for it next moment.
'Aha!' cried Newman, 'you mind me now, do you? What first set this fag to be jealous of
his master's actions, and to feel that, if he hadn't crossed him when he might, he would have
been as bad as he, or worse? That master's cruel treatment of his own flesh and blood, and
vile designs upon a young girl who interested even his broken− down, drunken, miserable
hack, and made him linger in his service, in the hope of doing her some good (as, thank
God, he had done others once or twice before), when he would, otherwise, have relieved his
feelings by pummelling his master soundly, and then going to the Devil. He would – mark
that; and mark this – that I'm here now, because these gentlemen thought it best. When I
sought them out (as I did; there was no tampering with me), I told them I wanted help to find
you out, to trace you down, to go through with what I had begun, to help the right; and that
when I had done it, I'd burst into your room and tell you all, face to face, man to man, and
like a man. Now I've said my say, and let anybody else say theirs, and fire away!'
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 720
With this concluding sentiment, Newman Noggs, who had been perpetually sitting
down and getting up again all through his speech, which he had delivered in a series of
jerks; and who was, from the violent exercise and the excitement combined, in a state of
most intense and fiery heat; became, without passing through any intermediate stage, stiff,
upright, and motionless, and so remained, staring at Ralph Nickleby with all his might and
main.
Ralph looked at him for an instant, and for an instant only; then, waved his hand, and
beating the ground with his foot, said in a choking voice:
'Go on, gentlemen, go on! I'm patient, you see. There's law to be had, there's law. I shall
call you to an account for this. Take care what you say; I shall make you prove it.'
'The proof is ready,' returned brother Charles, 'quite ready to our hands. The man
Snawley, last night, made a confession.'
'Who may «the man Snawley» be,' returned Ralph, 'and what may his «confession»
have to do with my affairs?'
To this inquiry, put with a dogged inflexibility of manner, the old gentleman returned
no answer, but went on to say, that to show him how much they were in earnest, it would be
necessary to tell him, not only what accusations were made against him, but what proof of
them they had, and how that proof had been acquired. This laying open of the whole
question brought up brother Ned, Tim Linkinwater, and Newman Noggs, all three at once;
who, after a vast deal of talking together, and a scene of great confusion, laid before Ralph,
in distinct terms, the following statement.
That, Newman, having been solemnly assured by one not then producible that Smike
was not the son of Snawley, and this person having offered to make oath to that effect, if
necessary, they had by this communication been first led to doubt the claim set up, which
they would otherwise have seen no reason to dispute, supported as it was by evidence which
they had no power of disproving. That, once suspecting the existence of a conspiracy, they
had no difficulty in tracing back its origin to the malice of Ralph, and the vindictiveness and
avarice of Squeers. That, suspicion and proof being two very different things, they had been
advised by a lawyer, eminent for his sagacity and acuteness in such practice, to resist the
proceedings taken on the other side for the recovery of the youth as slowly and artfully as
possible, and meanwhile to beset Snawley (with whom it was clear the main falsehood must
rest); to lead him, if possible, into contradictory and conflicting statements; to harass him by
all available means; and so to practise on his fears, and regard for his own safety, as to
induce him to divulge the whole scheme, and to give up his employer and whomsoever else
he could implicate. That, all this had been skilfully done; but that Snawley, who was well
practised in the arts of low cunning and intrigue, had successfully baffled all their attempts,
until an unexpected circumstance had brought him, last night, upon his knees.
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 721
It thus arose. When Newman Noggs reported that Squeers was again in town, and that
an interview of such secrecy had taken place between him and Ralph that he had been sent
out of the house, plainly lest he should overhear a word, a watch was set upon the
schoolmaster, in the hope that something might be discovered which would throw some
light upon the suspected plot. It being found, however, that he held no further
communication with Ralph, nor any with Snawley, and lived quite alone, they were
completely at fault; the watch was withdrawn, and they would have observed his motions no
longer, if it had not happened that, one night, Newman stumbled unobserved on him and
Ralph in the street together. Following them, he discovered, to his surprise, that they
repaired to various low lodging−houses, and taverns kept by broken gamblers, to more than
one of whom Ralph was known, and that they were in pursuit – so he found by inquiries
when they had left – of an old woman, whose description exactly tallied with that of deaf
Mrs Sliderskew. Affairs now appearing to assume a more serious complexion, the watch
was renewed with increased vigilance; an officer was procured, who took up his abode in
the same tavern with Squeers: and by him and Frank Cheeryble the footsteps of the
unconscious schoolmaster were dogged, until he was safely housed in the lodging at
Lambeth. Mr Squeers having shifted his lodging, the officer shifted his, and lying concealed
in the same street, and, indeed, in the opposite house, soon found that Mr Squeers and Mrs
Sliderskew were in constant communication.
In this state of things, Arthur Gride was appealed to. The robbery, partly owing to the
inquisitiveness of the neighbours, and partly to his own grief and rage, had, long ago,
become known; but he positively refused to give his sanction or yield any assistance to the
old woman's capture, and was seized with such a panic at the idea of being called upon to
give evidence against her, that he shut himself up close in his house, and refused to hold
communication with anybody. Upon this, the pursuers took counsel together, and, coming so
near the truth as to arrive at the conclusion that Gride and Ralph, with Squeers for their
instrument, were negotiating for the recovery of some of the stolen papers which would not
bear the light, and might possibly explain the hints relative to Madeline which Newman had
overheard, resolved that Mrs Sliderskew should be taken into custody before she had parted
with them: and Squeers too, if anything suspicious could be attached to him. Accordingly, a
search−warrant being procured, and all prepared, Mr Squeers's window was watched, until
his light was put out, and the time arrived when, as had been previously ascertained, he
usually visited Mrs Sliderskew. This done, Frank Cheeryble and Newman stole upstairs to
listen to their discourse, and to give the signal to the officer at the most favourable time. At
what an opportune moment they arrived, how they listened, and what they heard, is already
known to the reader. Mr Squeers, still half stunned, was hurried off with a stolen deed in his
possession, and Mrs Sliderskew was apprehended likewise. The information being promptly
carried to Snawley that Squeers was in custody – he was not told for what – that worthy,
first extorting a promise that he should be kept harmless, declared the whole tale concerning
Smike to be a fiction and forgery, and implicated Ralph Nickleby to the fullest extent. As to
Mr Squeers, he had, that morning, undergone a private examination before a magistrate; and,
being unable to account satisfactorily for his possession of the deed or his companionship
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 722
with Mrs Sliderskew, had been, with her, remanded for a week.
All these discoveries were now related to Ralph, circumstantially, and in detail.
Whatever impression they secretly produced, he suffered no sign of emotion to escape him,
but sat perfectly still, not raising his frowning eyes from the ground, and covering his mouth
with his hand. When the narrative was concluded; he raised his head hastily, as if about to
speak, but on brother Charles resuming, fell into his old attitude again.
'I told you this morning,' said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his brother's
shoulder, 'that I came to you in mercy. How far you may be implicated in this last
transaction, or how far the person who is now in custody may criminate you, you best know.
But, justice must take its course against the parties implicated in the plot against this poor,
unoffending, injured lad. It is not in my power, or in the power of my brother Ned, to save
you from the consequences. The utmost we can do is, to warn you in time, and to give you
an opportunity of escaping them. We would not have an old man like you disgraced and
punished by your near relation; nor would we have him forget, like you, all ties of blood and
nature. We entreat you – brother Ned, you join me, I know, in this entreaty, and so, Tim
Linkinwater, do you, although you pretend to be an obstinate dog, sir, and sit there frowning
as if you didn't – we entreat you to retire from London, to take shelter in some place where
you will be safe from the consequences of these wicked designs, and where you may have
time, sir, to atone for them, and to become a better man.'
'And do you think,' returned Ralph, rising, 'and do you think, you will so easily crush
ME? Do you think that a hundred well−arranged plans, or a hundred suborned witnesses, or
a hundred false curs at my heels, or a hundred canting speeches full of oily words, will move
me? I thank you for disclosing your schemes, which I am now prepared for. You have not
the man to deal with that you think; try me! and remember that I spit upon your fair words
and false dealings, and dare you – provoke you – taunt you – to do to me the very worst you
can!'
Thus they parted, for that time; but the worst had not come yet.
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CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter. 723
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told.
I
nstead of going home, Ralph threw himself into the first street cabriolet he could find,
and, directing the driver towards the police−office of the district in which Mr Squeers's
misfortunes had occurred, alighted at a short distance from it, and, discharging the man,
went the rest of his way thither on foot. Inquiring for the object of his solicitude, he learnt
that he had timed his visit well; for Mr Squeers was, in fact, at that moment waiting for a
hackney coach he had ordered, and in which he purposed proceeding to his week's
retirement, like a gentleman.
Demanding speech with the prisoner, he was ushered into a kind of waiting−room in
which, by reason of his scholastic profession and superior respectability, Mr Squeers had
been permitted to pass the day. Here, by the light of a guttering and blackened candle, he
could barely discern the schoolmaster, fast asleep on a bench in a remote corner. An empty
glass stood on a table before him, which, with his somnolent condition and a very strong
smell of brandy and water, forewarned the visitor that Mr Squeers had been seeking, in
creature comforts, a temporary forgetfulness of his unpleasant situation.
It was not a very easy matter to rouse him: so lethargic and heavy were his slumbers.
Regaining his faculties by slow and faint glimmerings, he at length sat upright; and,
displaying a very yellow face, a very red nose, and a very bristly beard: the joint effect of
which was considerably heightened by a dirty white handkerchief, spotted with blood,
drawn over the crown of his head and tied under his chin: stared ruefully at Ralph in silence,
until his feelings found a vent in this pithy sentence:
'I say, young fellow, you've been and done it now; you have!'
'What's the matter with your head?' asked Ralph.
'Why, your man, your informing kidnapping man, has been and broke it,' rejoined
Squeers sulkily; 'that's what's the matter with it. You've come at last, have you?'
'Why have you not sent to me?' said Ralph. 'How could I come till I knew what had
befallen you?'
'My family!' hiccuped Mr Squeers, raising his eye to the ceiling: 'my daughter, as is at
that age when all the sensibilities is a− coming out strong in blow – my son as is the young
Norval of private life, and the pride and ornament of a doting willage – here's a shock for my
family! The coat−of−arms of the Squeerses is tore, and their sun is gone down into the ocean
wave!'
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CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 724
'You have been drinking,' said Ralph, 'and have not yet slept yourself sober.'
'I haven't been drinking YOUR health, my codger,' replied Mr Squeers; 'so you have
nothing to do with that.'
Ralph suppressed the indignation which the schoolmaster's altered and insolent manner
awakened, and asked again why he had not sent to him.
'What should I get by sending to you?' returned Squeers. 'To be known to be in with you
wouldn't do me a deal of good, and they won't take bail till they know something more of
the case, so here am I hard and fast: and there are you, loose and comfortable.'
'And so must you be in a few days,' retorted Ralph, with affected good−humour. 'They
can't hurt you, man.'
'Why, I suppose they can't do much to me, if I explain how it was that I got into the
good company of that there ca−daverous old Slider,' replied Squeers viciously, 'who I wish
was dead and buried, and resurrected and dissected, and hung upon wires in a anatomical
museum, before ever I'd had anything to do with her. This is what him with the powdered
head says this morning, in so many words: «Prisoner! As you have been found in company
with this woman; as you were detected in possession of this document; as you were engaged
with her in fraudulently destroying others, and can give no satisfactory account of yourself; I
shall remand you for a week, in order that inquiries may be made, and evidence got. And
meanwhile I can't take any bail for your appearance.» Well then, what I say now is, that I
CAN give a satisfactory account of myself; I can hand in the card of my establishment and
say, «I am the Wackford Squeers as is therein named, sir. I am the man as is guaranteed, by
unimpeachable references, to be a out−and−outer in morals and uprightness of principle.
Whatever is wrong in this business is no fault of mine. I had no evil design in it, sir. I was
not aware that anything was wrong. I was merely employed by a friend, my friend Mr Ralph
Nickleby, of Golden Square. Send for him, sir, and ask him what he has to say; he's the man;
not me!»'
'What document was it that you had?' asked Ralph, evading, for the moment, the point
just raised.
'What document? Why, THE document,' replied Squeers. 'The Madeline
What's−her−name one. It was a will; that's what it was.'
'Of what nature, whose will, when dated, how benefiting her, to what extent?' asked
Ralph hurriedly.
'A will in her favour; that's all I know,' rejoined Squeers, 'and that's more than you'd
have known, if you'd had them bellows on your head. It's all owing to your precious caution
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CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 725
that they got hold of it. If you had let me burn it, and taken my word that it was gone, it
would have been a heap of ashes behind the fire, instead of being whole and sound, inside of
my great−coat.'
'Beaten at every point!' muttered Ralph.
'Ah!' sighed Squeers, who, between the brandy and water and his broken head,
wandered strangely, 'at the delightful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,
youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket−money, provided with
all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography,
geometry, astronomy, trigonometry – this is a altered state of trigonomics, this is! A double
1 – all, everything – a cobbler's weapon. U−p−up, adjective, not down. S−q− u−double
e−r−s−Squeers, noun substantive, a educator of youth. Total, all up with Squeers!'
His running on, in this way, had afforded Ralph an opportunity of recovering his
presence of mind, which at once suggested to him the necessity of removing, as far as
possible, the schoolmaster's misgivings, and leading him to believe that his safety and best
policy lay in the preservation of a rigid silence.
'I tell you, once again,' he said, 'they can't hurt you. You shall have an action for false
imprisonment, and make a profit of this, yet. We will devise a story for you that should carry
you through twenty times such a trivial scrape as this; and if they want security in a
thousand pounds for your reappearance in case you should be called upon, you shall have it.
All you have to do is, to keep back the truth. You're a little fuddled tonight, and may not be
able to see this as clearly as you would at another time; but this is what you must do, and
you'll need all your senses about you; for a slip might be awkward.'
'Oh!' said Squeers, who had looked cunningly at him, with his head stuck on one side,
like an old raven. 'That's what I'm to do, is it? Now then, just you hear a word or two from
me. I an't a−going to have any stories made for me, and I an't a−going to stick to any. If I
find matters going again me, I shall expect you to take your share, and I'll take care you do.
You never said anything about danger. I never bargained for being brought into such a plight
as this, and I don't mean to take it as quiet as you think. I let you lead me on, from one thing
to another, because we had been mixed up together in a certain sort of a way, and if you had
liked to be ill− natured you might perhaps have hurt the business, and if you liked to be
good−natured you might throw a good deal in my way. Well; if all goes right now, that's
quite correct, and I don't mind it; but if anything goes wrong, then times are altered, and I
shall just say and do whatever I think may serve me most, and take advice from nobody. My
moral influence with them lads,' added Mr Squeers, with deeper gravity, 'is a tottering to its
basis. The images of Mrs Squeers, my daughter, and my son Wackford, all short of vittles, is
perpetually before me; every other consideration melts away and vanishes, in front of these;
the only number in all arithmetic that I know of, as a husband and a father, is number one,
under this here most fatal go!'
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CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 726
How long Mr Squeers might have declaimed, or how stormy a discussion his
declamation might have led to, nobody knows. Being interrupted, at this point, by the arrival
of the coach and an attendant who was to bear him company, he perched his hat with great
dignity on the top of the handkerchief that bound his head; and, thrusting one hand in his
pocket, and taking the attendant's arm with the other, suffered himself to be led forth.
'As I supposed from his not sending!' thought Ralph. 'This fellow, I plainly see through
all his tipsy fooling, has made up his mind to turn upon me. I am so beset and hemmed in,
that they are not only all struck with fear, but, like the beasts in the fable, have their fling at
me now, though time was, and no longer ago than yesterday too, when they were all civility
and compliance. But they shall not move me. I'll not give way. I will not budge one inch!'
He went home, and was glad to find his housekeeper complaining of illness, that he
might have an excuse for being alone and sending her away to where she lived: which was
hard by. Then, he sat down by the light of a single candle, and began to think, for the first
time, on all that had taken place that day.
He had neither eaten nor drunk since last night, and, in addition to the anxiety of mind
he had undergone, had been travelling about, from place to place almost incessantly, for
many hours. He felt sick and exhausted, but could taste nothing save a glass of water, and
continued to sit with his head upon his hand; not resting nor thinking, but laboriously trying
to do both, and feeling that every sense but one of weariness and desolation, was for the time
benumbed.
It was nearly ten o'clock when he heard a knocking at the door, and still sat quiet as
before, as if he could not even bring his thoughts to bear upon that. It had been often
repeated, and he had, several times, heard a voice outside, saying there was a light in the
window (meaning, as he knew, his own candle), before he could rouse himself and go
downstairs.
'Mr Nickleby, there is terrible news for you, and I am sent to beg you will come with me
directly,' said a voice he seemed to recognise. He held his hand above his eyes, and, looking
out, saw Tim Linkinwater on the steps.
'Come where?' demanded Ralph.
'To our house, where you came this morning. I have a coach here.'
'Why should I go there?' said Ralph.
'Don't ask me why, but pray come with me.'
'Another edition of today!' returned Ralph, making as though he would shut the door.
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CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 727
'No, no!' cried Tim, catching him by the arm and speaking most earnestly; 'it is only that
you may hear something that has occurred: something very dreadful, Mr Nickleby, which
concerns you nearly. Do you think I would tell you so or come to you like this, if it were not
the case?'
Ralph looked at him more closely. Seeing that he was indeed greatly excited, he
faltered, and could not tell what to say or think.
'You had better hear this now, than at any other time,' said Tim; 'it may have some
influence with you. For Heaven's sake come!'
Perhaps, at, another time, Ralph's obstinacy and dislike would have been proof against
any appeal from such a quarter, however emphatically urged; but now, after a moment's
hesitation, he went into the hall for his hat, and returning, got into the coach without
speaking a word.
Tim well remembered afterwards, and often said, that as Ralph Nickleby went into the
house for this purpose, he saw him, by the light of the candle which he had set down upon a
chair, reel and stagger like a drunken man. He well remembered, too, that when he had
placed his foot upon the coach−steps, he turned round and looked upon him with a face so
ashy pale and so very wild and vacant that it made him shudder, and for the moment almost
afraid to follow. People were fond of saying that he had some dark presentiment upon him
then, but his emotion might, perhaps, with greater show of reason, be referred to what he
had undergone that day.
A profound silence was observed during the ride. Arrived at their place of destination,
Ralph followed his conductor into the house, and into a room where the two brothers were.
He was so astounded, not to say awed, by something of a mute compassion for himself
which was visible in their manner and in that of the old clerk, that he could scarcely speak.
Having taken a seat, however, he contrived to say, though in broken words, 'What –
what have you to say to me – more than has been said already?'
The room was old and large, very imperfectly lighted, and terminated in a bay window,
about which hung some heavy drapery. Casting his eyes in this direction as he spoke, he
thought he made out the dusky figure of a man. He was confirmed in this impression by
seeing that the object moved, as if uneasy under his scrutiny.
'Who's that yonder?' he said.
'One who has conveyed to us, within these two hours, the intelligence which caused our
sending to you,' replied brother Charles. 'Let him be, sir, let him be for the present.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 728
'More riddles!' said Ralph, faintly. 'Well, sir?'
In turning his face towards the brothers he was obliged to avert it from the window; but,
before either of them could speak, he had looked round again. It was evident that he was
rendered restless and uncomfortable by the presence of the unseen person; for he repeated
this action several times, and at length, as if in a nervous state which rendered him positively
unable to turn away from the place, sat so as to have it opposite him, muttering as an excuse
that he could not bear the light.
The brothers conferred apart for a short time: their manner showing that they were
agitated. Ralph glanced at them twice or thrice, and ultimately said, with a great effort to
recover his self−possession, 'Now, what is this? If I am brought from home at this time of
night, let it be for something. What have you got to tell me?' After a short pause, he added,
'Is my niece dead?'
He had struck upon a key which rendered the task of commencement an easier one.
Brother Charles turned, and said that it was a death of which they had to tell him, but that his
niece was well.
'You don't mean to tell me,' said Ralph, as his eyes brightened, 'that her brother's dead?
No, that's too good. I'd not believe it, if you told me so. It would be too welcome news to be
true.'
'Shame on you, you hardened and unnatural man,' cried the other brother, warmly.
'Prepare yourself for intelligence which, if you have any human feeling in your breast, will
make even you shrink and tremble. What if we tell you that a poor unfortunate boy: a child
in everything but never having known one of those tender endearments, or one of those
lightsome hours which make our childhood a time to be remembered like a happy dream
through all our after life: a warm−hearted, harmless, affectionate creature, who never
offended you, or did you wrong, but on whom you have vented the malice and hatred you
have conceived for your nephew, and whom you have made an instrument for wreaking
your bad passions upon him: what if we tell you that, sinking under your persecution, sir,
and the misery and ill−usage of a life short in years but long in suffering, this poor creature
has gone to tell his sad tale where, for your part in it, you must surely answer?'
'If you tell me,' said Ralph; 'if you tell me that he is dead, I forgive you all else. If you
tell me that he is dead, I am in your debt and bound to you for life. He is! I see it in your
faces. Who triumphs now? Is this your dreadful news; this your terrible intelligence? You
see how it moves me. You did well to send. I would have travelled a hundred miles afoot,
through mud, mire, and darkness, to hear this news just at this time.'
Even then, moved as he was by this savage joy, Ralph could see in the faces of the two
brothers, mingling with their look of disgust and horror, something of that indefinable
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 729
compassion for himself which he had noticed before.
'And HE brought you the intelligence, did he?' said Ralph, pointing with his finger
towards the recess already mentioned; 'and sat there, no doubt, to see me prostrated and
overwhelmed by it! Ha, ha, ha! But I tell him that I'll be a sharp thorn in his side for many a
long day to come; and I tell you two, again, that you don't know him yet; and that you'll rue
the day you took compassion on the vagabond.'
'You take me for your nephew,' said a hollow voice; 'it would be better for you, and for
me too, if I were he indeed.'
The figure that he had seen so dimly, rose, and came slowly down. He started back, for
he found that he confronted – not Nicholas, as he had supposed, but Brooker.
Ralph had no reason, that he knew, to fear this man; he had never feared him before; but
the pallor which had been observed in his face when he issued forth that night, came upon
him again. He was seen to tremble, and his voice changed as he said, keeping his eyes upon
him,
'What does this fellow here? Do you know he is a convict, a felon, a common thief?'
'Hear what he has to tell you. Oh, Mr Nickleby, hear what he has to tell you, be he what
he may!' cried the brothers, with such emphatic earnestness, that Ralph turned to them in
wonder. They pointed to Brooker. Ralph again gazed at him: as it seemed mechanically.
'That boy,' said the man, 'that these gentlemen have been talking of – '
'That boy,' repeated Ralph, looking vacantly at him.
'Whom I saw, stretched dead and cold upon his bed, and who is now in his grave – '
'Who is now in his grave,' echoed Ralph, like one who talks in his sleep.
The man raised his eyes, and clasped his hands solemnly together:
' – Was your only son, so help me God in heaven!'
In the midst of a dead silence, Ralph sat down, pressing his two hands upon his temples.
He removed them, after a minute, and never was there seen, part of a living man
undisfigured by any wound, such a ghastly face as he then disclosed. He looked at Brooker,
who was by this time standing at a short distance from him; but did not say one word, or
make the slightest sound or gesture.
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CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 730
'Gentlemen,' said the man, 'I offer no excuses for myself. I am long past that. If, in
telling you how this has happened, I tell you that I was harshly used, and perhaps driven out
of my real nature, I do it only as a necessary part of my story, and not to shield myself. I am
a guilty man.'
He stopped, as if to recollect, and looking away from Ralph, and addressing himself to
the brothers, proceeded in a subdued and humble tone:
'Among those who once had dealings with this man, gentlemen – that's from twenty to
five−and−twenty years ago – there was one: a rough fox−hunting, hard−drinking gentleman,
who had run through his own fortune, and wanted to squander away that of his sister: they
were both orphans, and she lived with him and managed his house. I don't know whether it
was, originally, to back his influence and try to over−persuade the young woman or not, but
he,' pointing, to Ralph, 'used to go down to the house in Leicestershire pretty often, and stop
there many days at a time. They had had a great many dealings together, and he may have
gone on some of those, or to patch up his client's affairs, which were in a ruinous state; of
course he went for profit. The gentlewoman was not a girl, but she was, I have heard say,
handsome, and entitled to a pretty large property. In course of time, he married her. The
same love of gain which led him to contract this marriage, led to its being kept strictly
private; for a clause in her father's will declared that if she married without her brother's
consent, the property, in which she had only some life interest while she remained single,
should pass away altogether to another branch of the family. The brother would give no
consent that the sister didn't buy, and pay for handsomely; Mr Nickleby would consent to no
such sacrifice; and so they went on, keeping their marriage secret, and waiting for him to
break his neck or die of a fever. He did neither, and meanwhile the result of this private
marriage was a son. The child was put out to nurse, a long way off; his mother never saw
him but once or twice, and then by stealth; and his father – so eagerly did he thirst after the
money which seemed to come almost within his grasp now, for his brother− in−law was
very ill, and breaking more and more every day – never went near him, to avoid raising any
suspicion. The brother lingered on; Mr Nickleby's wife constantly urged him to avow their
marriage; he peremptorily refused. She remained alone in a dull country house: seeing little
or no company but riotous, drunken sportsmen. He lived in London and clung to his
business. Angry quarrels and recriminations took place, and when they had been married
nearly seven years, and were within a few weeks of the time when the brother's death would
have adjusted all, she eloped with a younger man, and left him.'
Here he paused, but Ralph did not stir, and the brothers signed to him to proceed.
'It was then that I became acquainted with these circumstances from his own lips. They
were no secrets then; for the brother, and others, knew them; but they were communicated to
me, not on this account, but because I was wanted. He followed the fugitives. Some said to
make money of his wife's shame, but, I believe, to take some violent revenge, for that was as
much his character as the other; perhaps more. He didn't find them, and she died not long
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 731
after. I don't know whether he began to think he might like the child, or whether he wished
to make sure that it should never fall into its mother's hands; but, before he went, he
intrusted me with the charge of bringing it home. And I did so.'
He went on, from this point, in a still more humble tone, and spoke in a very low voice;
pointing to Ralph as he resumed.
'He had used me ill – cruelly – I reminded him in what, not long ago when I met him in
the street – and I hated him. I brought the child home to his own house, and lodged him in
the front garret. Neglect had made him very sickly, and I was obliged to call in a doctor,
who said he must be removed for change of air, or he would die. I think that first put it in my
head. I did it then. He was gone six weeks, and when he came back, I told him – with every
circumstance well planned and proved; nobody could have suspected me – that the child was
dead and buried. He might have been disappointed in some intention he had formed, or he
might have had some natural affection, but he WAS grieved at THAT, and I was confirmed
in my design of opening up the secret one day, and making it a means of getting money from
him. I had heard, like most other men, of Yorkshire schools. I took the child to one kept by a
man named Squeers, and left it there. I gave him the name of Smike. Year by year, I paid
twenty pounds a−year for him for six years; never breathing the secret all the time; for I had
left his father's service after more hard usage, and quarrelled with him again. I was sent
away from this country. I have been away nearly eight years. Directly I came home again, I
travelled down into Yorkshire, and, skulking in the village of an evening−time, made
inquiries about the boys at the school, and found that this one, whom I had placed there, had
run away with a young man bearing the name of his own father. I sought his father out in
London, and hinting at what I could tell him, tried for a little money to support life; but he
repulsed me with threats. I then found out his clerk, and, going on from little to little, and
showing him that there were good reasons for communicating with me, learnt what was
going on; and it was I who told him that the boy was no son of the man who claimed to be
his father. All this time I had never seen the boy. At length, I heard from this same source
that he was very ill, and where he was. I travelled down there, that I might recall myself, if
possible, to his recollection and confirm my story. I came upon him unexpectedly; but
before I could speak he knew me – he had good cause to remember me, poor lad! – and I
would have sworn to him if I had met him in the Indies. I knew the piteous face I had seen in
the little child. After a few days' indecision, I applied to the young gentleman in whose care
he was, and I found that he was dead. He knows how quickly he recognised me again, how
often he had described me and my leaving him at the school, and how he told him of a garret
he recollected: which is the one I have spoken of, and in his father's house to this day. This
is my story. I demand to be brought face to face with the schoolmaster, and put to any
possible proof of any part of it, and I will show that it's too true, and that I have this guilt
upon my soul.'
'Unhappy man!' said the brothers. 'What reparation can you make for this?'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 732
'None, gentlemen, none! I have none to make, and nothing to hope now. I am old in
years, and older still in misery and care. This confession can bring nothing upon me but new
suffering and punishment; but I make it, and will abide by it whatever comes. I have been
made the instrument of working out this dreadful retribution upon the head of a man who, in
the hot pursuit of his bad ends, has persecuted and hunted down his own child to death. It
must descend upon me too. I know it must fall. My reparation comes too late; and, neither in
this world nor in the next, can I have hope again!'
He had hardly spoken, when the lamp, which stood upon the table close to where Ralph
was seated, and which was the only one in the room, was thrown to the ground, and left
them in darkness. There was some trifling confusion in obtaining another light; the interval
was a mere nothing; but when the light appeared, Ralph Nickleby was gone.
The good brothers and Tim Linkinwater occupied some time in discussing the
probability of his return; and, when it became apparent that he would not come back, they
hesitated whether or no to send after him. At length, remembering how strangely and
silently he had sat in one immovable position during the interview, and thinking he might
possibly be ill, they determined, although it was now very late, to send to his house on some
pretence. Finding an excuse in the presence of Brooker, whom they knew not how to dispose
of without consulting his wishes, they concluded to act upon this resolution before going to
bed.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told. 733
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good
Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.
O
n the next morning after Brooker's disclosure had been made, Nicholas returned
home. The meeting between him and those whom he had left there was not without strong
emotion on both sides; for they had been informed by his letters of what had occurred: and,
besides that his griefs were theirs, they mourned with him the death of one whose forlorn
and helpless state had first established a claim upon their compassion, and whose truth of
heart and grateful earnest nature had, every day, endeared him to them more and more.
'I am sure,' said Mrs Nickleby, wiping her eyes, and sobbing bitterly, 'I have lost the
best, the most zealous, and most attentive creature that has ever been a companion to me in
my life – putting you, my dear Nicholas, and Kate, and your poor papa, and that
well−behaved nurse who ran away with the linen and the twelve small forks, out of the
question, of course. Of all the tractable, equal−tempered, attached, and faithful beings that
ever lived, I believe he was the most so. To look round upon the garden, now, that he took
so much pride in, or to go into his room and see it filled with so many of those little
contrivances for our comfort that he was so fond of making, and made so well, and so little
thought he would leave unfinished – I can't bear it, I cannot really. Ah! This is a great trial to
me, a great trial. It will be comfort to you, my dear Nicholas, to the end of your life, to
recollect how kind and good you always were to him – so it will be to me, to think what
excellent terms we were always upon, and how fond he always was of me, poor fellow! It
was very natural you should have been attached to him, my dear – very – and of course you
were, and are very much cut up by this. I am sure it's only necessary to look at you and see
how changed you are, to see that; but nobody knows what my feelings are – nobody can –
it's quite impossible!'
While Mrs Nickleby, with the utmost sincerity, gave vent to her sorrows after her own
peculiar fashion of considering herself foremost, she was not the only one who indulged
such feelings. Kate, although well accustomed to forget herself when others were to be
considered, could not repress her grief; Madeline was scarcely less moved than she; and
poor, hearty, honest little Miss La Creevy, who had come upon one of her visits while
Nicholas was away, and had done nothing, since the sad news arrived, but console and cheer
them all, no sooner beheld him coming in at the door, than she sat herself down upon the
stairs, and bursting into a flood of tears, refused for a long time to be comforted.
'It hurts me so,' cried the poor body, 'to see him come back alone. I can't help thinking
what he must have suffered himself. I wouldn't mind so much if he gave way a little more;
but he bears it so manfully.'
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CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.734
'Why, so I should,' said Nicholas, 'should I not?'
'Yes, yes,' replied the little woman, 'and bless you for a good creature! but this does
seem at first to a simple soul like me – I know it's wrong to say so, and I shall be sorry for it
presently – this does seem such a poor reward for all you have done.'
'Nay,' said Nicholas gently, 'what better reward could I have, than the knowledge that
his last days were peaceful and happy, and the recollection that I was his constant
companion, and was not prevented, as I might have been by a hundred circumstances, from
being beside him?'
'To be sure,' sobbed Miss La Creevy; 'it's very true, and I'm an ungrateful, impious,
wicked little fool, I know.'
With that, the good soul fell to crying afresh, and, endeavouring to recover herself, tried
to laugh. The laugh and the cry, meeting each other thus abruptly, had a struggle for the
mastery; the result was, that it was a drawn battle, and Miss La Creevy went into hysterics.
Waiting until they were all tolerably quiet and composed again, Nicholas, who stood in
need of some rest after his long journey, retired to his own room, and throwing himself,
dressed as he was, upon the bed, fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, he found Kate
sitting by his bedside, who, seeing that he had opened his eyes, stooped down to kiss him.
'I came to tell you how glad I am to see you home again.'
'But I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Kate.'
'We have been wearying so for your return,' said Kate, 'mama and I, and – and
Madeline.'
'You said in your last letter that she was quite well,' said Nicholas, rather hastily, and
colouring as he spoke. 'Has nothing been said, since I have been away, about any future
arrangements that the brothers have in contemplation for her?'
'Oh, not a word,' replied Kate. 'I can't think of parting from her without sorrow; and
surely, Nicholas, YOU don't wish it!'
Nicholas coloured again, and, sitting down beside his sister on a little couch near the
window, said:
'No, Kate, no, I do not. I might strive to disguise my real feelings from anybody but
you; but I will tell you that – briefly and plainly, Kate – that I love her.'
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CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.735
Kate's eyes brightened, and she was going to make some reply, when Nicholas laid his
hand upon her arm, and went on:
'Nobody must know this but you. She, last of all.'
'Dear Nicholas!'
'Last of all; never, though never is a long day. Sometimes, I try to think that the time
may come when I may honestly tell her this; but it is so far off; in such distant perspective,
so many years must elapse before it comes, and when it does come (if ever) I shall be so
unlike what I am now, and shall have so outlived my days of youth and romance – though
not, I am sure, of love for her – that even I feel how visionary all such hopes must be, and
try to crush them rudely myself, and have the pain over, rather than suffer time to wither
them, and keep the disappointment in store. No, Kate! Since I have been absent, I have had,
in that poor fellow who is gone, perpetually before my eyes, another instance of the
munificent liberality of these noble brothers. As far as in me lies, I will deserve it, and if I
have wavered in my bounden duty to them before, I am now determined to discharge it
rigidly, and to put further delays and temptations beyond my reach.'
'Before you say another word, dear Nicholas,' said Kate, turning pale, 'you must hear
what I have to tell you. I came on purpose, but I had not the courage. What you say now,
gives me new heart.' She faltered, and burst into tears.
There was that in her manner which prepared Nicholas for what was coming. Kate tried
to speak, but her tears prevented her.
'Come, you foolish girl,' said Nicholas; 'why, Kate, Kate, be a woman! I think I know
what you would tell me. It concerns Mr Frank, does it not?'
Kate sunk her head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out 'Yes.'
'And he has offered you his hand, perhaps, since I have been away,' said Nicholas; 'is
that it? Yes. Well, well; it is not so difficult, you see, to tell me, after all. He offered you his
hand?'
'Which I refused,' said Kate.
'Yes; and why?'
'I told him,' she said, in a trembling voice, 'all that I have since found you told mama;
and while I could not conceal from him, and cannot from you, that – that it was a pang and a
great trial, I did so firmly, and begged him not to see me any more.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.736
'That's my own brave Kate!' said Nicholas, pressing her to his breast. 'I knew you
would.'
'He tried to alter my resolution,' said Kate, 'and declared that, be my decision what it
might, he would not only inform his uncles of the step he had taken, but would communicate
it to you also, directly you returned. I am afraid,' she added, her momentary composure
forsaking her, 'I am afraid I may not have said, strongly enough, how deeply I felt such
disinterested love, and how earnestly I prayed for his future happiness. If you do talk
together, I should – I should like him to know that.'
'And did you suppose, Kate, when you had made this sacrifice to what you knew was
right and honourable, that I should shrink from mine?' said Nicholas tenderly.
'Oh no! not if your position had been the same, but – '
'But it is the same,' interrupted Nicholas. 'Madeline is not the near relation of our
benefactors, but she is closely bound to them by ties as dear; and I was first intrusted with
her history, specially because they reposed unbounded confidence in me, and believed that I
was as true as steel. How base would it be of me to take advantage of the circumstances
which placed her here, or of the slight service I was happily able to render her, and to seek to
engage her affections when the result must be, if I succeeded, that the brothers would be
disappointed in their darling wish of establishing her as their own child, and that I must
seem to hope to build my fortunes on their compassion for the young creature whom I had
so meanly and unworthily entrapped: turning her very gratitude and warmth of heart to my
own purpose and account, and trading in her misfortunes! I, too, whose duty, and pride, and
pleasure, Kate, it is to have other claims upon me which I will never forget; and who have
the means of a comfortable and happy life already, and have no right to look beyond it! I
have determined to remove this weight from my mind. I doubt whether I have not done
wrong, even now; and today I will, without reserve or equivocation, disclose my real reasons
to Mr Cherryble, and implore him to take immediate measures for removing this young lady
to the shelter of some other roof.'
'Today? so very soon?'
'I have thought of this for weeks, and why should I postpone it? If the scene through
which I have just passed has taught me to reflect, and has awakened me to a more anxious
and careful sense of duty, why should I wait until the impression has cooled? You would not
dissuade me, Kate; now would you?'
'You may grow rich, you know,' said Kate.
'I may grow rich!' repeated Nicholas, with a mournful smile, 'ay, and I may grow old!
But rich or poor, or old or young, we shall ever be the same to each other, and in that our
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.737
comfort lies. What if we have but one home? It can never be a solitary one to you and me.
What if we were to remain so true to these first impressions as to form no others? It is but
one more link to the strong chain that binds us together. It seems but yesterday that we were
playfellows, Kate, and it will seem but tomorrow when we are staid old people, looking
back to these cares as we look back, now, to those of our childish days: and recollecting with
a melancholy pleasure that the time was, when they could move us. Perhaps then, when we
are quaint old folks and talk of the times when our step was lighter and our hair not grey, we
may be even thankful for the trials that so endeared us to each other, and turned our lives
into that current, down which we shall have glided so peacefully and calmly. And having
caught some inkling of our story, the young people about us – as young as you and I are
now, Kate – may come to us for sympathy, and pour distresses which hope and inexperience
could scarcely feel enough for, into the compassionate ears of the old bachelor brother and
his maiden sister.'
Kate smiled through her tears as Nicholas drew this picture; but they were not tears of
sorrow, although they continued to fall when he had ceased to speak.
'Am I not right, Kate?' he said, after a short silence.
'Quite, quite, dear brother; and I cannot tell you how happy I am that I have acted as you
would have had me.'
'You don't regret?'
'N – n – no,' said Kate timidly, tracing some pattern upon the ground with her little foot.
'I don't regret having done what was honourable and right, of course; but I do regret that this
should have ever happened – at least sometimes I regret it, and sometimes I – I don't know
what I say; I am but a weak girl, Nicholas, and it has agitated me very much.'
It is no vaunt to affirm that if Nicholas had had ten thousand pounds at the minute, he
would, in his generous affection for the owner of the blushing cheek and downcast eye, have
bestowed its utmost farthing, in perfect forgetfulness of himself, to secure her happiness.
But all he could do was to comfort and console her by kind words; and words they were of
such love and kindness, and cheerful encouragement, that poor Kate threw her arms about
his neck, and declared she would weep no more.
'What man,' thought Nicholas proudly, while on his way, soon afterwards, to the
brothers' house, 'would not be sufficiently rewarded for any sacrifice of fortune by the
possession of such a heart as Kate's, which, but that hearts weigh light, and gold and silver
heavy, is beyond all praise? Frank has money, and wants no more. Where would it buy him
such a treasure as Kate? And yet, in unequal marriages, the rich party is always supposed to
make a great sacrifice, and the other to get a good bargain! But I am thinking like a lover, or
like an ass: which I suppose is pretty nearly the same.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.738
Checking thoughts so little adapted to the business on which he was bound, by such
self−reproofs as this and many others no less sturdy, he proceeded on his way and presented
himself before Tim Linkinwater.
'Ah! Mr Nickleby!' cried Tim, 'God bless you! how d'ye do? Well? Say you're quite well
and never better. Do now.'
'Quite,' said Nicholas, shaking him by both hands.
'Ah!' said Tim, 'you look tired though, now I come to look at you. Hark! there he is, d'ye
hear him? That was Dick, the blackbird. He hasn't been himself since you've been gone.
He'd never get on without you, now; he takes as naturally to you as he does to me.'
'Dick is a far less sagacious fellow than I supposed him, if he thinks I am half so well
worthy of his notice as you,' replied Nicholas.
'Why, I'll tell you what, sir,' said Tim, standing in his favourite attitude and pointing to
the cage with the feather of his pen, 'it's a very extraordinary thing about that bird, that the
only people he ever takes the smallest notice of, are Mr Charles, and Mr Ned, and you, and
me.'
Here, Tim stopped and glanced anxiously at Nicholas; then unexpectedly catching his
eye repeated, 'And you and me, sir, and you and me.' And then he glanced at Nicholas again,
and, squeezing his hand, said, 'I am a bad one at putting off anything I am interested in. I
didn't mean to ask you, but I should like to hear a few particulars about that poor boy. Did he
mention Cheeryble Brothers at all?'
'Yes,' said Nicholas, 'many and many a time.'
'That was right of him,' returned Tim, wiping his eyes; 'that was very right of him.'
'And he mentioned your name a score of times,' said Nicholas, 'and often bade me carry
back his love to Mr Linkinwater.'
'No, no, did he though?' rejoined Tim, sobbing outright. 'Poor fellow! I wish we could
have had him buried in town. There isn't such a burying−ground in all London as that little
one on the other side of the square – there are counting−houses all round it, and if you go in
there, on a fine day, you can see the books and safes through the open windows. And he sent
his love to me, did he? I didn't expect he would have thought of me. Poor fellow, poor
fellow! His love too!'
Tim was so completely overcome by this little mark of recollection, that he was quite
unequal to any more conversation at the moment. Nicholas therefore slipped quietly out, and
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CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.739
went to brother Charles's room.
If he had previously sustained his firmness and fortitude, it had been by an effort which
had cost him no little pain; but the warm welcome, the hearty manner, the homely
unaffected commiseration, of the good old man, went to his heart, and no inward struggle
could prevent his showing it.
'Come, come, my dear sir,' said the benevolent merchant; 'we must not be cast down;
no, no. We must learn to bear misfortune, and we must remember that there are many
sources of consolation even in death. Every day that this poor lad had lived, he must have
been less and less qualified for the world, and more and more unhappy in is own
deficiencies. It is better as it is, my dear sir. Yes, yes, yes, it's better as it is.'
'I have thought of all that, sir,' replied Nicholas, clearing his throat. 'I feel it, I assure
you.'
'Yes, that's well,' replied Mr Cheeryble, who, in the midst of all his comforting, was
quite as much taken aback as honest old Tim; 'that's well. Where is my brother Ned? Tim
Linkinwater, sir, where is my brother Ned?'
'Gone out with Mr Trimmers, about getting that unfortunate man into the hospital, and
sending a nurse to his children,' said Tim.
'My brother Ned is a fine fellow, a great fellow!' exclaimed brother Charles as he shut
the door and returned to Nicholas. 'He will be overjoyed to see you, my dear sir. We have
been speaking of you every day.'
'To tell you the truth, sir, I am glad to find you alone,' said Nicholas, with some natural
hesitation; 'for I am anxious to say something to you. Can you spare me a very few minutes?'
'Surely, surely,' returned brother Charles, looking at him with an anxious countenance.
'Say on, my dear sir, say on.'
'I scarcely know how, or where, to begin,' said Nicholas. 'If ever one mortal had reason
to be penetrated with love and reverence for another: with such attachment as would make
the hardest service in his behalf a pleasure and delight: with such grateful recollections as
must rouse the utmost zeal and fidelity of his nature: those are the feelings which I should
entertain for you, and do, from my heart and soul, believe me!'
'I do believe you,' replied the old gentleman, 'and I am happy in the belief. I have never
doubted it; I never shall. I am sure I never shall.'
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.740
'Your telling me that so kindly,' said Nicholas, 'emboldens me to proceed. When you
first took me into your confidence, and dispatched me on those missions to Miss Bray, I
should have told you that I had seen her long before; that her beauty had made an impression
upon me which I could not efface; and that I had fruitlessly endeavoured to trace her, and
become acquainted with her history. I did not tell you so, because I vainly thought I could
conquer my weaker feelings, and render every consideration subservient to my duty to you.'
'Mr Nickleby,' said brother Charles, 'you did not violate the confidence I placed in you,
or take an unworthy advantage of it. I am sure you did not.'
'I did not,' said Nicholas, firmly. 'Although I found that the necessity for self−command
and restraint became every day more imperious, and the difficulty greater, I never, for one
instant, spoke or looked but as I would have done had you been by. I never, for one moment,
deserted my trust, nor have I to this instant. But I find that constant association and
companionship with this sweet girl is fatal to my peace of mind, and may prove destructive
to the resolutions I made in the beginning, and up to this time have faithfully kept. In short,
sir, I cannot trust myself, and I implore and beseech you to remove this young lady from
under the charge of my mother and sister without delay. I know that to anyone but myself –
to you, who consider the immeasurable distance between me and this young lady, who is
now your ward, and the object of your peculiar care – my loving her, even in thought, must
appear the height of rashness and presumption. I know it is so. But who can see her as I have
seen, who can know what her life has been, and not love her? I have no excuse but that; and
as I cannot fly from this temptation, and cannot repress this passion, with its object
constantly before me, what can I do but pray and beseech you to remove it, and to leave me
to forget her?'
'Mr Nickleby,' said the old man, after a short silence, 'you can do no more. I was wrong
to expose a young man like you to this trial. I might have foreseen what would happen.
Thank you, sir, thank you. Madeline shall be removed.'
'If you would grant me one favour, dear sir, and suffer her to remember me with esteem,
by never revealing to her this confession – '
'I will take care,' said Mr Cheeryble. 'And now, is this all you have to tell me?'
'No!' returned Nicholas, meeting his eye, 'it is not.'
'I know the rest,' said Mr Cheeryble, apparently very much relieved by this prompt
reply. 'When did it come to your knowledge?'
'When I reached home this morning.'
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CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.741
'You felt it your duty immediately to come to me, and tell me what your sister no doubt
acquainted you with?'
'I did,' said Nicholas, 'though I could have wished to have spoken to Mr Frank first.'
'Frank was with me last night,' replied the old gentleman. 'You have done well, Mr
Nickleby – very well, sir – and I thank you again.'
Upon this head, Nicholas requested permission to add a few words. He ventured to hope
that nothing he had said would lead to the estrangement of Kate and Madeline, who had
formed an attachment for each other, any interruption of which would, he knew, be attended
with great pain to them, and, most of all, with remorse and pain to him, as its unhappy cause.
When these things were all forgotten, he hoped that Frank and he might still be warm
friends, and that no word or thought of his humble home, or of her who was well contented
to remain there and share his quiet fortunes, would ever again disturb the harmony between
them. He recounted, as nearly as he could, what had passed between himself and Kate that
morning: speaking of her with such warmth of pride and affection, and dwelling so
cheerfully upon the confidence they had of overcoming any selfish regrets and living
contented and happy in each other's love, that few could have heard him unmoved. More
moved himself than he had been yet, he expressed in a few hurried words – as expressive,
perhaps, as the most eloquent phrases – his devotion to the brothers, and his hope that he
might live and die in their service.
To all this, brother Charles listened in profound silence, and with his chair so turned
from Nicholas that his face could not be seen. He had not spoken either, in his accustomed
manner, but with a certain stiffness and embarrassment very foreign to it. Nicholas feared he
had offended him. He said, 'No, no, he had done quite right,' but that was all.
'Frank is a heedless, foolish fellow,' he said, after Nicholas had paused for some time; 'a
very heedless, foolish fellow. I will take care that this is brought to a close without delay.
Let us say no more upon the subject; it's a very painful one to me. Come to me in half an
hour; I have strange things to tell you, my dear sir, and your uncle has appointed this
afternoon for your waiting upon him with me.'
'Waiting upon him! With you, sir!' cried Nicholas.
'Ay, with me,' replied the old gentleman. 'Return to me in half an hour, and I'll tell you
more.'
Nicholas waited upon him at the time mentioned, and then learnt all that had taken place
on the previous day, and all that was known of the appointment Ralph had made with the
brothers; which was for that night; and for the better understanding of which it will be
requisite to return and follow his own footsteps from the house of the twin brothers.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.742
Therefore, we leave Nicholas somewhat reassured by the restored kindness of their manner
towards him, and yet sensible that it was different from what it had been (though he scarcely
knew in what respect): so he was full of uneasiness, uncertainty, and disquiet.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all worldly and prudent People.743
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, as if he were a blind man; and looking often over his shoulder
while he hurried away, as though he were followed in imagination or reality by someone
anxious to question or detain him; Ralph Nickleby left the city behind him, and took the
road to his own home.
The night was dark, and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds, furiously and fast, before
it. There was one black, gloomy mass that seemed to follow him: not hurrying in the wild
chase with the others, but lingering sullenly behind, and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He
often looked back at this, and, more than once, stopped to let it pass over; but, somehow,
when he went forward again, it was still behind him, coming mournfully and slowly up, like
a shadowy funeral train.
He had to pass a poor, mean burial−ground – a dismal place, raised a few feet above the
level of the street, and parted from it by a low parapet−wall and an iron railing; a rank,
unwholesome, rotten spot, where the very grass and weeds seemed, in their frouzy growth,
to tell that they had sprung from paupers' bodies, and had struck their roots in the graves of
men, sodden, while alive, in steaming courts and drunken hungry dens. And here, in truth,
they lay, parted from the living by a little earth and a board or two – lay thick and close –
corrupting in body as they had in mind – a dense and squalid crowd. Here they lay, cheek by
jowl with life: no deeper down than the feet of the throng that passed there every day, and
piled high as their throats. Here they lay, a grisly family, all these dear departed brothers and
sisters of the ruddy clergyman who did his task so speedily when they were hidden in the
ground!
As he passed here, Ralph called to mind that he had been one of a jury, long before, on
the body of a man who had cut his throat; and that he was buried in this place. He could not
tell how he came to recollect it now, when he had so often passed and never thought about
him, or how it was that he felt an interest in the circumstance; but he did both; and stopping,
and clasping the iron railings with his hands, looked eagerly in, wondering which might be
his grave.
While he was thus engaged, there came towards him, with noise of shouts and singing,
some fellows full of drink, followed by others, who were remonstrating with them and
urging them to go home in quiet. They were in high good−humour; and one of them, a little,
weazen, hump−backed man, began to dance. He was a grotesque, fantastic figure, and the
few bystanders laughed. Ralph himself was moved to mirth, and echoed the laugh of one
who stood near and who looked round in his face. When they had passed on, and he was left
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it. 744
alone again, he resumed his speculation with a new kind of interest; for he recollected that
the last person who had seen the suicide alive, had left him very merry, and he remembered
how strange he and the other jurors had thought that at the time.
He could not fix upon the spot among such a heap of graves, but he conjured up a strong
and vivid idea of the man himself, and how he looked, and what had led him to do it; all of
which he recalled with ease. By dint of dwelling upon this theme, he carried the impression
with him when he went away; as he remembered, when a child, to have had frequently
before him the figure of some goblin he had once seen chalked upon a door. But as he drew
nearer and nearer home he forgot it again, and began to think how very dull and solitary the
house would be inside.
This feeling became so strong at last, that when he reached his own door, he could
hardly make up his mind to turn the key and open it. When he had done that, and gone into
the passage, he felt as though to shut it again would be to shut out the world. But he let it go,
and it closed with a loud noise. There was no light. How very dreary, cold, and still it was!
Shivering from head to foot, he made his way upstairs into the room where he had been
last disturbed. He had made a kind of compact with himself that he would not think of what
had happened until he got home. He was at home now, and suffered himself to consider it.
His own child, his own child! He never doubted the tale; he felt it was true; knew it as
well, now, as if he had been privy to it all along. His own child! And dead too. Dying beside
Nicholas, loving him, and looking upon him as something like an angel. That was the worst!
They had all turned from him and deserted him in his very first need. Even money could
not buy them now; everything must come out, and everybody must know all. Here was the
young lord dead, his companion abroad and beyond his reach, ten thousand pounds gone at
one blow, his plot with Gride overset at the very moment of triumph, his after−schemes
discovered, himself in danger, the object of his persecution and Nicholas's love, his own
wretched boy; everything crumbled and fallen upon him, and he beaten down beneath the
ruins and grovelling in the dust.
If he had known his child to be alive; if no deceit had been ever practised, and he had
grown up beneath his eye; he might have been a careless, indifferent, rough, harsh father –
like enough – he felt that; but the thought would come that he might have been otherwise,
and that his son might have been a comfort to him, and they two happy together. He began
to think now, that his supposed death and his wife's flight had had some share in making him
the morose, hard man he was. He seemed to remember a time when he was not quite so
rough and obdurate; and almost thought that he had first hated Nicholas because he was
young and gallant, and perhaps like the stripling who had brought dishonour and loss of
fortune on his head.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it. 745
But one tender thought, or one of natural regret, in his whirlwind of passion and
remorse, was as a drop of calm water in a stormy maddened sea. His hatred of Nicholas had
been fed upon his own defeat, nourished on his interference with his schemes, fattened upon
his old defiance and success. There were reasons for its increase; it had grown and
strengthened gradually. Now it attained a height which was sheer wild lunacy. That his, of
all others, should have been the hands to rescue his miserable child; that he should have
been his protector and faithful friend; that he should have shown him that love and
tenderness which, from the wretched moment of his birth, he had never known; that he
should have taught him to hate his own parent and execrate his very name; that he should
now know and feel all this, and triumph in the recollection; was gall and madness to the
usurer's heart. The dead boy's love for Nicholas, and the attachment of Nicholas to him, was
insupportable agony. The picture of his deathbed, with Nicholas at his side, tending and
supporting him, and he breathing out his thanks, and expiring in his arms, when he would
have had them mortal enemies and hating each other to the last, drove him frantic. He
gnashed his teeth and smote the air, and looking wildly round, with eyes which gleamed
through the darkness, cried aloud:
'I am trampled down and ruined. The wretch told me true. The night has come! Is there
no way to rob them of further triumph, and spurn their mercy and compassion? Is there no
devil to help me?'
Swiftly, there glided again into his brain the figure he had raised that night. It seemed to
lie before him. The head was covered now. So it was when he first saw it. The rigid,
upturned, marble feet too, he remembered well. Then came before him the pale and
trembling relatives who had told their tale upon the inquest – the shrieks of women – the
silent dread of men – the consternation and disquiet – the victory achieved by that heap of
clay, which, with one motion of its hand, had let out the life and made this stir among them
–
He spoke no more; but, after a pause, softly groped his way out of the room, and up the
echoing stairs – up to the top – to the front garret – where he closed the door behind him,
and remained.
It was a mere lumber−room now, but it yet contained an old dismantled bedstead; the
one on which his son had slept; for no other had ever been there. He avoided it hastily, and
sat down as far from it as he could.
The weakened glare of the lights in the street below, shining through the window which
had no blind or curtain to intercept it, was enough to show the character of the room, though
not sufficient fully to reveal the various articles of lumber, old corded trunks and broken
furniture, which were scattered about. It had a shelving roof; high in one part, and at another
descending almost to the floor. It was towards the highest part that Ralph directed his eyes;
and upon it he kept them fixed steadily for some minutes, when he rose, and dragging thither
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it. 746
an old chest upon which he had been seated, mounted on it, and felt along the wall above his
head with both hands. At length, they touched a large iron hook, firmly driven into one of
the beams.
At that moment, he was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door below. After a little
hesitation he opened the window, and demanded who it was.
'I want Mr Nickleby,' replied a voice.
'What with him?'
'That's not Mr Nickleby's voice, surely?' was the rejoinder.
It was not like it; but it was Ralph who spoke, and so he said.
The voice made answer that the twin brothers wished to know whether the man whom
he had seen that night was to be detained; and that although it was now midnight they had
sent, in their anxiety to do right.
'Yes,' cried Ralph, 'detain him till tomorrow; then let them bring him here – him and my
nephew – and come themselves, and be sure that I will be ready to receive them.'
'At what hour?' asked the voice.
'At any hour,' replied Ralph fiercely. 'In the afternoon, tell them. At any hour, at any
minute. All times will be alike to me.'
He listened to the man's retreating footsteps until the sound had passed, and then, gazing
up into the sky, saw, or thought he saw, the same black cloud that had seemed to follow him
home, and which now appeared to hover directly above the house.
'I know its meaning now,' he muttered, 'and the restless nights, the dreams, and why I
have quailed of late. All pointed to this. Oh! if men by selling their own souls could ride
rampant for a term, for how short a term would I barter mine tonight!'
The sound of a deep bell came along the wind. One.
'Lie on!' cried the usurer, 'with your iron tongue! Ring merrily for births that make
expectants writhe, and marriages that are made in hell, and toll ruefully for the dead whose
shoes are worn already! Call men to prayers who are godly because not found out, and ring
chimes for the coming in of every year that brings this cursed world nearer to its end. No
bell or book for me! Throw me on a dunghill, and let me rot there, to infect the air!'
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CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it. 747
With a wild look around, in which frenzy, hatred, and despair were horribly mingled, he
shook his clenched hand at the sky above him, which was still dark and threatening, and
closed the window.
The rain and hail pattered against the glass; the chimneys quaked and rocked; the crazy
casement rattled with the wind, as though an impatient hand inside were striving to burst it
open. But no hand was there, and it opened no more.
'How's this?' cried one. 'The gentleman say they can't make anybody hear, and have
been trying these two hours.'
'And yet he came home last night,' said another; 'for he spoke to somebody out of that
window upstairs.'
They were a little knot of men, and, the window being mentioned, went out into the
road to look up at it. This occasioned their observing that the house was still close shut, as
the housekeeper had said she had left it on the previous night, and led to a great many
suggestions: which terminated in two or three of the boldest getting round to the back, and
so entering by a window, while the others remained outside, in impatient expectation.
They looked into all the rooms below: opening the shutters as they went, to admit the
fading light: and still finding nobody, and everything quiet and in its place, doubted whether
they should go farther. One man, however, remarking that they had not yet been into the
garret, and that it was there he had been last seen, they agreed to look there too, and went up
softly; for the mystery and silence made them timid.
After they had stood for an instant, on the landing, eyeing each other, he who had
proposed their carrying the search so far, turned the handle of the door, and, pushing it open,
looked through the chink, and fell back directly.
'It's very odd,' he whispered, 'he's hiding behind the door! Look!'
They pressed forward to see; but one among them thrusting the others aside with a loud
exclamation, drew a clasp−knife from his pocket, and dashing into the room, cut down the
body.
He had torn a rope from one of the old trunks, and hung himself on an iron hook
immediately below the trap−door in the ceiling – in the very place to which the eyes of his
son, a lonely, desolate, little creature, had so often been directed in childish terror, fourteen
years before.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it. 748
CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various
Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes
a Declaration for himself.
S
ome weeks had passed, and the first shock of these events had subsided. Madeline had
been removed; Frank had been absent; and Nicholas and Kate had begun to try in good
earnest to stifle their own regrets, and to live for each other and for their mother – who, poor
lady, could in nowise be reconciled to this dull and altered state of affairs – when there came
one evening, per favour of Mr Linkinwater, an invitation from the brothers to dinner on the
next day but one: comprehending, not only Mrs Nickleby, Kate, and Nicholas, but little Miss
La Creevy, who was most particularly mentioned.
'Now, my dears,' said Mrs Nickleby, when they had rendered becoming honour to the
bidding, and Tim had taken his departure, 'what does THIS mean?'
'What do YOU mean, mother?' asked Nicholas, smiling.
'I say, my dear,' rejoined that lady, with a face of unfathomable mystery, 'what does this
invitation to dinner mean? What is its intention and object?'
'I conclude it means, that on such a day we are to eat and drink in their house, and that
its intent and object is to confer pleasure upon us,' said Nicholas.
'And that's all you conclude it is, my dear?'
'I have not yet arrived at anything deeper, mother.'
'Then I'll just tell you one thing,' said Mrs Nickleby, you'll find yourself a little
surprised; that's all. You may depend upon it that this means something besides dinner.'
'Tea and supper, perhaps,' suggested Nicholas.
'I wouldn't be absurd, my dear, if I were you,' replied Mrs Nickleby, in a lofty manner,
'because it's not by any means becoming, and doesn't suit you at all. What I mean to say is,
that the Mr Cheerybles don't ask us to dinner with all this ceremony for nothing. Never
mind; wait and see. You won't believe anything I say, of course. It's much better to wait; a
great deal better; it's satisfactory to all parties, and there can be no disputing. All I say is,
remember what I say now, and when I say I said so, don't say I didn't.'
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CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.749
With this stipulation, Mrs Nickleby, who was troubled, night and day, with a vision of a
hot messenger tearing up to the door to announce that Nicholas had been taken into
partnership, quitted that branch of the subject, and entered upon a new one.
'It's a very extraordinary thing,' she said, 'a most extraordinary thing, that they should
have invited Miss La Creevy. It quite astonishes me, upon my word it does. Of course it's
very pleasant that she should be invited, very pleasant, and I have no doubt that she'll
conduct herself extremely well; she always does. It's very gratifying to think that we should
have been the means of introducing her into such society, and I'm quite glad of it – quite
rejoiced – for she certainly is an exceedingly well−behaved and good− natured little person.
I could wish that some friend would mention to her how very badly she has her cap
trimmed, and what very preposterous bows those are, but of course that's impossible, and if
she likes to make a fright of herself, no doubt she has a perfect right to do so. We never see
ourselves – never do, and never did – and I suppose we never shall.'
This moral reflection reminding her of the necessity of being peculiarly smart on the
occasion, so as to counterbalance Miss La Creevy, and be herself an effectual set−off and
atonement, led Mrs Nickleby into a consultation with her daughter relative to certain
ribbons, gloves, and trimmings: which, being a complicated question, and one of paramount
importance, soon routed the previous one, and put it to flight.
The great day arriving, the good lady put herself under Kate's hands an hour or so after
breakfast, and, dressing by easy stages, completed her toilette in sufficient time to allow of
her daughter's making hers, which was very simple, and not very long, though so
satisfactory that she had never appeared more charming or looked more lovely. Miss La
Creevy, too, arrived with two bandboxes (whereof the bottoms fell out as they were handed
from the coach) and something in a newspaper, which a gentleman had sat upon, coming
down, and which was obliged to be ironed again, before it was fit for service. At last,
everybody was dressed, including Nicholas, who had come home to fetch them, and they
went away in a coach sent by the brothers for the purpose: Mrs Nickleby wondering very
much what they would have for dinner, and cross−examining Nicholas as to the extent of his
discoveries in the morning; whether he had smelt anything cooking at all like turtle, and if
not, what he had smelt; and diversifying the conversation with reminiscences of dinners to
which she had gone some twenty years ago, concerning which she particularised not only
the dishes but the guests, in whom her hearers did not feel a very absorbing interest, as not
one of them had ever chanced to hear their names before.
The old butler received them with profound respect and many smiles, and ushered them
into the drawing−room, where they were received by the brothers with so much cordiality
and kindness that Mrs Nickleby was quite in a flutter, and had scarcely presence of mind
enough, even to patronise Miss La Creevy. Kate was still more affected by the reception:
for, knowing that the brothers were acquainted with all that had passed between her and
Frank, she felt her position a most delicate and trying one, and was trembling on the arm of
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CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.750
Nicholas, when Mr Charles took her in his, and led her to another part of the room.
'Have you seen Madeline, my dear,' he said, 'since she left your house?'
'No, sir!' replied Kate. 'Not once.'
'And not heard from her, eh? Not heard from her?'
'I have only had one letter,' rejoined Kate, gently. 'I thought she would not have
forgotten me quite so soon.'
'Ah,' said the old man, patting her on the head, and speaking as affectionately as if she
had been his favourite child. 'Poor dear! what do you think of this, brother Ned? Madeline
has only written to her once, only once, Ned, and she didn't think she would have forgotten
her quite so soon, Ned.'
'Oh! sad, sad; very sad!' said Ned.
The brothers interchanged a glance, and looking at Kate for a little time without
speaking, shook hands, and nodded as if they were congratulating each other on something
very delightful.
'Well, well,' said brother Charles, 'go into that room, my dear – that door yonder – and
see if there's not a letter for you from her. I think there's one upon the table. You needn't
hurry back, my love, if there is, for we don't dine just yet, and there's plenty of time. Plenty
of time.'
Kate retired as she was directed. Brother Charles, having followed her graceful figure
with his eyes, turned to Mrs Nickleby, and said:
'We took the liberty of naming one hour before the real dinner−time, ma'am, because
we had a little business to speak about, which would occupy the interval. Ned, my dear
fellow, will you mention what we agreed upon? Mr Nickleby, sir, have the goodness to
follow me.'
Without any further explanation, Mrs Nickleby, Miss La Creevy, and brother Ned, were
left alone together, and Nicholas followed brother Charles into his private room; where, to
his great astonishment, he encountered Frank, whom he supposed to be abroad.
'Young men,' said Mr Cheeryble, 'shake hands!'
'I need no bidding to do that,' said Nicholas, extending his.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.751
'Nor I,' rejoined Frank, as he clasped it heartily.
The old gentleman thought that two handsomer or finer young fellows could scarcely
stand side by side than those on whom he looked with so much pleasure. Suffering his eyes
to rest upon them, for a short time in silence, he said, while he seated himself at his desk:
'I wish to see you friends – close and firm friends – and if I thought you otherwise, I
should hesitate in what I am about to say. Frank, look here! Mr Nickleby, will you come on
the other side?'
The young men stepped up on either hand of brother Charles, who produced a paper
from his desk, and unfolded it.
'This,' he said, 'is a copy of the will of Madeline's maternal grandfather, bequeathing her
the sum of twelve thousand pounds, payable either upon her coming of age or marrying. It
would appear that this gentleman, angry with her (his only relation) because she would not
put herself under his protection, and detach herself from the society of her father, in
compliance with his repeated overtures, made a will leaving this property (which was all he
possessed) to a charitable institution. He would seem to have repented this determination,
however, for three weeks afterwards, and in the same month, he executed this. By some
fraud, it was abstracted immediately after his decease, and the other – the only will found –
was proved and administered. Friendly negotiations, which have only just now terminated,
have been proceeding since this instrument came into our hands, and, as there is no doubt of
its authenticity, and the witnesses have been discovered (after some trouble), the money has
been refunded. Madeline has therefore obtained her right, and is, or will be, when either of
the contingencies which I have mentioned has arisen, mistress of this fortune. You
understand me?'
Frank replied in the affirmative. Nicholas, who could not trust himself to speak lest his
voice should be heard to falter, bowed his head.
'Now, Frank,' said the old gentleman, 'you were the immediate means of recovering this
deed. The fortune is but a small one; but we love Madeline; and such as it is, we would
rather see you allied to her with that, than to any other girl we know who has three times the
money. Will you become a suitor to her for her hand?'
'No, sir. I interested myself in the recovery of that instrument, believing that her hand
was already pledged to one who has a thousand times the claims upon her gratitude, and, if I
mistake not, upon her heart, that I or any other man can ever urge. In this it seems I judged
hastily.'
'As you always, do, sir,' cried brother Charles, utterly forgetting his assumed dignity, 'as
you always do. How dare you think, Frank, that we would have you marry for money, when
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CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.752
youth, beauty, and every amiable virtue and excellence were to be had for love? How dared
you, Frank, go and make love to Mr Nickleby's sister without telling us first what you meant
to do, and letting us speak for you?'
'I hardly dared to hope – '
'You hardly dared to hope! Then, so much the greater reason for having our assistance!
Mr Nickleby, sir, Frank, although he judged hastily, judged, for once, correctly. Madeline's
heart IS occupied. Give me your hand, sir; it is occupied by you, and worthily and naturally.
This fortune is destined to be yours, but you have a greater fortune in her, sir, than you
would have in money were it forty times told. She chooses you, Mr Nickleby. She chooses
as we, her dearest friends, would have her choose. Frank chooses as we would have HIM
choose. He should have your sister's little hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times; ay,
he should, and he shall! You acted nobly, not knowing our sentiments, but now you know
them, sir, you must do as you are bid. What! You are the children of a worthy gentleman!
The time was, sir, when my dear brother Ned and I were two poor simple−hearted boys,
wandering, almost barefoot, to seek our fortunes: are we changed in anything but years and
worldly circumstances since that time? No, God forbid! Oh, Ned, Ned, Ned, what a happy
day this is for you and me! If our poor mother had only lived to see us now, Ned, how proud
it would have made her dear heart at last!'
Thus apostrophised, brother Ned, who had entered with Mrs Nickleby, and who had
been before unobserved by the young men, darted forward, and fairly hugged brother
Charles in his arms.
'Bring in my little Kate,' said the latter, after a short silence. 'Bring her in, Ned. Let me
see Kate, let me kiss her. I have a right to do so now; I was very near it when she first came;
I have often been very near it. Ah! Did you find the letter, my bird? Did you find Madeline
herself, waiting for you and expecting you? Did you find that she had not quite forgotten her
friend and nurse and sweet companion? Why, this is almost the best of all!'
'Come, come,' said Ned, 'Frank will be jealous, and we shall have some cutting of
throats before dinner.'
'Then let him take her away, Ned, let him take her away. Madeline's in the next room.
Let all the lovers get out of the way, and talk among themselves, if they've anything to say.
Turn 'em out, Ned, every one!'
Brother Charles began the clearance by leading the blushing girl to the door, and
dismissing her with a kiss. Frank was not very slow to follow, and Nicholas had disappeared
first of all. So there only remained Mrs Nickleby and Miss La Creevy, who were both
sobbing heartily; the two brothers; and Tim Linkinwater, who now came in to shake hands
with everybody: his round face all radiant and beaming with smiles.
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CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.753
'Well, Tim Linkinwater, sir,' said brother Charles, who was always spokesman, 'now the
young folks are happy, sir.'
'You didn't keep 'em in suspense as long as you said you would, though,' returned Tim,
archly. 'Why, Mr Nickleby and Mr Frank were to have been in your room for I don't know
how long; and I don't know what you weren't to have told them before you came out with
the truth.'
'Now, did you ever know such a villain as this, Ned?' said the old gentleman; 'did you
ever know such a villain as Tim Linkinwater? He accusing me of being impatient, and he the
very man who has been wearying us morning, noon, and night, and torturing us for leave to
go and tell 'em what was in store, before our plans were half complete, or we had arranged a
single thing. A treacherous dog!'
'So he is, brother Charles,' returned Ned; 'Tim is a treacherous dog. Tim is not to be
trusted. Tim is a wild young fellow. He wants gravity and steadiness; he must sow his wild
oats, and then perhaps he'll become in time a respectable member of society.'
This being one of the standing jokes between the old fellows and Tim, they all three
laughed very heartily, and might have laughed much longer, but that the brothers, seeing that
Mrs Nickleby was labouring to express her feelings, and was really overwhelmed by the
happiness of the time, took her between them, and led her from the room under pretence of
having to consult her on some most important arrangements.
Now, Tim and Miss La Creevy had met very often, and had always been very chatty
and pleasant together – had always been great friends – and consequently it was the most
natural thing in the world that Tim, finding that she still sobbed, should endeavour to
console her. As Miss La Creevy sat on a large old−fashioned window−seat, where there was
ample room for two, it was also natural that Tim should sit down beside her; and as to Tim's
being unusually spruce and particular in his attire that day, why it was a high festival and a
great occasion, and that was the most natural thing of all.
Tim sat down beside Miss La Creevy, and, crossing one leg over the other so that his
foot – he had very comely feet and happened to be wearing the neatest shoes and black silk
stockings possible – should come easily within the range of her eye, said in a soothing way:
'Don't cry!'
'I must,' rejoined Miss La Creevy.
'No, don't,' said Tim. 'Please don't; pray don't.'
'I am so happy!' sobbed the little woman.
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'Then laugh,' said Tim. 'Do laugh.'
What in the world Tim was doing with his arm, it is impossible to conjecture, but he
knocked his elbow against that part of the window which was quite on the other side of Miss
La Creevy; and it is clear that it could have no business there.
'Do laugh,' said Tim, 'or I'll cry.'
'Why should you cry?' asked Miss La Creevy, smiling.
'Because I'm happy too,' said Tim. 'We are both happy, and I should like to do as you
do.'
Surely, there never was a man who fidgeted as Tim must have done then; for he
knocked the window again – almost in the same place – and Miss La Creevy said she was
sure he'd break it.
'I knew,' said Tim, 'that you would be pleased with this scene.'
'It was very thoughtful and kind to remember me,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'Nothing
could have delighted me half so much.'
Why on earth should Miss La Creevy and Tim Linkinwater have said all this in a
whisper? It was no secret. And why should Tim Linkinwater have looked so hard at Miss La
Creevy, and why should Miss La Creevy have looked so hard at the ground?
'It's a pleasant thing,' said Tim, 'to people like us, who have passed all our lives in the
world alone, to see young folks that we are fond of, brought together with so many years of
happiness before them.'
'Ah!' cried the little woman with all her heart, 'that it is!'
'Although,' pursued Tim 'although it makes one feel quite solitary and cast away. Now
don't it?'
Miss La Creevy said she didn't know. And why should she say she didn't know?
Because she must have known whether it did or not.
'It's almost enough to make us get married after all, isn't it?' said Tim.
'Oh, nonsense!' replied Miss La Creevy, laughing. 'We are too old.'
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'Not a bit,' said Tim; 'we are too old to be single. Why shouldn't we both be married,
instead of sitting through the long winter evenings by our solitary firesides? Why shouldn't
we make one fireside of it, and marry each other?'
'Oh, Mr Linkinwater, you're joking!'
'No, no, I'm not. I'm not indeed,' said Tim. 'I will, if you will. Do, my dear!'
'It would make people laugh so.'
'Let 'em laugh,' cried Tim stoutly; 'we have good tempers I know, and we'll laugh too.
Why, what hearty laughs we have had since we've known each other!'
'So we have,' cried' Miss La Creevy – giving way a little, as Tim thought.
'It has been the happiest time in all my life; at least, away from the counting−house and
Cheeryble Brothers,' said Tim. 'Do, my dear! Now say you will.'
'No, no, we mustn't think of it,' returned Miss La Creevy. 'What would the brothers say?'
'Why, God bless your soul!' cried Tim, innocently, 'you don't suppose I should think of
such a thing without their knowing it! Why they left us here on purpose.'
'I can never look 'em in the face again!' exclaimed Miss La Creevy, faintly.
'Come,' said Tim, 'let's be a comfortable couple. We shall live in the old house here,
where I have been for four−and−forty year; we shall go to the old church, where I've been,
every Sunday morning, all through that time; we shall have all my old friends about us –
Dick, the archway, the pump, the flower−pots, and Mr Frank's children, and Mr Nickleby's
children, that we shall seem like grandfather and grandmother to. Let's be a comfortable
couple, and take care of each other! And if we should get deaf, or lame, or blind, or
bed−ridden, how glad we shall be that we have somebody we are fond of, always to talk to
and sit with! Let's be a comfortable couple. Now, do, my dear!'
Five minutes after this honest and straightforward speech, little Miss La Creevy and
Tim were talking as pleasantly as if they had been married for a score of years, and had
never once quarrelled all the time; and five minutes after that, when Miss La Creevy had
bustled out to see if her eyes were red and put her hair to rights, Tim moved with a stately
step towards the drawing−room, exclaiming as he went, 'There an't such another woman in
all London! I KNOW there an't!'
By this time, the apoplectic butler was nearly in fits, in consequence of the unheard−of
postponement of dinner. Nicholas, who had been engaged in a manner in which every reader
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.756
may imagine for himself or herself, was hurrying downstairs in obedience to his angry
summons, when he encountered a new surprise.
On his way down, he overtook, in one of the passages, a stranger genteelly dressed in
black, who was also moving towards the dining− room. As he was rather lame, and walked
slowly, Nicholas lingered behind, and was following him step by step, wondering who he
was, when he suddenly turned round and caught him by both hands.
'Newman Noggs!' cried Nicholas joyfully
'Ah! Newman, your own Newman, your own old faithful Newman! My dear boy, my
dear Nick, I give you joy – health, happiness, every blessing! I can't bear it – it's too much,
my dear boy – it makes a child of me!'
'Where have you been?' said Nicholas. 'What have you been doing? How often have I
inquired for you, and been told that I should hear before long!'
'I know, I know!' returned Newman. 'They wanted all the happiness to come together.
I've been helping 'em. I – I – look at me, Nick, look at me!'
'You would never let ME do that,' said Nicholas in a tone of gentle reproach.
'I didn't mind what I was, then. I shouldn't have had the heart to put on gentleman's
clothes. They would have reminded me of old times and made me miserable. I am another
man now, Nick. My dear boy, I can't speak. Don't say anything to me. Don't think the worse
of me for these tears. You don't know what I feel today; you can't, and never will!'
They walked in to dinner arm−in−arm, and sat down side by side.
Never was such a dinner as that, since the world began. There was the superannuated
bank clerk, Tim Linkinwater's friend; and there was the chubby old lady, Tim Linkinwater's
sister; and there was so much attention from Tim Linkinwater's sister to Miss La Creevy,
and there were so many jokes from the superannuated bank clerk, and Tim Linkinwater
himself was in such tiptop spirits, and little Miss La Creevy was in such a comical state, that
of themselves they would have composed the pleasantest party conceivable. Then, there was
Mrs Nickleby, so grand and complacent; Madeline and Kate, so blushing and beautiful;
Nicholas and Frank, so devoted and proud; and all four so silently and tremblingly happy;
there was Newman so subdued yet so overjoyed, and there were the twin brothers so
delighted and interchanging such looks, that the old servant stood transfixed behind his
master's chair, and felt his eyes grow dim as they wandered round the table.
When the first novelty of the meeting had worn off, and they began truly to feel how
happy they were, the conversation became more general, and the harmony and pleasure if
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possible increased. The brothers were in a perfect ecstasy; and their insisting on saluting the
ladies all round, before they would permit them to retire, gave occasion to the superannuated
bank clerk to say so many good things, that he quite outshone himself, and was looked upon
as a prodigy of humour.
'Kate, my dear,' said Mrs Nickleby, taking her daughter aside, as soon as they got
upstairs, 'you don't really mean to tell me that this is actually true about Miss La Creevy and
Mr Linkinwater?'
'Indeed it is, mama.'
'Why, I never heard such a thing in my life!' exclaimed Mrs Nickleby.
'Mr Linkinwater is a most excellent creature,' reasoned Kate, 'and, for his age, quite
young still.'
'For HIS age, my dear!' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'yes; nobody says anything against him,
except that I think he is the weakest and most foolish man I ever knew. It's HER age I speak
of. That he should have gone and offered himself to a woman who must be – ah, half as old
again as I am – and that she should have dared to accept him! It don't signify, Kate; I'm
disgusted with her!'
Shaking her head very emphatically indeed, Mrs Nickleby swept away; and all the
evening, in the midst of the merriment and enjoyment that ensued, and in which with that
exception she freely participated, conducted herself towards Miss La Creevy in a stately and
distant manner, designed to mark her sense of the impropriety of her conduct, and to signify
her extreme and cutting disapprobation of the misdemeanour she had so flagrantly
committed.
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CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under
melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for
ever.
N
icholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is shared by the friends of
adverse and less fortunate days. Surrounded by every fascination of love and hope, his warm
heart yearned towards plain John Browdie. He remembered their first meeting with a smile,
and their second with a tear; saw poor Smike once again with the bundle on his shoulder
trudging patiently by his side; and heard the honest Yorkshireman's rough words of
encouragement as he left them on their road to London.
Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly to produce a letter which should
acquaint John at full length with his altered fortunes, and assure him of his friendship and
gratitude. It so happened, however, that the letter could never be written. Although they
applied themselves to it with the best intentions in the world, it chanced that they always fell
to talking about something else, and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he found it
impossible to write one−half of what he wished to say, or to pen anything, indeed, which on
reperusal did not appear cold and unsatisfactory compared with what he had in his mind. At
last, after going on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself more and more, he
resolved (the more readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to make a hasty trip into
Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr and Mrs Browdie without a word of notice.
Thus it was that between seven and eight o'clock one evening, he and Kate found
themselves in the Saracen's Head booking−office, securing a place to Greta Bridge by the
next morning's coach. They had to go westward, to procure some little necessaries for his
journey, and, as it was a fine night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.
The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and Kate had so many
anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes of Frank, and each was so
interested in what the other said, and both were so happy and confiding, and had so much to
talk about, that it was not until they had plunged for a full half−hour into that labyrinth of
streets which lies between Seven Dials and Soho, without emerging into any large
thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it just possible they might have lost their way.
The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking about, and walking
first to one end of the street and then to the other, he could find no landmark he could
recognise, and was fain to turn back again in quest of some place at which he could seek a
direction.
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It was a by−street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched shops they
passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed across the pavement from a
cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or three steps so as to render himself visible to
those below and make his inquiry, when he was arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a
woman's voice.
'Oh come away!' said Kate, 'they are quarrelling. You'll be hurt.'
'Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there's anything the matter,' returned her brother.
'Hush!'
'You nasty, idle, vicious, good−for−nothing brute,' cried the woman, stamping on the
ground, 'why don't you turn the mangle?'
'So I am, my life and soul!' replied the man's voice. 'I am always turning. I am
perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition mill. My life is one demd horrid
grind!'
'Then why don't you go and list for a soldier?' retorted the woman; 'you're welcome to.'
'For a soldier!' cried the man. 'For a soldier! Would his joy and gladness see him in a
coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear of his being slapped and beat by drummers
demnebly? Would she have him fire off real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers
shaved, and his eyes turned right and left, and his trousers pipeclayed?'
'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, 'you don't know who that is. It's Mr Mantalini I am
confident.'
'Do make sure! Peep at him while I ask the way,' said Nicholas. 'Come down a step or
two. Come!'
Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down the steps and looked into a small boarded
cellar. There, amidst clothes−baskets and clothes, stripped up to his shirt−sleeves, but
wearing still an old patched pair of pantaloons of superlative make, a once brilliant
waistcoat, and moustache and whiskers as of yore, but lacking their lustrous dye – there,
endeavouring to mollify the wrath of a buxom female – not the lawful Madame Mantalini,
but the proprietress of the concern – and grinding meanwhile as if for very life at the
mangle, whose creaking noise, mingled with her shrill tones, appeared almost to deafen him
– there was the graceful, elegant, fascinating, and once dashing Mantalini.
'Oh you false traitor!' cried the lady, threatening personal violence on Mr Mantalini's
face.
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CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.760
'False! Oh dem! Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most demnebly
enslaving chick−a−biddy, be calm,' said Mr Mantalini, humbly.
'I won't!' screamed the woman. 'I'll tear your eyes out!'
'Oh! What a demd savage lamb!' cried Mr Mantalini.
'You're never to be trusted,' screamed the woman; 'you were out all day yesterday, and
gallivanting somewhere I know. You know you were! Isn't it enough that I paid two pound
fourteen for you, and took you out of prison and let you live here like a gentleman, but must
you go on like this: breaking, my heart besides?'
'I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never do so any more; I will never
be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,' said Mr Mantalini, dropping the handle of the
mangle, and folding his palms together; 'it is all up with its handsome friend! He has gone to
the demnition bow−wows. It will have pity? It will not scratch and claw, but pet and
comfort? Oh, demmit!'
Very little affected, to judge from her action, by this tender appeal, the lady was on the
point of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas, raising his voice, asked his way to
Piccadilly.
Mr Mantalini turned round, caught sight of Kate, and, without another word, leapt at
one bound into a bed which stood behind the door, and drew the counterpane over his face:
kicking meanwhile convulsively.
'Demmit,' he cried, in a suffocating voice, 'it's little Nickleby! Shut the door, put out the
candle, turn me up in the bedstead! Oh, dem, dem, dem!'
The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr Mantalini, as if uncertain on whom
to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr Mantalini happening by ill−luck to thrust his
nose from under the bedclothes, in his anxiety to ascertain whether the visitors were gone,
she suddenly, and with a dexterity which could only have been acquired by long practice,
flung a pretty heavy clothes−basket at him, with so good an aim that he kicked more
violently than before, though without venturing to make any effort to disengage his head,
which was quite extinguished. Thinking this a favourable opportunity for departing before
any of the torrent of her wrath discharged itself upon him, Nicholas hurried Kate off, and
left the unfortunate subject of this unexpected recognition to explain his conduct as he best
could.
The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather: forcibly
recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first travelled that road, and how
many vicissitudes and changes he had since undergone. He was alone inside the greater part
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CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.761
of the way, and sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze, and, rousing himself, looked out
of the window, and recognised some place which he well remembered as having passed,
either on his journey down, or in the long walk back with poor Smike, he could hardly
believe but that all which had since happened had been a dream, and that they were still
plodding wearily on towards London, with the world before them.
To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as night set in; and,
passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the little alehouse where he had heard the
story of the bold Baron of Grogzwig, everything looked as if he had seen it but yesterday,
and not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs had melted away. Encouraging the train
of ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost persuade himself that he sat again outside
the coach, with Squeers and the boys; that he heard their voices in the air; and that he felt
again, but with a mingled sensation of pain and pleasure now, that old sinking of the heart,
and longing after home. While he was yet yielding himself up to these fancies he fell asleep,
and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot them.
He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and, rising at a very early
hour next morning, walked to the market town, and inquired for John Browdie's house. John
lived in the outskirts, now he was a family man; and as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no
difficulty in finding a boy who undertook to guide him to his residence.
Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not even stopping to admire the
thriving look of cottage or garden either, Nicholas made his way to the kitchen door, and
knocked lustily with his stick.
'Halloa!' cried a voice inside. 'Wa'et be the matther noo? Be the toon a−fire? Ding, but
thou mak'st noise eneaf!'
With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his eyes too to
their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together, and burst into a hearty roar:
'Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be Misther Nickleby. Gi' us
thee hond, mun. Coom awa', coom awa'. In wi 'un, doon beside the fire; tak' a soop o' thot.
Dinnot say a word till thou'st droonk it a'! Oop wi' it, mun. Ding! but I'm reeght glod to see
thee.'
Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen, forced him
down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out from an enormous bottle about a
quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it into his hand, opened his mouth and threw back his head
as a sign to him to drink it instantly, and stood with a broad grin of welcome overspreading
his great red face like a jolly giant.
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'I might ha' knowa'd,' said John,;' that nobody but thou would ha' coom wi' sike a knock
as you. Thot was the wa' thou knocked at schoolmeasther's door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say;
wa'at be a' this aboot schoolmeasther?'
'You know it then?' said Nicholas.
'They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,' replied John, 'but neane on 'em
seemed quite to un'erstan' it, loike.'
'After various shiftings and delays,' said Nicholas, 'he has been sentenced to be
transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful possession of a stolen will; and, after
that, he has to suffer the consequence of a conspiracy.'
'Whew!' cried John, 'a conspiracy! Soom'at in the pooder−plot wa'? Eh? Soom'at in the
Guy Faux line?'
'No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I'll explain it presently.'
'Thot's reeght!' said John, 'explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for thou be'est hoongry,
and so am I; and Tilly she mun' be at the bottom o' a' explanations, for she says thot's the
mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod, it's a room start, is the mutual confidence!'
The entrance of Mrs Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many apologies for their
having been detected in the act of breakfasting in the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion
of this grave subject, and hastened the breakfast: which, being composed of vast mounds of
toast, new−laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and other cold substantials (of which heavy
relays were constantly appearing from another kitchen under the direction of a very plump
servant), was admirably adapted to the cold bleak morning, and received the utmost justice
from all parties. At last, it came to a close; and the fire which had been lighted in the best
parlour having by this time burnt up, they adjourned thither, to hear what Nicholas had to
tell.
Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened so many emotions
in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest John groaned in sympathy, and at
another roared with joy; at one time he vowed to go up to London on purpose to get a sight
of the brothers Cheeryble; and, at another, swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive such a
ham by coach, and carriage free, as mortal knife had never carved. When Nicholas began to
describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth wide open, nudging Mrs Browdie from time to
time, and exclaiming under his breath that she must be 'raa'ther a tidy sart,' and when he
heard at last that his young friend had come down purposely to communicate his good
fortune, and to convey to him all those assurances of friendship which he could not state
with sufficient warmth in writing – that the only object of his journey was to share his
happiness with them, and to tell them that when he was married they must come up to see
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.763
him, and that Madeline insisted on it as well as he – John could hold out no longer, but after
looking indignantly at his wife, and demanding to know what she was whimpering for, drew
his coat sleeve over his eyes and blubbered outright.
'Tell'ee wa'at though,' said John seriously, when a great deal had been said on both
sides, 'to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot 'un has reached school today, the old
'ooman wean't have a whole boan in her boddy, nor Fanny neither.'
'Oh, John!' cried Mrs Browdie.
'Ah! and Oh, John agean,' replied the Yorkshireman. 'I dinnot know what they lads
mightn't do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was in trouble, some feythers and
moothers sent and took their young chaps awa'. If them as is left, should know waat's coom
tiv'un, there'll be sike a revolution and rebel! – Ding! But I think they'll a' gang daft, and
spill bluid like wather!'
In fact, John Browdie's apprehensions were so strong that he determined to ride over to
the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to accompany him, which, however, he
declined, pleading that his presence might perhaps aggravate the bitterness of their
adversity.
'Thot's true!' said John; 'I should ne'er ha' thought o' thot.'
'I must return tomorrow,' said Nicholas, 'but I mean to dine with you today, and if Mrs
Browdie can give me a bed – '
'Bed!' cried John, 'I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once. Ecod, thou shouldst
have 'em a'. Bide till I coom back; on'y bide till I coom back, and ecod we'll make a day of
it.'
Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of the hand, John
mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs Browdie to apply herself to hospitable
preparations, and his young friend to stroll about the neighbourhood, and revisit spots which
were rendered familiar to him by many a miserable association.
John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a gate and made
his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on the inside. A tremendous noise
and riot arose from within, and, applying his eye to a convenient crevice in the wall, he did
not remain long in ignorance of its meaning.
The news of Mr Squeers's downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite clear. To all
appearance, it had very recently become known to the young gentlemen; for the rebellion
had just broken out.
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CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.764
It was one of the brimstone−and−treacle mornings, and Mrs Squeers had entered school
according to custom with the large bowl and spoon, followed by Miss Squeers and the
amiable Wackford: who, during his father's absence, had taken upon him such minor
branches of the executive as kicking the pupils with his nailed boots, pulling the hair of
some of the smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating places, and rendering himself,
in various similar ways, a great comfort and happiness to his mother. Their entrance,
whether by premeditation or a simultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one
detachment rushed to the door and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and forms,
the stoutest (and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane, and confronting Mrs Squeers
with a stern countenance, snatched off her cap and beaver bonnet, put them on his own head,
armed himself with the wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of death, go down upon her
knees and take a dose directly. Before that estimable lady could recover herself, or offer the
slightest retaliation, she was forced into a kneeling posture by a crowd of shouting
tormentors, and compelled to swallow a spoonful of the odious mixture, rendered more than
usually savoury by the immersion in the bowl of Master Wackford's head, whose ducking
was intrusted to another rebel. The success of this first achievement prompted the malicious
crowd, whose faces were clustered together in every variety of lank and half−starved
ugliness, to further acts of outrage. The leader was insisting upon Mrs Squeers repeating her
dose, Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the treacle, and a violent assault had
been commenced on Miss Squeers, when John Browdie, bursting open the door with a
vigorous kick, rushed to the rescue. The shouts, screams, groans, hoots, and clapping of
hands, suddenly ceased, and a dead silence ensued.
'Ye be noice chaps,' said John, looking steadily round. 'What's to do here, thou yoong
dogs?'
'Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!' cried a score of shrill voices. 'We
won't stop, we won't stop!'
'Weel then, dinnot stop,' replied John; 'who waants thee to stop? Roon awa' loike men,
but dinnot hurt the women.'
'Hurrah!' cried the shrill voices, more shrilly still.
'Hurrah?' repeated John. 'Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look out. Hip – hip, –
hip – hurrah!'
'Hurrah!' cried the voices.
'Hurrah! Agean;' said John. 'Looder still.'
The boys obeyed.
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'Anoother!' said John. 'Dinnot be afeared on it. Let's have a good 'un!'
'Hurrah!'
'Noo then,' said John, 'let's have yan more to end wi', and then coot off as quick as you
loike. Tak'a good breath noo – Squeers be in jail – the school's brokken oop – it's a' ower –
past and gane – think o' thot, and let it be a hearty 'un! Hurrah!'
Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed before, and were
destined never to respond to again. When the sound had died away, the school was empty;
and of the busy noisy crowd which had peopled it but five minutes before, not one remained.
'Very well, Mr Browdie!' said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the recent encounter,
but vixenish to the last; 'you've been and excited our boys to run away. Now see if we don't
pay you out for that, sir! If my pa IS unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we're not
going to be basely crowed and conquered over by you and 'Tilda.'
'Noa!' replied John bluntly, 'thou bean't. Tak' thy oath o' thot. Think betther o' us, Fanny.
I tell 'ee both, that I'm glod the auld man has been caught out at last – dom'd glod – but ye'll
sooffer eneaf wi'out any crowin' fra' me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass,
so I tell 'ee flat. More than thot, I tell 'ee noo, that if thou need'st friends to help thee awa'
from this place – dinnot turn up thy nose, Fanny, thou may'st – thou'lt foind Tilly and I wi' a
thout o' old times aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I say thot, dinnot think I be
asheamed of waa't I've deane, for I say again, Hurrah! and dom the schoolmeasther. There!'
His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted his nag, put
him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily forth some fragments of an old
song, to which the horse's hoofs rang a merry accompaniment, sped back to his pretty wife
and to Nicholas.
For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with boys, who, the
report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr and Mrs Browdie, not only with a hearty
meal of bread and meat, but with sundry shillings and sixpences to help them on their way.
To this rumour John always returned a stout denial, which he accompanied, however, with a
lurking grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed all previous
believers.
There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been, and many as
were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still knew no other home, and had
formed for it a sort of attachment, which made them weep when the bolder spirits fled, and
cling to it as a refuge. Of these, some were found crying under hedges and in such places,
frightened at the solitude. One had a dead bird in a little cage; he had wandered nearly
twenty miles, and when his poor favourite died, lost courage, and lay down beside him.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.766
Another was discovered in a yard hard by the school, sleeping with a dog, who bit at those
who came to remove him, and licked the sleeping child's pale face.
They were taken back, and some other stragglers were recovered, but by degrees they
were claimed, or lost again; and, in course of time, Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking−up
began to be forgotten by the neighbours, or to be only spoken of as among the things that
had been.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances, and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.767
CHAPTER 65 − Conclusion.
W
hen her term of mourning had expired, Madeline gave her hand and fortune to
Nicholas; and, on the same day and at the same time, Kate became Mrs Frank Cheeryble. It
was expected that Tim Linkinwater and Miss La Creevy would have made a third couple on
the occasion, but they declined, and two or three weeks afterwards went out together one
morning before breakfast, and, coming back with merry faces, were found to have been
quietly married that day.
The money which Nicholas acquired in right of his wife he invested in the firm of
Cheeryble Brothers, in which Frank had become a partner. Before many years elapsed, the
business began to be carried on in the names of 'Cheeryble and Nickleby,' so that Mrs
Nickleby's prophetic anticipations were realised at last.
The twin brothers retired. Who needs to be told that THEY were happy? They were
surrounded by happiness of their own creation, and lived but to increase it.
Tim Linkinwater condescended, after much entreaty and brow−beating, to accept a
share in the house; but he could never be prevailed upon to suffer the publication of his
name as a partner, and always persisted in the punctual and regular discharge of his clerkly
duties.
He and his wife lived in the old house, and occupied the very bedchamber in which he
had slept for four−and−forty years. As his wife grew older, she became even a more cheerful
and light−hearted little creature; and it was a common saying among their friends, that it was
impossible to say which looked the happier, Tim as he sat calmly smiling in his elbow−chair
on one side of the fire, or his brisk little wife chatting and laughing, and constantly bustling
in and out of hers, on the other.
Dick, the blackbird, was removed from the counting−house and promoted to a warm
corner in the common sitting−room. Beneath his cage hung two miniatures, of Mrs
Linkinwater's execution; one representing herself, and the other Tim; and both smiling very
hard at all beholders. Tim's head being powdered like a twelfth cake, and his spectacles
copied with great nicety, strangers detected a close resemblance to him at the first glance,
and this leading them to suspect that the other must be his wife, and emboldening them to
say so without scruple, Mrs Linkinwater grew very proud of these achievements in time, and
considered them among the most successful likenesses she had ever painted. Tim had the
profoundest faith in them, likewise; for on this, as on all other subjects, they held but one
opinion; and if ever there were a 'comfortable couple' in the world, it was Mr and Mrs
Linkinwater.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 65 − Conclusion. 768
Ralph, having died intestate, and having no relations but those with whom he had lived
in such enmity, they would have become in legal course his heirs. But they could not bear
the thought of growing rich on money so acquired, and felt as though they could never hope
to prosper with it. They made no claim to his wealth; and the riches for which he had toiled
all his days, and burdened his soul with so many evil deeds, were swept at last into the
coffers of the state, and no man was the better or the happier for them.
Arthur Gride was tried for the unlawful possession of the will, which he had either
procured to be stolen, or had dishonestly acquired and retained by other means as bad. By
dint of an ingenious counsel, and a legal flaw, he escaped; but only to undergo a worse
punishment; for, some years afterwards, his house was broken open in the night by robbers,
tempted by the rumours of his great wealth, and he was found murdered in his bed.
Mrs Sliderskew went beyond the seas at nearly the same time as Mr Squeers, and in the
course of nature never returned. Brooker died penitent. Sir Mulberry Hawk lived abroad for
some years, courted and caressed, and in high repute as a fine dashing fellow. Ultimately,
returning to this country, he was thrown into jail for debt, and there perished miserably, as
such high spirits generally do.
The first act of Nicholas, when he became a rich and prosperous merchant, was to buy
his father's old house. As time crept on, and there came gradually about him a group of
lovely children, it was altered and enlarged; but none of the old rooms were ever pulled
down, no old tree was ever rooted up, nothing with which there was any association of
bygone times was ever removed or changed.
Within a stone's throw was another retreat, enlivened by children's pleasant voices too;
and here was Kate, with many new cares and occupations, and many new faces courting her
sweet smile (and one so like her own, that to her mother she seemed a child again), the same
true gentle creature, the same fond sister, the same in the love of all about her, as in her
girlish days.
Mrs Nickleby lived, sometimes with her daughter, and sometimes with her son,
accompanying one or other of them to London at those periods when the cares of business
obliged both families to reside there, and always preserving a great appearance of dignity,
and relating her experiences (especially on points connected with the management and
bringing−up of children) with much solemnity and importance. It was a very long time
before she could be induced to receive Mrs Linkinwater into favour, and it is even doubtful
whether she ever thoroughly forgave her.
There was one grey−haired, quiet, harmless gentleman, who, winter and summer, lived
in a little cottage hard by Nicholas's house, and, when he was not there, assumed the
superintendence of affairs. His chief pleasure and delight was in the children, with whom he
was a child himself, and master of the revels. The little people could do nothing without dear
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 65 − Conclusion. 769
Newman Noggs.
The grass was green above the dead boy's grave, and trodden by feet so small and light,
that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their pressure. Through all the spring and
summertime, garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, rested on the stone; and,
when the children came to change them lest they should wither and be pleasant to him no
longer, their eyes filled with tears, and they spoke low and softly of their poor dead cousin.
Nicholas Nickleby
CHAPTER 65 − Conclusion. 770
Table of Content
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
CHAPTER 1 − Introduces all the Rest
CHAPTER 2 − Of Mr Ralph Nickleby,
CHAPTER 3 − Mr Ralph Nickleby receives Sad Tidings of his Brother,
CHAPTER 4 − Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortune without loss of time) wait
upon Mr Wackford Squeers,
CHAPTER 5 − Nicholas starts for Yorkshire.
CHAPTER 6 − In which the Occurrence of the Accident mentioned in the last Chapter,
CHAPTER 7 − Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home
CHAPTER 8 − Of the Internal Economy of Dotheboys Hall
CHAPTER 9 − Of Miss Squeers, Mrs Squeers, Master Squeers, and Mr Squeers; and
of various Matters
CHAPTER 10 − How Mr Ralph Nickleby provided for his Niece and Sister−in−Law
CHAPTER 11 − Newman Noggs inducts Mrs and Miss Nickleby into their New
Dwelling in the City
CHAPTER 12 − Whereby the Reader will be enabled to trace the further course of
Miss Fanny Squeer's Love,
CHAPTER 13 − Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous
and remarkable proceeding,
CHAPTER 14 − Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common People, is
necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar Character.
CHAPTER 15 − Acquaints the Reader with the Cause and Origin of the Interruption
described in the last Chapter,
CHAPTER 16 − Nicholas seeks to employ himself in a New Capacity, and being
Nicholas Nickleby
Table of Content 771
unsuccessful, accepts an engagement as Tutor in a Private Family.
CHAPTER 17 − Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby.
CHAPTER 18 − Miss Knag, after doting on Kate Nickleby for three whole Days,
makes up her Mind to hate her for evermore. The Causes which led Miss
CHAPTER 19 − Descriptive of a Dinner at Mr Ralph Nickleby's, and of the Manner in
which the Company entertained themselves,
CHAPTER 20 − Wherein Nicholas at length encounters his Uncle, to whom he
expresses his Sentiments with much Candour. His Resolution.
CHAPTER 21 − Madam Mantalini finds herself in a Situation of some Difficulty, and
Miss Nickleby finds herself in no Situation at all.
CHAPTER 22 − Nicholas, accompanied by Smike, sallies forth to seek his Fortune.
CHAPTER 23 − Treats of the Company of Mr Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs,
CHAPTER 24 − Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of
Nicholas upon any Stage.
CHAPTER 25 − Concerning a young Lady from London, who joins the Company,
CHAPTER 26 − Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby's Peace of Mind.
CHAPTER 27 − Mrs Nickleby becomes acquainted with Messrs Pyke and Pluck,
whose Affection and Interest are beyond all Bounds.
CHAPTER 28 − Miss Nickleby, rendered desperate by the Persecution of Sir Mulberry
Hawk,
CHAPTER 29 − Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the
Company of Mr Vincent Crummles.
CHAPTER 30 − Festivities are held in honour of Nicholas,
CHAPTER 31 − Of Ralph Nickleby and Newman Noggs, and some wise Precautions,
the success or failure of which will appear in the Sequel.
CHAPTER 32 − Relating chiefly to some remarkable Conversation, and some
remarkable Proceedings to which it gives rise.
Nicholas Nickleby
Table of Content 772
CHAPTER 33 − In which Mr Ralph Nickleby is relieved, by a very expeditious
Process, from all Commerce with his Relations.
CHAPTER 34 − Wherein Mr Ralph Nickleby is visited by Persons with whom the
Reader has been already made acquainted.
CHAPTER 35 − Smike becomes known to Mrs Nickleby and Kate. Nicholas also meets
with new Acquaintances. Brighter Days seem to dawn upon the Family.
CHAPTER 36 − Private and confidential; relating to Family Matters.
CHAPTER 37 − Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble
and Mr Timothy Linkinwater.
CHAPTER 38 − Comprises certain Particulars arising out of a Visit of Condolence,
which may prove important hereafter.
CHAPTER 39 − In which another old Friend encounters Smike, very opportunely and
to some Purpose.
CHAPTER 40 − In which Nicholas falls in Love.
CHAPTER 41 − Containing some Romantic Passages between Mrs Nickleby and the
Gentleman in the Small−clothes next Door.
CHAPTER 42 − Illustrative of the convivial Sentiment, that the best of Friends must
sometimes part.
CHAPTER 43 − Officiates as a kind of Gentleman Usher, in bringing various People
together.
CHAPTER 44 − Mr Ralph Nickleby cuts an old Acquaintance.
CHAPTER 45 − Containing Matter of a surprising Kind
CHAPTER 46 − Throws some Light upon Nicholas's Love; but whether for Good or
Evil the Reader must determine.
CHAPTER 47 − Mr Ralph Nickleby has some confidential Intercourse with another
old Friend.
CHAPTER 48 − Being for the Benefit of Mr Vincent Crummles, and positively his last
Appearance on this Stage.
Nicholas Nickleby
Table of Content 773
CHAPTER 49 − Chronicles the further Proceedings of the Nickleby Family, and the
Sequel of the Adventure of the Gentleman in the Small−clothes.
CHAPTER 50 − Involves a serious Catastrophe.
CHAPTER 51 − The Project of Mr Ralph Nickleby and his Friend approaching a
successful Issue,
CHAPTER 52 − Nicholas despairs of rescuing Madeline Bray,
CHAPTER 53 − Containing the further Progress of the Plot contrived by Mr Ralph
CHAPTER 54 − The Crisis of the Project and its Result.
CHAPTER 55 − Of Family Matters, Cares, Hopes, Disappointments, and Sorrows.
CHAPTER 56 − Ralph Nickleby, baffled by his Nephew in his late Design,
CHAPTER 57 − How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he
prospered with it.
CHAPTER 58 − In which one Scene of this History is closed.
CHAPTER 59 − The Plots begin to fail, and Doubts and Dangers to disturb the Plotter.
CHAPTER 60 − The Dangers thicken, and the Worst is told.
CHAPTER 61 − Wherein Nicholas and his Sister forfeit the good Opinion of all
worldly and prudent People.
CHAPTER 62 − Ralph makes one last Appointment – and keeps it.
CHAPTER 63 − The Brothers Cheeryble make various Declarations for themselves
and others. Tim Linkinwater makes a Declaration for himself.
CHAPTER 64 − An old Acquaintance is recognised under melancholy Circumstances,
and Dotheboys Hall breaks up for ever.
CHAPTER 65 − Conclusion.
Nicholas Nickleby
Table of Content 774
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